Last week I returned from Mardi-Gras-assailed New Orleans, and that night investigated the Internet for acceptable Australia flights. What materialized: atrocious Australia prices and an impending trip to South America (a reasonable third of the price – I depart in two weeks). Last night, a friend inquired how fluent my Spanish skills are.
My response, “Pretty proficient... after one college semester I claimed a foreign language disability...”
His, “What?”
My college major required three semesters of a foreign language. After consulting the celestial Kara’s Logic, this was regarded unreasonable. Nursing majors, inevitably to encounter armies of monolinguals with nonexistent English expertise, had no foreign language requirement. My major, however, English, demanded three semesters. My confusion commenced with the fact that I was majoring in ENGLISH, not Octa-lingualism. One would imagine English majors to be exceptional in the Mother Tongue without the hazards of learning another language (disregard the fact that I don’t know grammar – honestly, what’s an adverb?). Thus, I resolved not to strain my delicate brain by studying Spanish. The computer confirmed the unrivaled technique to obliterate a foreign language requirement: learning disability. I cantered into the Disabilities Center and met with a Disabilities Expert. My claim: Foreign Language Disability. After minimal hesitation during which Expert cited my surprisingly soaring G.P.A. and my B grade in First Semester Spanish, I cajoled him into considering me a victim of Foreign Language Disability, an affliction previously unheard of by myself. My explanation of my B in the preceding semester: I had lied and cheated through the semester, and at this Jesuit university, I didn’t want to continue sinning and compromising my morals. Thus I wangled a waiver for foreign languages. I’m convinced my Spanish skills are competent for my six-week South American adventure. I know this: Diez cervezas por favor!
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