A couple of other students were in the Intermediate French classroom when I arrived. Though it was the start of the term, they were chatting comfortably, like old acquaintances.

Senior citizen programs seem to be like that. People take the same class over and over, partly because they learn a little bit more each time they enroll, but really because they get to be part of a small society.

I was one of the new kids.

I felt nervous. It wasn’t just social anxiety; I wasn’t sure if I was competent enough in French to be in the Intermediate level.

I took French in high school for three years, sixty years ago, then recently completed the whole Duolingo French course. I’ve been listening to an easy French podcast every day since then. But I rarely have occasion to speak a sentence in French, and the few times I have been in France, I didn’t speak the language, because I could get by with pointing and smiling.

More students trickled in. I could see I was on the younger side in this group at 74, though after 65 it’s hard to tell how old anyone is.  Also, like me, most were women. There were only two men out of fourteen or so students.  

Then the teacher arrived, a spare elderly American man.

We got out our textbooks. He called on the students one by one to conjugate reflexive verbs. He dictated sentences for us to write, and got people to write things on the whiteboard. He invited us to say things in English, and then translate them into French.

I began to relax.

That was because a number of us, like me, had hearing aids but still couldn’t make out a lot of what anyone was saying. Heck, several people had no idea what page we were on. Answers were fragmentary, confused, or just plain answering the wrong question entirely. The teacher was amiably impatient with all of us, but not nearly as vicious as Mme Townsend was in tenth grade. Mistakes were made. Interruptions occurred.

The teacher couldn’t hear much better than the rest of us;  these classes tend to be taught by retirees who are also taking other classes in the program as students.

The woman sitting next to me didn’t have the textbook yet, so she shared with me. She refused to answer any questions, so the instructor passed over her. There was someone else in the same boat in the back. 

And me? I was one of two or three people in the room who could often form a whole simple sentence in French without an error. It was marvelous. I started to relax. I probably belonged here. 

At one point, the teacher was putting us on the spot, and asking us to answer questions using reflexive verbs. “Se raser,” he said, when it was my turn, but then he paused. “Well, this question is a little rude, but I’ll ask it anyway. Est-ce que vous vous rasez les jambes?” He was asking if I shaved my legs. 

“Yes, it’s a little rude,” I agreed. I paused, and said truthfully. “Non, je ne me rase pas les jambes.” and he glanced slightly downward but I was wearing trousers, so he didn’t get to see my unshaved legs. He moved on to the next student.

Well, I apparently spoke enough French.

I was very pleased with myself. I felt very silly, and I also felt very intermediate.