The Ignorant Slackjaw

I told at least three-dozen people before I left that I looked forward to being uncomfortable. I distinctly remember the words coming out of my mouth, and I think that I remember the reasoning that propelled them. It went something like this:

Discomfort denotes mental unease, but it connotes the kind of mental breaking-down-and-rebuilding-for-a-better-tomorrow shtick that’s (purposefully) only mildly suggested in every TV commercial I’ve ever seen for the U.S. Army. Even high school dropouts with mustaches crusted over with chewless tobacco realize that when they sign away their freedom, they’re in for an ass kicking; however, the true and palpable extent of that ass kicking eludes them. As it did (and maybe still does) me.

I’m not comparing my excursions into the deep recesses of French language and culture to the corporeal damnation that is basic training. (Although, truthfully, I believe the parallels are numerous and potentially meaningful.) I am, however, becoming painfully, uncomfortably aware that my mustache is crusted over with chewless tobacco. Regardless of its self-conscious irony and capacity for “Eurotrash,” my mustache is a testament to the “satisfying, natural” taste of Red Man.

I was told it would be rough. But I don’t think the megaphone could have gotten loud enough for me to really hear it. I had romanticized the notion of discomfort to near Utopian levels; I equated physical and psychological smarting to a crisp afternoon of apple picking with Tickle-Me-Elmo. I shoved a key through the antonymic hole, if you prefer unnecessarily abstract metaphors.

The language barrier between my family and I is reinforced with steel beams. My comprehension skills are poorer than I had anticipated, and my fumbling, rambling attempts to converse with locals seem equivalent to branding my forehead with the stars and stripes. I’ve been studying the French language for six years, and I’m standing toe-to-toe with the unshakable feeling that I’ve nothing to show for it.

And although I can’t clearly express the whats and hows and whys, I still feel as if I’ve nothing to lose. I do feel like an underdog, but I guess the label isn’t manifesting into the same adrenaline junkie of yesteryear. I’m a different breed of underdog because I’m disadvantaged in a fundamental way, as opposed to a superficial one. My handicapped speech isolates me in ways that are much more profound and much more difficult to overcome. I can’t just be brave; this is about more than testosterone-launched spats of courage. I have to learn something. I have to learn how to communicate. And for me, the inability to communicate presents a discomfort that can’t be likened to any other negative stimuli.

Moral of the story: I got what I wanted.

--C.Z.