Sometime Me Cry Alone At Night

Last night I started reading out loud to Ryan from the book he got me last Christmas. I should mention that our first Christmas together, Ryan introduced me to a comic writer named David Sedaris by reading aloud his piece entitled, "Santa Claus and the Six to Eight Black Men". It was hilarious. Before you decide we're racist, I'll explain that it's a sketch he gives about the world's various traditions and ideas of Santa Claus. Very funny. One of those sublime pieces of joy you want to share with those you love each holiday season.

Well, months ago I heard that the same author had come out somewhat recently with a book,
a hilarious modgepodge of sketches about growing up, but, more importantly, his time living in Paris. Obviously I was interested on a french level, and as an added bonus it was an author I loved! I finally started Me Talk Pretty One Day several weeks ago and while it was funny it didn't have me laughing out loud, which is usually something that ensures my undying devotion to any book. I was slightly disappointed but pressed on notwithstanding.

Well, I picked it up again last night for another go and within minutes I was laughing so much to myself that Ryan insisted I read it aloud. Another ten minutes and there were tears welling up in our eyes and streaming down our cheeks. Twenty minutes after that we had to take a break because we were 'this close' to wetting ourselves.

One of our favorite parts is his description of French class. A brutal, authoritarian teacher, a petrified class of foreign students in the early stages of sentence-forming, and their pathetic attempts to communicate with the outside world. Anyone who has ever tried to learn a foreign language while living in a foreign country can relate wholeheartedly with the following excerpt. However, I'm pretty sure that even if you've never left your own hometown this will still give you a good chuckle.

We'd have one of those 'complete this sentence' exercises, and I'd fool with the thing for hours, invariably settling on something like 'A quick run around the lake? I'd love to! Just give me a moment while I strap on my wooden leg.' The teacher, through word and action, conveyed the message that if this was my idea of an identity, she wanted nothing to do with it.

'I hate you,' she said to me one afternoon. Her English was flawless. 'I really, really hate you.' Call me sensitive, but I couldn't help but take it personally.

We soon learned to dodge chalk and protect our stomachs whenever she approached us with a question. She hadn't yet punched anyone, but it seemed wise to protect ourselves against the ineveitable. . . Before beginning school, there'd been no shutting me up, but now I was convinced that everything I said was wrong. When the phone rang, I ignored it. If someone asked me a question, I pretended to be deaf. I knew my fear was getting the best of me when I started wondering why they don't sell cuts of meat in vending machines.

My only comfort was the knowledge that I was not alone. Huddled in the hallways and making the most of our pathetic French, my fellow students and I engaged in the sort of conversation commonly overheard in refugee camps.

'Sometime me cry alone at night.'
'That be common for I, also, but be more strong, you. Much work and someday you talk pretty. People start love you soon. Maybe tomorrow, okay.'

Unlike the French class I had taken in New York, here there was no sense of competition.

pg 171-172

Wow. Funny. I'm giggling as I type. You should definitely check this one out, it is well worth your time and tears. Be forewarned that his language and lifestyle are a bit on the colorful side, but I still recommend him. He's hilarious.