Au Revoir, Online French Lessons
As I turn 60, I'm starting to embrace a new way of learning
This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
My life revolving around the physical and emotional needs of my three children.
In:
Empty nester with one toe in my profession.
Entering:
The cusp of turning 60, realizing that I am entering the senior years of life.
This morning, after completing a pristine 522-day streak of online French lessons, I unsubscribed from my monthly plan and deleted the app from my phone. J’ai abandonné. J’ai arrêté.
A year and a half ago, in anticipation of a dream trip to Paris with my daughter, I downloaded a popular language app and reactivated the sleepy neural pathways that had once absorbed high school French back in the 1980s. My classmates and I had adored our teacher, Madame Thomas. We might have been reduced to tears in Advanced Placement American History while trying to explain the social, economic, and political fallout of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act of 1930, but in French class, the overhead lights dimmed, and we watched slide shows about Impressionist art or memorized dialogues about cheese. Drilling a few irregular verb conjugations or attempting to pronounce the French word for leaf — if you know, you know — felt like a minor price to pay for 50 minutes of whimsy each school day.
With those memories spurring me on, I dedicated myself to completing at least three daily online lessons, cheered on by animated characters with various regional accents and backstories. Today, however, I bid my fictional French friends au revoir. At this crossroads, with a new decade just ahead, I am shedding optional tasks that no longer bring joy. And this old French student has decided that learning through perpetual error, without explanation or structure, is no longer an endeavor I choose.
Initially, carving out dedicated time for French review brought me satisfaction, if not pleasure. The lessons unearthed memories of subject-verb agreement, long-forgotten numbers and expressions I was surprised to recognize. I enjoyed adding new words and phrases about professions, food, and family relationships to my vocabulary. If I made mistakes, I had the opportunity at the end of each lesson to correct them. The tiny animated characters jumped for joy at my progress and encouraged me with enthusiastic “bravos.” Once I removed the intrusive ads for a small monthly fee, I could power through lessons without distraction. I was gaining mastery and confidence.
But as I climbed levels of supposed language proficiency, I became increasingly frustrated. The app was built on repetition. If I made an error, I could not always press a button that explained why. There were no overarching lessons before the exercises, just a few examples of sentences or verb conjugations. I had to bumble my way through, make mistakes, and infer the rules from whatever corrections followed.
When should I use an indefinite article before someone’s profession? Where should I place the adverb in a sentence? What is the proper order of indirect and direct object pronouns before a verb? How do I know which preposition belongs before the name of a city or a country?
As a risk-averse person, I don’t like making mistakes. I cringe when the app’s mocking sound effect buzzes and the red X appears because I typed “du” instead of “de” in a sentence with 20 other perfectly behaved words.
As an educator (a former English teacher, Hebrew school principal, and current private bar and bat mitzvah tutor) I’m not only ill-suited to this method of pedagogy, I’m incensed by it. I would never ask children to do homework before offering an overview or explanation, then mark the inevitable mistakes with an angry red pen. Yes, learning requires analysis, synthesis, and trial and error. But learning works best when a teacher serves as an engaging, warm-hearted tour guide to unfamiliar terrain.
If students are to learn and feel connected to new material, they need guidance: someone to point out patterns, warn them about bumps in the road, pull together the history of disparate monuments, and create a story that connects with the learner. Sadly, my adventures in French took a different and decidedly less charming direction.
My 60th birthday arrives in just a few months’ time, and I have learned that I don’t need to be right all the time. As a certain animated member of the animal kingdom advised me this morning, just before I canceled my language subscription, “Mistakes are how we learn.”
I agree. But I have also gleaned some wisdom over the years, and I know that being told you are wrong without the benefit of a map or guide is not a way to teach. It is a way to frustrate a student and create unpleasant associations with a beautiful language.
Turning 60 is a precious gift, one I do not want to squander. Knowing when to jump into new adventures and when to step back from activities that have run their course is a skill I hope to deepen in this new decade.
For now, I’m looking online for a French class with a human teacher who can capture some of the joie de vivre so masterfully conveyed by Madame Thomas. In the meantime, I’m ordering a textbook to walk me through the terrain and explain the landmarks along the way. Don’t mind me if I snack on a bit of French cheese while I’m studying.
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