Bienvenue.

You can’t turn off being a teacher, you know? It doesn’t matter if it’s your first year or your retirement year: if you really love it, it’s just there all the time, coursing through your body like electricity. Anything is fodder for the classroom, from merchandise you come across perchance in hole-in-the-wall shops to the stories you live each day. Memories and souvenirs become illustrations, props, or aids. You’re always thinking, I could use this when I teach…Anyway, this is admittedly my personal experience, but I suspect my World War II instructor is affected by the same condition.

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The night before classes began, E and L and I, the grad students, looked over our schedule and saw that we were to show up at “IEP” at 1:30 for our World War II course. What’s the IEP and where is it? we wondered, bemused. The first two professors we asked also had no idea, or only a vague one. Finally, we were able to find someone who explained somewhat more concretely, but the idea was still amorphous in our brains. All we knew is that “IEP” was the abbreviation for the name of an entire school. So, the next day we struck out in plenty of time to master the situation.

Unfortunately, we got sufficiently confused early on and had to take out a map. The directions we’d been given weren’t especially helpful anyway, and certainly not after several hours had passed. When we finally found our destination, we entered, only to find that the buildings were comprised of only offices. Slowly turning in circles in the middle of the courtyard, we tried desperately to find a building that looked full of classrooms. Nothing. Finally, L stopped a straggler and asked where all the classrooms were. The woman pointed us in another direction, and we took up the search again. Upon walking in, we became convinced that we’d found the right building, but still had no idea which room was ours. We looked at room numbers, peeked in windows, and cocked our ears toward doors, all in hopes of receiving some helpful information. Finally, E located what she thought was our room and called us over. Sure enough, as we tentatively walked in, a professorial-looking man in his fifties greeted us. We spoke briefly of our difficulties finding the room, and he seemed genuinely disappointed that no one had communicated with us any better than that.

When the others came in, he gave us a more official greeting. He introduced himself as Professor D and wished us the “warmest and kindest of bienvenues (welcomes)” to his native country. Then, the speech that followed was one I simply had to write down because I felt so calmed and welcomed, almost to the point of grateful tears. It was like I was in the presence of a divinely beatific Santa Claus who understood my student persona perfectly.

“There are two things you must know before we begin. First of all, I know that it is so very difficult to speak a language not your own. After years of practice, it is still difficult for me to speak English, and I am fifty years old! And for you, I can’t imagine the bravery you have to speak French in this room with me, a native speaker. It is hard, and I know. When I go to America and visit my American friends, they always laugh when I pronounce certain words. It is very difficult to pronounce th and r your language. And they laugh and say, ‘Oh, we love your accent; it’s so cute!’ That makes me feel foolish, makes me feel embarrassed. That makes me feel not very smart because I cannot pronounce the words the way they do. Let me say this to you: I will never make fun of you, never. I know this is hard, and I want you to try, and I promise that if you try, you will not be made fun of by me ever. You understand?

“The second thing you must know is that to learn a language, you must speak it. So speak French to me to learn it. And if I say something you do not understand, you have the right to stop me. Do you understand what I’m saying? You have the right to stop me. This is your class. Sometimes when I start teaching, I get so excited, so enthusiastic, and I speak very fast. My foreign students sometimes look at me with open mouths because they do not understand me any longer. Yes, stop me when this happens. I can talk about World War II forever and not stop for breath.”

Here was a man I’d never met who made me feel more confident in a classroom than I had the rest of my time in Virginia. And I was halfway across the world. Immediately, I felt at ease. He understood: this second-language thing was difficult and tiring, but he would be patient with me. Of course, I never expected a professor to ridicule my pronunciation; nonetheless, it so put me at ease to actually hear someone say it. Here was a place where my floundering French was welcome and desired.

I’ve only had Professor D’s class for two days (a collective seven hours), but those two days have been packed with radio clips, examples and illustrations from his life, and lots of quickly passing lecturing. My notebook has about as many notes on his teaching style as it does the information itself; I feel like I’m constantly writing things down. I consider it a blessing to be under the direction of Professor D, even if it’s only for four weeks. Here’s to the development of many more teachers worldwide just like him.