Personal Narrative Essay: Community High School

On a December evening cold enough to stimulate a gentle snowfall, I approached an electric blue vehicle residing in my driveway, mentally prepared to depart for Decorah on a school night. Seated in the driver’s seat was my enthusiastic Spanish teacher, beaming wildly as nightfall canvassed the horizon. As I opened the car door, a gust of heat emerged from the vehicle’s interior, luring me inside. Animated chatter spoken immaculate Vietnamese drowned out not only the music droning from the radio, but my Spanish teacher’s benevolent greeting. Nevertheless, I took my seat in the passenger’s seat beside her, and we were subsequently on our way.
Any student would find that scenario a particularly bizarre and uncomfortable one, but I was well acquainted with almost everything tonight would entail (that is, excluding the vehicle). Rather than a vehicle, the location was a vacant community college classroom containing only furniture, a whiteboard, and ten adult “students” seated in the first few rows, pencils in hand and notebooks resting on the tables before them. Despite being the youngest person in the room, I was an assistant teacher at the mere age of 16, and I took my authoritative position seriously.
Classes weren’t in session today, however. The circumstances prevailed for a venture to the
A conversation I could only fathom being engaging ensued in the back of the vehicle, eruptions of infectious giggles corresponding. As much as I hated to admit it, I was slightly envious; Anh, Dau, and Hong longed to be fluent in English, but I desired the opposite. Bilingualism was a tremendous feat, and I gave them immense props for how coherent their English phrases were with the little instruction they had from a professional. If only I could comprehend what they were saying in their native tongue...or any native tongue contrasting from