My Classmates

           It turns out that when I moved to Germany, the three semesters of college German I had ten years ago might not be as helpful as I might have hoped.  So, I decided it would behoove me to sign up for a German class at the local community college.  After a brief interview with one of the school administrators, I was assigned to a class of people who aren’t quite beginners but who aren’t really speaking well yet.  The classroom is in a large, cheerful, light-filled building.  Neighboring classrooms are filled with children sculpting dinosaurs and post-menopausal women doing yoga.  Overall a very cheerful, non-scary place.

            This experience was going to be new to me.  Back in my college German class, we were all Americans, aged 18 to 22 and, looking back, had a tremendous amount in common – including a common native language.  I think there was the one girl who was born in British Columbia, but that was about it.  In my current class, we have everybody from teens to retired folks, and the only language we have in common is the little German we attempt to speak. 

            On the first day, we went around the room and told everybody where we were from and what languages we spoke.  I am the only American.  There were some interesting stories.  There are those who are in Germany for love, such as the women from Belarus, Colombia, and Hong Kong who married German men. 

There are those who are there for economic opportunity, like the ridiculously good looking gay hairdresser from Spain who came as an au pair and stayed because it was just easier for him to thrive as a ridiculously good looking gay hairdresser in Germany.  There are two Russians and a man from Moldova who came to Germany because they can make more money here than at home.

            And then there are those from war zones.  These are places you see on the news, places you wouldn’t visit for a million dollars.  Literally, you would not visit these places even if someone offered to pay you a million dollars.  And these classmates of mine can never go back.  They are a diverse bunch.  The teenage boy who only wants to play soccer, the man who somehow owns every leather jacket from the 1978 movie Grease, the middle-aged man who complains that his four children always want to drag him out to ice skate, and my favorite, the teenage girl who works on her algebra homework when the class has its 15 minute break. 

            We are all struggling to learn German and find our places in this new country.  But I can go back home again.  For them, there is no plan B, this is it.  It would take me about twenty seconds to find a doctor or police officer who speaks English, but you could actually learn German faster than you could find a German doctor or police officer who spoke Kurdish. 

            Growing up in America as the child of two married, stable, healthy, college graduates, I had a privileged childhood, but I wasn’t naïve.  I knew there were Americans who struggled and didn’t always have food on the table.  I knew there were immigrants who were searching for a living and home in America.  But I never realized who truly lucky I am, how many doors are open wide for me, how many privileges I have because of the pure accident of my birth, until I became an immigrant myself.

            That being said, those classmates of mine are going to learn German much faster.