I could have drowned myself in a sea of Spanish vocabulary, poured cups of verbs into my ears with hopes that they would tumble onto my brain, and drank fragments of sentences about Spanish culture, but still failed the class. I could even come to soak in more language during lunch, but just like a sponge, all I had retained would squeeze out of me, ushered by panic’s hand once the clutter of a test alighted on my desk.

Failed tests upon failed tests piled upon my shoulders, weighing down any hope I had to pass, but not yet smothering my desire to try. I gave every test, every quiz my all, until every ounce of the time in a period had sputtered dry. Expecting failed grades on any Spanish-related assignment I touched or so much as breathed on, despite the effort emanating out of every pore, I realized that no matter what I did, I could not pass.

The disappointed glances of Mr. Sanchez, ruler of repetitive jokes and spontaneously stressful questions, chipped away at me, eroding away any flecks of confidence, any fragments of hope I still bore. The walk from the door to my desk as I first entered the classroom was the walk of shame; I felt as if the F that was sure to be labeled on my quiz was stamped across my forehead as well. My report card became a thing to dread, meanwhile my notebook became a place to vent the hatred I felt for myself for failing every assignment.

Finally, I began to give up on waiting for the day when my pen would remarkably spill out the ideal combination of phrases and verbs. Looping my tongue correctly around the language I had desired to learn for three years had become what myths are made of.