It’s odd to say that the only person willing to speak French avec moi is none other than a drunk old man. I should be calling him my half-grandpa a couple times removed from my mom’s side but his way of thinking is too traditional and almost a bit degrading for me to even begin. It’s great to practice with him because he would ask the same questions and repeat the same things over and over again, enough for me to respond and practice with. The downside is that he probably doesn’t remember a thing and is only interested in actually selling me off to some douche-baggery. He had a bald man the next morning actually come over to view the rare species sent over from the States. What pigs.
My family over here have some kind of misunderstanding with girls or women. Yes that in a world far away from his reality, we have the luxury of freedom almost and we can actually be equal to the status men if we wanted to. We aren’t objects of men or even sold as cows.
I’m so glad that I was raised in a place where you could love whomever. I’m so glad my parents never raised me to fit under a gender role. I’m so glad that I never felt that marriage was a way out of poverty. I’m just glad that I have a decision in how I want my life to be.
Aside from that I also talked to the petite toddler who was such a cute instructor.
