When I was around 8 or 9 years old my mother put me into a French school in Toronto. Her logic was simple: “This is Canada. You should know how to speak both official languages. It will create opportunities for you in the future.”

But I hated it. I couldn’t speak a word of French at the time and so I would come home from school complaining that I couldn’t understand anything the teacher was saying. How was I supposed to learn anything? 

I begged her to put me back into an English school.

To her credit, my mother remained absolutely steadfast. She would say to me: “Trust me. You’re going to thank me for this later.”

Not surprisingly, I learned French. I was put into a special “intro” stream and so when my classmates were off learning a third language (German), I was given introductory classes designed to bring me up to their French level.

I still remember the sense of accomplishment I felt when I could finally carry on an actual conversation in French.

Sadly, at this point in my life, my French is fairly rusty. I really should work on that. But it’s decent enough that people in Montréal – which is where I am right now – will say to me: “You’re from Toronto. How is it that you speak French?”