How Do You Say Panic Attack in Middle English?

I have always felt comfortable in an English classroom. It was the only subject in school that I approached with a sense of confidence and excitement, and I remember looking forward to my English classes the most during the school day. As a completely awkward and overweight kid, reading was the safest and therefore my favorite hobby. I began devouring books at an early age (not literally, despite what the a-hole that used to call me Fatty Fatty Fat Fat might have told you on the playground…whatever, he’s almost completely bald now). Even before I knew how to read, I would check out books from the library and pretend to read them. There’s a home video of me sitting in our sunroom when I was about 4 or 5 flipping through this book and making up the story based on the pictures. It’s pretty cute…and kind of miraculous considering that my family’s video camera was roughly the size of a SmartCar; I’m still not sure how my dad managed to sneak-up on me hauling that monster on his shoulder.

In general I’ve had a very healthy and perennial relationship with both the English language and the extemporaneous and exhilarating environment of the English classroom. It’s been a very long time since I felt insecure while studying the English language. I've felt challenged recently, but not insecure. And I think that’s why I had a major meltdown when I got out of my grad school class last night. Currently I’m taking a Chaucer class focused entirely on The Canterbury Tales. This class was not my first choice by any means. When registration came around, I was in the middle of research paper season with my students and I completely forgot to register. By the time I remembered, there weren’t very many literature classes left open. I signed up for Chaucer feeling adventurous. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, and my knowledge of Middle English was minimal, but the course description was interesting and assured me that my lack of experience wouldn't be a big deal.

So, you can imagine my terror when I realized that the text book was in mostly un-translated Middle English. (I’ve never been less annoyed by footnotes I promise). Last night, my professor came in the room and announced that we would be reading a poem aloud in class, line by line, taking turns, in Middle English. My heart started pounding (which would have been fine if it were in iambic pentameter) and I couldn’t breathe. It was the first time I had felt panicky in an English class in a very long time.

Since I have no idea how to speak Middle English, when it was my turn I just tried to channel Hermione Granger which worked on simple words like “and” and “this.” But, overall I had no idea what I was doing and I muddled through sounding like an idiot. It doesn’t help that I sat in between two people who have previously studied Chaucer; I, on the other hand, just learned how to spell medieval last week…true story. After this pronunciation exercise, I was feeling pretty crappy and as class went on, it just kept getting worse and worse. In my (very limited) experience, class discussion on the graduate level has a lot to do with proving yourself, so sometimes trying to get the floor involves throwing some elbows (metaphorically of course). It can be hard to get a word in so when you do finally get your chance, you don’t want to waste it. Last night, I felt like I didn’t just waste my chances. I obliterated them. I doused them in lighter fluid and lit em up. I left them in the shallow back-pocket of my jeans and they fell in the automatic flush toilet when I went to pee. I put them on top of my car, and then forgot they were there before I started driving off. You get the idea. I left class last night feeling stupid and intimidated.

But when I got home last night, I had a hard time sleeping. And when I woke up this morning I couldn’t stop thinking about my class; it had really gotten under my skin and I couldn’t figure out why. But the more I thought about it today (which was a lot because I'm crazy), the more I started to figure it out. This class is taking something very familiar and important to me, and changing it completely. I’m not reading and analyzing literature written in a language that I’m familiar with anymore. For my entire academic life, I have understood English classes to be this one thing, and last night my expectations were completely shattered. I feel like this is going to be one of the most challenging classes that I’ve ever taken; it’s going to be like boxing with one arm tied behind my back…or for an analogy that I can actually relate to it’s going to be like reading with one eye closed...or without my glasses...or just reading in Middle English.

The best part about this (so far super crappy) experience is that I am able to understand how my students who aren’t strong in English probably feel in my class on a daily basis. I mean, I’ve definitely experienced those feelings of academic insecurity and inadequacy before…but it’s been a really long time since I’ve had to take a math class. Tomorrow our new semester starts, and I’m hoping to be able to harness these feelings and help my students feel less hopeless and intimidated as the semester goes on.

As far as my grad school class, I’m just going to try and think of it as my own little academic pilgrimage. Chaucer explains that the 26 pilgrims that leave London are seeking out “straunge strondes,” and “sondry londes.” (Strange strands and sundry lands). This class is going to be like my own little pilgrimage to Canterbury. My own little trek into the “straunge.” It’s going to be uncomfortable, arduous, and disorienting at times. But I’m hoping at the end of this journey/semester, I’ll have a stronger relationship with the English language. If nothing else, I’ll have learned a pretty cool and very pretentious party trick.