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It’s not pretty, but it’s true.

Once a week I drive forty-five minutes or so to a suburban town much like my own to tutor middle- and high-school Spanish. I make twenty dollars per student, per hour. A friend of mine got me the job in October on naught but a kind word, and having just left New York and what had then seemed like the promise of a promising career, I was up for anything.

Now, let me be clear: I have taken exactly two semesters of introductory Spanish, both in my senior year of college, and both entirely on a lark. I’d figured it was my last chance at any bought-and-paid-for whim, so why not prepare for the future in what promises to be the Bilingual American Century? In my nigh nine months as an estudiante I learned to conjugate regular verbs, describe my and others’ plans, and speak generally on the facts of the past as I saw them. With mild prodding I might have found inclination to comment on things I used to do, or would do, someday, but grammatical poverty and a philosophical aversion to Regret prevented me from opining on anything I would have, should have, or could have done.
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