When I registered to take Spanish 1 as an 8th grader, I was ecstatic. I've always pushed myself to learn as much as I can, and I couldn't wait to learn a new language. I was interested in learning something new and was hopeful about my future with this language. After my first two years of Spanish, I had learned a lot and was excited to be on my way to becoming fluent.

The first time I started to hate Spanish was in my Spanish 3 class my Junior year of High School. My teacher didn't seem to care about us, and seemed to dislike me in particular. She wouldn't take the time to slow down and make sure we comprehended what she was saying. She refused to speak in English, even to relieve confusion. I was miserable, and any dreams of taking all five years of Spanish vanished. I just wanted to finish my last required year and be done.

When I found out that I had to take Spanish for my major at UGA, I was excited. I was once again that ecstatic 8th grader, thirsty for new knowledge. For another language. Another culture. Another world, different from my own. I have friends that are bilingual, and I think it is so intriguing. As a communications major, the idea of being able to communicate with someone in their native tongue, in a language different than my own, excites me.

Coming into UGA, I wanted to minor in Spanish. I wanted to immerse myself in the culture. I had plans to study abroad in Spain. My first semester of Spanish was effortless. Most of it was a review, but more than that, my Professor cared. He made it fun. I wanted to go to class. I was learning and it was exciting.

Things changed when I met my second semester Spanish Professor. Within a few weeks, I was reminded of my 11th-grade self. The flame that had been reignited in my heart was once again extinguished. I just wanted out. In the matter of a month, I wanted to drop the class, something I have never considered before. Once again, a teacher had taken something I loved and was excited about and ruined it. I now dread going to class because it is no longer fun. I'm no longer learning. I, along with my classmates, struggle to follow what my professor is saying, and I feel as if any knowledge I had of this beautiful language has been replaced with pure confusion.

I realize it is not my professor's job to keep my flame burning or to make class easy, but I do feel that it is his responsibility to care. To slow down and ensure that we understand. To create a curriculum that shows us his passion for the subject he teaches and hopefully allows some of that passion to rub off on us as students. It is not his job to kill my excitement about something in only one semester, but this is exactly what he did.