To Speak, or Not to Speak

I've spent most of my life almost certain that my friendships were based soley on mutual appreciation. People liked me because of who I was; I had nothing else to offer. I didn't pay for dinner, I was never arm candy and I only had one friend in a high place. There was the occasional opportunity for a convertible ride, but that didn't spark a lot of interest for those over 12.

Unfortunately, I've recently started losing my confidence. I'm still not arm candy, I don't go out for dinner and my only friend in a high place is the one who climbs mountains. But living in Italy I have one thing to offer that most people don't; I speak English.

Instead of an invitation to dinner with students making me feel like the teacher just got a bushel of shiny, red apples, I find myself questioning the sincerity. When the oozing about how much they love the class and if only they had more than one opportunity a week to speak English is followed by an invitation to dinner, I'm skeptical. Maybe the dots weren't meant to be connected; but the years in the backseat of the car as a kid trying to figure out how conversations changed from one to the next has become an obsession.

Years ago I was telling a student (mistakenly defined as a friend) that I'd been out with students the night before. She said that she, too, would like to have pizza with me and asked if I spoke English when I was out with students. I told her not when it wasn't a lesson (even though sometimes I do). I've eaten a lot of pizza since that discussion, but never with her.

Sometimes I choose to test a new acquaintance's English skills. It's kind of like an ice breaker. I feel more like myself making new friends in my mother tongue. When I meet an Italian that speaks English well, it feels like a gift. But now, before opening it, I check to make sure that under the shiny, gold bow there are no hidden strings attached.