Pancakes and panic attacks

Short auto-fictional story

It’s three AM and I’m making pancakes again. Not from scratch. I buy pancake mix in a box, turn it into a batter and make small, thin discs that look more like crepes. I fill them with dollops of Nutella and because the crepes are piping hot, the chocolate spread turns even more gooey. I can eat 15 at a time. I recently got into the habit of making this when I can’t sleep. Which these days, is more nights than not. I sit down in front of my laptop and put on an episode of Naruto Shippuden. I’ve done this so many nights this semester that I can’t imagine eating pancakes outside of Konoha. I’ll usually fall asleep shortly after, sleep through the first half of the day, and go straight to class when I wake up.

I'm in the second semester of my first year of college. I moved to Montreal half-heartedly and I want to graduate quickly so I can go back home. My high school friends are all attending the University of Mauritius and they all smoke the same cherry cigarettes. I see pictures of them on Facebook at the same parties. My ex is always posting pictures with girls I’ve never seen. They write inside jokes on each other’s walls that I don’t get. When I move back I’ll have so much to catch up on. I’m pursuing a degree in translation I’m not really interested in. I haven’t made any friends yet. I don’t know how I feel about myself as a person and that’s a hard sell, so when I’m not in class, I’m at home. Making pancakes. Or having nachos and store-bought salsa for dinner.

My street is perpendicular to one of the busiest arteries of the city. I like knowing that even though I keep to myself, I’m never too far from the action, should I wish to partake. The apartment building is decrepit but the studio I’m in was recently renovated. When I moved in the mattress was still wrapped in plastic. No one has ever slept on my bed, no one has sat on my couch.

There’s this big presentation coming up. I feel a lump form in my throat whenever I think about it. Public speaking has never been my strong suit. Let alone in front of a white audience. The only Brown person in the class, I’m an irregularity. People are often surprised when I say I’m studying French. Baristas at Starbucks switch to English when it’s my turn to order. Being Brown and francophone doesn’t add up. I tell them about Mauritius and they ask if I mean Mauricie. I feel the pressure to perform even more. I have something to prove.

My first real college presentation. I try dismissing the thought, but it just keeps showing up. And with it, a fresh new lump. The French course this is for has been particularly difficult and boring. I’m studying the history of French in Quebec, which everyone but me seems to have prior knowledge about. The assigned readings are always really dense. Our teacher gives us about 30 pages to read and to test our thoroughness, has us create an assessment from the material, with questions as well as their answers. It’s an interesting methodology, if a bit strange, but it’s terribly painstaking. When she announced the big presentation and the many small assignments that would lead up to it, she was smiling ear to ear and nodding frantically as if expecting her excitement to be reciprocated. It wasn’t. She couldn’t tell.

I’ve skipped most sessions so far. I can never make it through the readings, let alone the weekly assignments. And then I don’t feel comfortable showing up to class with nothing to show for myself. I’m not able to care about what the French lost in North America after being conquered in the 1700s. I don’t care about the tactical mistakes Louis XV made that forced him to cede to Britain. How can you even cede land that’s not yours? All of this is too far removed from my reality. Maybe I should change degree programs. Maybe I can enrol in a different degree program in Mauritius.

For my presentation, I end up choosing to talk about Bill 101 because it’s one of the few things I actually understood. Bill 101 was instituted in 1977 to make French the official language in Quebec and to protect the province from anglicization when the British took over. It includes a series of laws designed to keep French the lingua franca at work, in schools and in commerce. It’s interesting because, to the rest of the world, it’s ludicrous, desperate even. But when you consider what the French empire lost - and momentarily forget what they destroyed - and what they’re seeking to protect, it sort of makes sense. This becomes the essence of my presentation, but it turns out very cursory and not particularly insightful. I don’t have the language to articulate commentary.

I realize I’m not adding anything new to what I’ve learned. Nor do I have any classmates-turned-friends to bounce ideas off with. In the week leading up to the presentation, I go over my slides obsessively. I smoke more. I make tiny Nutella crepes every night. I have fifteen minutes to present and don’t know what to fill that time out with. I exchange a few emails with my professor without ever letting anything on. What should I talk about for all that time? What should I include? What do I say if I have no opinions? How can I comment on a history that isn’t mine? Who am I to speak on the subject? What if I don’t care? I say nothing. I feel only shame for not knowing what I should know. She tells me my repeated absences have made preparing me for the presentation difficult.

The emails about the presentation become ubiquitous. As I open my inbox every morning, I see a new message on the thread. A tiny lump forms as I read each new message. Our teacher informs us that the entire French department will be in attendance as well as this or that professor emeritus. That this will be less like a class presentation and more like an academic event. There is to be wine and cheese. Event posters are sent out. Guest speakers are introduced. My nerves are racked. New lumps form and dissolve in my throat at alarming rates. The event’s in two days.

On the day of, it snows. It’s the very first snow of the season and I’m nostalgic for the present. The event starts at 2 PM and I’m up at 5. I’ve looked over my slides a million times and mostly edited for grammar and punctuation. I made sure the PPT is clean and followed all the formatting guidelines. It’s pretty and uninspired. I delayed thinking about it so much that now there’s no time for substance. I consider staying home but I’m overcome with guilt. How can I be stressed by such a small thing? Why can’t I do what everyone else does so effortlessly? Why can’t I get anything right? I go in the shower and wash the stress out of my hair.

I put on my one good shirt. I brush some powder on my face. It’s 2 shades too light and I look ghost-like. I could never find the right shade. I wipe it off with water but it doesn’t go away. I rub my face a little too hard and it turns red. I rage at the mirror. I draw a quick cat eye that I almost botch. I stuff my laptop and my notes in my bag. Boots, coat, scarf, tuque. I head to the metro. The streets are peaceful, covered with an inconspicuous film of snow. You can still smell the crunchy red leaves underneath. You will for a while, until the real snow comes and hides all the filth. I’m restless, trying to still my brain. I count my steps and bet that I’ll make it to the metro before I get to 900. I know the material well enough and I’ll be fine. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll go in, do my thing, and leave before the wining and cheesing. No one will make fun of me, no one will tell me I did a horrible job and that I don’t belong. I get to the metro after 830 steps. Tim Hortons just put up Christmas decorations and the smell of roasted chestnuts wafts through the air, mingling with my cigarette smoke. I dream about being back in my apartment.

In the metro, I close my eyes. I play loud music in my ears and shut everything out. I disappear into my happy place. I’m back home, in his arms again, hanging out with my friends in the university parking lot before going to the end-of-year party. I taste a mixed drink of Green Island and coke. I taste the cherry cigarettes that we pass around and fight over. We’re teasing each other and gossiping about the latest scandal on campus. We plan a two-day stay in a Flic en Flac bungalow next week. They envy my new North American affectations. After the party, we sit on the street curb and eat boulettes. I sink into the daydream and anchor myself in it. There aren’t many people coming in and out of the metro so I arrive well before 5. I’ve somewhat calmed myself down. I take the elevator up to the classroom.

As the elevator doors close in on me, a whole new lump, the biggest one yet, forms in my stomach. My heart rate spikes. Its thumping is deafening. Soon I can feel it through my whole body. I can’t hear anything else. I feel my hands shake and sweat beads form on my temples. More lumps appear, in my throat, in my chest. I walk out of the elevator. The hallway is empty but as I walk towards the classroom, I hear loud cheers. I’m barely in my body. I walk through the corridor and pass the lecture hall. I keep walking, all the way to the water fountain. I look around to ensure I’m alone and have a quick sip of water. I’m trying to understand what’s going on but my heart won’t let me. I have a loose hold on reality and I’m sinking. Ashamed. Guilty. My vision is blurring, my hearing, tentative. I rush back to the elevator making sure my classmates don’t see me. I watch as the doors close again, and feel the lump start to dissolve as my heart regains my chest.