When I was in the third grade, I moved from the Great White North, America’s little brother, Canada. Like all good Canadian children, I was taught French from a young age and of such marvels as the metric system. (To this day, I boast of the superiority of the degree centigrade and adamantly refuse all things Fahrenheit, which besides being difficult to interpret, is impossible to spell.) While my absolute indifference towards the cold comes in handy, what I treasure most about my Canadian identity is my francophone status. To this day, I actively seek out every possible opportunity to practice, be it discussing the Nestle infant formula scandal in French with friends or jamming to French rap.