I recall High School Spanish 101 (the room's number was really 101) and the sad attempt the teacher had on teaching us, or me, a foreign language. At that time in 1967, seems like BC as I recall, such efforts were quite futile on me. I was already struggling with English grammar, and to master a new dialect was out of the question. The teacher we had, a Miss Barbara, was very capable but her talents were wasted. What I did to the Romance tongue of Spanish is what the Romans did to Jerusalem in 69 AD. Mashing and gnashing of verbs and nouns was a trial and a tragedy of epic gender never seen by mortal man since the Great Library was founded. Not only did I fail at the writing aspect, but the pronunciation made the Tower of Babel seem like a Presidential debate. Grasping such a futile subject made me realize a second language was not for me. Just learning the complexities of good old American english is enough. Since those ancient times, I have bumped into people who can speak more than one tongue, and it has always earned my respect to master a foreign language, even if it's Klingonese!