Dinner Party: Lively Now!

Another week, another dinner party, this one light years better. It's not that I didn't enjoy the old folks, but here everyone other than the hostess was in their 30s. Aaah, that's better. There were two couples, the guys both teachers at school, one missus an English teacher and the other a librarian, and also two small children. This part was not fantastic, but I felt like their parents were more pained by their presence than I was. Particularly when they broke things, which they did. More than once.

Conversation flew around the table as always: difference between U.S. and American students, whether Obama deserved the Nobel, Didier & Karine's vacation in Scandanavia, Guillaume's imminent trip to Cambodia, the presence of the Klan in the southern states. (I got to answer this one three times, because there was a "special report" on TV last night about it. I just told them that I've lived my whole life in Alabama and never seen a real, live Klansman, but I suppose if you go looking for nutjobs, you can find them.) They agreed the French media has a tendency to exaggerate.

The teachers I work with were absolutely appalled to hear I'd been assigned the Devil's Class, that one particular group known school-wide for being the worst of the worst, absolutely intolerable, at least half of whom should be expelled immediately. This was mollifying; it's nice to know I'm not the only one who thinks the school could have been a little more considerate in picking out my classes. Lord knows we took great pains to make Miss Cake's adjustment as easy as possible, so I get kind of bitter about the corresponding treatment I've received.

Anyway, I can't even tell you how much I enjoyed the evening. It was relaxed, it was fun, it was just plain super. Afterwards someone volunteered to drive me home, which is good because it was past midnight and I'd missed the last bus. There was one shaky moment about halfway through the drive when the missus said, "Did you drink too much? Are you okay to drive?" and he responded by giving her the universal hand signal for "kinda sorta." But hey, it was a short trip and we made it back in one piece, so good on him.

Side Note: French People Lurv Exams

In France, when you want to be a teacher, you have to pass a concours, or series of exams. Now, when you take an exam like this in the U.S., we set a certain score as our arbiter of success: score above the mark, you win! Score below the mark, and your teachers will be blamed for your failure! In France it works a little differently; let's say you want to work in District X, and there are five available positions for history teachers based on growth or retirement. Among all the folks taking the history exam, the top five scorers pass; everyone else fails.

It doesn't matter how good you are in the classroom; it doesn't matter how well you interact with students; it doesn't really even matter how much you know about history: if five other people know more than you (or are just better test takers), you're screwed. The upside of this, I'm told, is that you can take this annual exam "as many times as you want." To which I say, I only one to take the exam once, thanks. I want to pass it the first time based on a fixed standard of achievement, and I want to then be offered a job based on my own merits.

The reason for the tough selection process is that if you pass, you don't just receive certification, but you're guaranteed a job. You go into the national education system and they will assign you to a post in your district. If you don't like the school, tough. You have to wait a few years and build up points in the system, because transfers are based on seniority.

There's also an argument that these exams are impossible for non-French people to pass. One woman wrote a whole book about how native English speakers are destined to fail in the French educational system, because... wait for it... our English isn't good enough. (Which is a whole other blog post. Trust me.) So even if I wanted to stay and teach forever in France, I'm pretty much SOL.

Silver lining: the upside is, there's a huge pool of subs to draw from. Because everyone who's still waiting to "pass" the exam can work as a long-term substitute for folks who go on maternity leave, break bones, or walk off the job in a fit of student-induced insanity. (There are no short-term subs here; if you're going to be out a few days, you just cancel class. Sweet.)

Blistering, Festering Wounds of Outrage

My favorite third-word denizen (and soul sister-- we were both gypped in this exchange) sent me an email updating me on life on the island. I liked this phrase from her note so much that I'm considering making it the new title of this blog. "Blistering, Festering Wounds of Outrage: a Blog by Melissa." Poetic, non?

Fight!

Today I attended that event dreaded by all teachers, the departmental meeting. I don't know why they wanted me there; there were two items on the agenda and neither concerned me. The first had to do with our new assistante. I'd been looking forward to the arrival of the assistant since the beginning of the school year. Typically, an assistant is a recent college grad who gives conversation classes in their native language. They work 12 hours a week and get paid enough to prevent starvation. This is the program I did in Tours seven years ago, and after a rocky few months, I loved it. (Let's hope that cycle repeats itself.) At my school in Tours, we had two American assistants as well as an Italian, a Costa Rican, a Brazilian and a Russian.

As further evidence of my school's general dysfunction, our Spanish assistant is from Israel (huh?) and our American assistant quit before she ever got here. That's all we've got. So I've been pretty disappointed about that. Then today Stéphane introduced me to our new assistant, who kind of appeared out of the blue. She's 60 years old and Scottish, so to say I was a mite surprised is an understatement. She's lived in France for at least 10 years, and she can only work at our school on Tuesday.

So, since I only have two classes on Tuesday, there's no way I can use her. A couple of lucky teachers have a full load on Tuesday, so they benefit enormously. (I'm trying hard not to be bitter, particularly since these teachers also have the post-grad classes who leave to start internships in a couple of weeks. So their teachers will just be free. And getting paid like they're still working.)

Anyway, the best part came at the end, when there was a huge fight about who should be the department chair. I've missed out on the backstory so I'm not really sure what's going on, but I know that voices were raised, doors were slammed, all while I sat in the corner drawing stick people and wondering how soon I could leave to catch the bus home.

Good times!

Becoming a French Teacher

I finally understand my role as a teacher in the French classroom. It is this: ask questions, provide answers to questions, allow students time to copy down answers verbatim, give students a week or so to memorize everything, then wrap things up nicely with a test in which they recite all the answers I've given them.

That's it. Asking students to think for themselves? Not so much. Asking students to think at all? Nope. As far as I can tell, the routine (at my school at least) is, "Don't think, just memorize!" (One of my colleagues phrased it as, "They have to give back what you gave to them." It was all I could do not to vomit.)

I never thought of myself as a touchy-feely American teacher, but it turns out I am. (The things we learn about ourselves!) All of my cues are geared towards self-reflection and letting students figure out the answers themselves, as in:

S: What's the difference between X and Y?

M: You tell me.

This is appalling in the French system. It suggests that I am incompetent and don't actually know the answer. There's also an element of, "I am the teacher, how dare you attempt to give me information?"

The bottom line is, my students don't want to think, and I'm tired of fighting them. It's been a month, and it hasn't gotten any better. At all. So in an effort to salvage my tattered self-esteem, I am throwing in the towel. They win. As of tomorrow, I will revert to the read-the-chapter-answer-the-questions-at-the-end-take-a-test method of teaching.

Look at me, kids, I'm a coach!*

*This is teacher humor. Coaches stereotypically always a) teach social studies and b) use the read-the-chapter-answer-the-questions method.

Admiring Photos

So, I'm at the home of some friends of Miss Cake and they wanted to show me some pictures she'd sent them. With great enthusiasm they took me through an entire slideshow of... my apartment. It was surreal; I don't think they ever really made the connection between my lack of comment and the fact that I've lived in the place for three years now. ("Isn't that a wonderful view?" she said at one point. Um, yeah, in fact it's one of the reasons I rented the place.) They also showed me pictures Cake had taken at school, which I didn't like at all because those are my kids and I don't like being reminded that someone else is taking care of them this year.

Then we went to the park where the younger daughter and I made a sad attempt at playing pingpong until she finally ran off with someone her own age then promptly hurled herself from the monkey bars and had to be taken to the ER*. The husband drove me home. I ate cookies. MLIA.

*Mado just called to say I love you tell me that baby girl is staying in the hospital overnight and will have surgery tomorrow. She's got a fracture and... something about two things (bones?) that slid one over the other. Not sure, but it sounds pretty awful.

Socially Acceptable Spying

I meant to get a lot of work done today, I really did. But around two, my phone rang, and it was Annie. She'd just heard about a manifestation in town and wanted to see if I were interested in meeting her and Richard in front of city hall. (Side Note: Manifestation is the word used for demonstration, so I was a little confused about why they seemed so enthusiastic about checking out a protest. Later I remember that it can also more generally mean "an event," which made a lot more sense but was a lot less exciting.) I said sure, then scrambled to find matching shoes, a rubber band for my hair, my house keys and bus pass. And then I ran.

The event is called Entre Cours et Jardins, and it's yet another let-the-peasants-admire-our-bounty event. In the old city (which I visited in previous adventures), families open their normally well-shuttered courtyards and share their private gardens with the ticket-holding masses.

It was fascinating. Unlike the U.S., where everything is open (big front yards, picture windows, etc.), in France everything is insular. From the outside all you see is stone walls and imposing iron gates, none of which even hint at the sumptuous beauty of the houses and gardens inside. I can't tell you how many people said something along the lines of, "Who would've guessed all this was right here?"

The weather was beautiful and the gardens were lovely. You can see them here. When we finished we stopped in a gorgeous little bar and had some liquid restoration. Since this is one of the few places in town that specializes in cocktails, I splurged and had a margarita. (Neat, since "frozen" and "on the rocks" are not concepts here.) Richard had a Manhattan. Annie had tea. (Party pooper.) We talked shop and they both gave me great ideas and advice on how to handle my monster class.

It was a lovely day (though chilly, I don't think it broke 60), and well worth every hour it set me back in lesson planning. I'll get around to that one of these days.