In Which Our Author Has An Epiphany

I've been getting bent out of shape about my students making fun of my accent all the time. It happens a lot: I say something in English and they repeat it in a dreadfully exaggerated American accent. Then they laugh. It makes me want to scream.

Today my 10th graders were at it again; I kept hearing echoes of my voice all over the place. I was about to lose it when I happened to eye some of them and realized they weren't looking at me at all. They were completely focused inward, working hard to recreate the sound, oblivious to my reaction.

That's when I realized it: they're not making fun of me. In fact, what they're doing is trying very, very hard to sound American. Because sounding like an American is cool.

It was just about the cutest thing ever, and I had a big stupid grin for the rest of the day. Good times.

Dinner Party: Do These Pants Make Me Look Grim?

I was invited to dinner at the home of a retired French teacher from my school. We were joined by a retired math teacher, a retired history teacher, and a retired-something-else teacher. It was a regular ol' teacher fest. I'd been told beforehand that everyone wanted to spend the evening practicing their English. Only when I got there, someone said, "Perhaps we could speak French just a little at the beginning, and then start speaking English in a few minutes?"

We spoke French all night. Well, I should say they spoke French all night. I mostly listened and made grocery lists in my head. Ostensibly everyone had gotten together to meet me, The Visiting American, but it didn't take me long to blend in to the upholstery, apparently. It's not that I didn't want to participate, it's more that they talked about hip replacements and osteopaths (like chiropractors who crack all your bones), carpal tunnel surgeries and the various classes they take in their ample leisure time. (Art! Music! Stretching!) There was a quick inventory of who had parents still living, then their care and ailments were discussed at great length. Turns out my parents are pretty healthy, so again, not much to add.

Don't get me wrong, it was interesting. They wanted to talk about Roman Polanski, and you might be surprised by their response. The consensus was that they didn't understand why the European elite rally around him; if he committed a crime (and in their minds, a grown man and a 13-year-old girl does, in fact, constitute a crime), then he should be required to atone for it.

Also interesting: they all lost at least one grandfather in "The War of 1914," and one or both of their parents grew up with no male presence in the home. Americans make a lot of noise about France's resistance to our military endeavors, but you've got to see things from their side. We think of wars in terms of our brave boys heading overseas to defend freedom, and that's true, but for the French it wasn't a distant thing. These wars were fought in their backyards. The Battle of Verdun (in northern France) lasted nine months and killed a quarter of a million people. France had 1.6 million casualties overall. (To compare, the U.S. had 117,000.) They also had more casualties than the U.S. during World War II, and with a fraction of the population. Is it any wonder they're so reticent to go to war? Any wonder they'd rather exhaust diplomatic option when it comes to dealing with Iran and Iraq?

Do me a favor. Please stop perpetuating that whole "we saved your asses" thing. They know. They remember. And they're eternally, sincerely grateful. It's just that this gratitude doesn't extend to following the U.S. blindly into yet another war that could kill off a substantial chunk of their population.

I'm off my soapbox now. Dinner was lamb with apricots and prunes. (Yeah, prunes. I accidentally took one too many from the bowl and wow. I'm pretty sure my ears are clean, too.) For dessert we had ice cream and stewed pears from somebody's father's orchard. Wine was consumed. French was spoken. Somebody drove me home at 11:30 (which makes it an early night, in terms of French dinner parties). I managed to get a couple of hours sleep before school the next morning.

And oh yeah, I've got another invitation to dinner. And this time they swear they're going to speak English. We'll see.

Black Day

They changed my schedule while I was gone. I had no warning. All of the sudden, I'm up to six hours of classes on Monday, with two hours at once in my very worst class (the angry-at-the-world kids). I was in no way prepared for this; just getting through one hour with them is torture. Two hours is inconceivable. Not only that, but The Man has decided to divide one of my other classes in to two "modules," which increases my overall teaching load.

My 10th graders showed up first thing and started whining about their quiz; one kid kept (literally) screeching at me that he was absent all last week until finally I just told him to sit down and shut up before I smashed his face in. (I said it in English, which makes it easier to get away with.)

After this I went to my 11th grade class, but no one was there, and the next thing I know, some guy from the office is running down the hall telling everyone to evacuate the building. I asked another teacher what was going on, but she didn't know. I went outside and got knocked to the ground by a mob of kids running off campus... to watch a fight. Seriously? We evacuated the building because there was a fight going on outside? In what universe does that make sense??

Eventually I herded my students back inside, but at this point they were wild. Now, in the U.S., this sort of thing happens all the time and I don't really have a problem reestablishing order. Here, I'm at an utter loss: I don't have enough command of my subject to take control of the lesson, and I'm not adept enough at French to intimidate them properly. In other words, they can walk all over me and they know it. This has never, ever happened to me before in my teaching career, even in the the depths of the Mississippi ghetto. I have always been able to keep my kids in line. Not here.

I've made jokes before about locking myself in the bathroom to cry, but today I actually did it. Twice. In the same hour. My colleague Stéphane told me I looked "quite tired," which is a euphemism, I suppose, for "like you've been bawling your eyes out for twenty minutes." I agreed that I was, indeed, quite tired and also I was having some allergy problems (which we both knew was a lie but allowed me to salvage my dignity). He was trying very hard to be helpful and gave me a copy of the lesson he's using with the class we have in common. I looked at it (a text on the history of the Internet) and thanked him profusely then locked myself into the bathroom to cry some more because this is part of my problem. This is the kind of lesson they give-- the history of the Internet, people-- and I'm supposed to find a way to engage academically-challenged students whose grasp of English is extremely poor with a two-hour lesson involving expressions like network, Internet gateway and linked via telephone wires.

When the two-hour group showed up, they were fighting mad, assuming I'd requested the schedule change. I was exhausted and defeated and finally just said, listen, I don't particularly want to spend two hours with you either, but we're stuck with each other so let's figure out a way to make it tolerable. I asked them to write an anonymous note describing what they want the course to be: we could spend all our time preparing their end-of-year exam, which is dry, thankless work involving analyzing texts and images; or we could start from zero and relearn English all over again. (Most of them have a shaky grasp of the language at best.) I said I'm more accustomed to working with beginners and would probably want to do ridiculous interactive games and skits which would seem childish and beneath their dignity, but in the end might actually allow them to speak English.

I guess this went a ways towards restoring good will (how, I don't really know), because they were fairly cooperative for the godawful Internet article. We got through the day and I finally got home, and my mother used her psychic mom powers and called so that I could cry some more and get snot all over the phone.

I've decided that today is my Black Day, the point that I look back on and say, "Yeah, that was it. That was the worst day. Everything got easier after that."

So, there it is. My Black Day is over. Everything will be easier after this.

Weekend In Paris

Last day of meetings, this time at the lycée hotelier where we'd had dinner the night before. By that time I was on information overload, so I'm not sure I really processed anything that was said that day. Annie brought her niece so that we could role play the conseils de classe, which are meetings held each trimester with an administrator, the teaching team, two student representatives and two parent representatives to discuss the progress of each individual student in the class. Yeah. Totally looking forward to that.

We said our somewhat emotional goodbyes, even though Mr. Moto brought us the good news that we'll meet again at the end of January (except for Maureen, whose third world location makes travel costs prohibitive).

I took the metro to my friend Caroline's office, then sat quietly while she finished working on a project. We got to the train station with about two minutes to spare and Caroline asked if I really wanted to take the time to buy a ticket because nobody ever checks and it's no big deal. I told her I'd already been controlled twice, so we got a ticket. And no one checked it.

Her new place is in a town 3 miles outside Paris, and it's adorable. It's on the fourth floor, which is a painful climb, but it's bright and airy and spacious and absolutely beautiful. We had a delicious dinner of ham-and-cheese crepes, with pastries for dessert and a respectable amount of wine.

Saturday we went to the market in town and it was awesome. They sold everything there from fruits to fish to rastafarian caps. The guy selling melons offered to let us sample one, and his sales pitch went like this: "You've probably had better, but you've probably had worse, too." He was right, so we bought three. And happily they were even tastier than the sample melon.

Caroline's mom came by and we went into the city. The artists' neighborhood in the 20th was having an "Open House" day, so you could go in to the artists' workshops and look at all their stuff. It was pretty cool. After that we checked out an exhibit called "Frigos sur le Pont des Arts," which was kind of hilarious-- refrigerators on a bridge.

There was a disastrous episode wherein I complained about my jeans not fitting any more and Caroline decided she would help me find some new ones. Only we haven't shopped together too much, so she didn't realize what would happen: I'd try on two pairs and become unreasonably frustrated when they didn't fit, would refuse to ask anyone for help and rashly declare that nothing would fit, no matter where we went, and I would just want to go home and feel sorry for myself.

Frankly, I don't know if it was mental exhaustion from meetings or emotional exhaustion from this first month of school, but I was in total shut-down mode. In short, I was a terrible house guest, no fun at all, and poor Caro just had to put up with me. So we went back to her place and had dinner; we'd intended to watch a movie but ended up watching about two hours of Les Simpson instead. Somehow it's funnier in French.

Sunday we headed back in to town; only when we got to train station, both ticket machines were broken and there was no one at the window, so it was impossible to buy a ticket. Argh. At any rate, off we went to the Mémoriale de la Déportation, the Holocaust Memorial. It is stark and striking and moving. I was taking pictures like crazy and Caroline was standing very far away from me looking perturbed. Finally she came up and whispered that she didn't think pictures were allowed, so I stopped. (I never did see a sign, but I guess I believe her.) Anyway, profit from my contraband photos now:

We had a fantastic lunch at a Lebanese place near Boulevard St. Michel, then it was back to Caro's place to pack up my stuff. She walked me to the train station, but I guess we were a little behind schedule, because the train was pulling away and I had to literally run to get on it.

And yeah, I got controlled. Obviously. Without a ticket. I tried telling the guy that the two machines were broken and there was no one at the window (which was true enough, in the morning), but he whipped out a cell phone and called the station to verify, so I was SOL. I had a few seconds to recall a book I read about French people and what the author calls Persistent Personal Operating, where you essentially have to make them care about you personally, generally by giving them a sob story and throwing yourself at their mercy.

And so... I cried. Isn't that such a wretched girl thing to do? But French men... well. Anyway, it wasn't my intention to cry, but I was just so tired and fed up and sick of everything that I got all choked up and went the Noble Martyr route and said of course I'd pay the fine immediately but could we please hurry because I was going to miss my train to Le Mans. He asked to see my ticket, then fussed at me for only booking a ticket Paris- Le Mans rather than a Caro's Town-Le Mans ticket. I told him how sorry I was (not particularly true) but that I didn't know that was possible (which was true) and got a brief lecture on How To Buy Train Tickets. I choked up again and said I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'm just a poor little foreigner, etc. He asked my nationality, I told him, he said, "That's a beautiful country. I don't know Alabama, but I like the U.S." Then he said that since I was an American he would let me go this time. "But go quickly or you'll miss your train. Take the 13 line for Chatillon and that'll take you directly to the Montparnasse station. Now hurry!"

French people. I will never understand.

Paris Day Two

On my way to the metro in the morning, I ran into Mark, another exchange teacher, in a café and we both took the train together. And both got controlled. (Sorry for the franglais, but the English word escapes me. The contrôleur is the guy who comes through and checks that you have a valid ticket, ergo we call it being controlled.) This was new; I mean, I knew contrôleurs existed, but in all the time I've spent in Paris, I'd never actually seen one. Neither had Mark. It was no big deal-- I had a ticket, and I don't jump turnstiles or anything-- but it was odd.

Mark and I got to our meeting location (a high school in the 14th, right next to Montparnasse Cemetery) but we were early so we went down to the corner and had (another) coffee. When it was time for our meeting, we went to cross the street and a guy on a motorcycle pulled up and looked intently at us and said something which sounded friendly but you never know with French people and anyway, why was a random guy on a motorcycle talking to us?

Our meeting was being held in the Chinese Pavilion, which was neither Chinese nor a pavilion. (Discuss.) It was, in fact, a large square room on the edge of a basketball court. But okay, fine. Our friends from the Commission arrived, among them the leader himself, the guy with the long aristo name, and Mark leaned over to me and whispered, "Oh man, that was the guy on the motorcycle!" And he was right; we just hadn't recognized him because he had his helmet on and we didn't expect him to scoot his way around the city.

We heard from the principal of the school; the guy whose job is roughly vice-principal in charge of discipline; and someone who's sort of the head counselor (I think). The training session was run by the Inspecteur Général, a very friendly and helpful woman named Annie. In the U.S., teachers are observed and reviewed by their school administrators; in France there is a team of professional reviewers in charge of evaluating teachers in each district. Annie is the boss of all the foreign language inspecteurs in France.

She's worked with exchange teachers for several years now and I appreciated how frank she was. She had a Q&A session, where I stirred the pot by asking, "How can we possibly engage and inspire student learning when the texts and documents they give us to work with just plain suck?" Suddenly everyone in the room was sucking in air; you'd think I'd asked her cup size or something. But she just shrugged and said that for the most part she agreed with me. She claimed cultural differences; American teacher editions are full of tips, ideas, plans and suggestions on how to present the material. A French teacher would be appalled by this sort of setup as it suggests they are incapable of preparing a lesson without help.

Yeah, I get that, but still. I'm perfectly capable of planning, executing and evaluating a lesson, but if the textbook writers want to do the lion's share of the work for me, I'm down with that.

Annmarie and I were paired together to observe classes; we saw an English class that made me want to gouge my eyes out. (Two words, people: James Joyce.) And then we observed a Spanish class, which was excellent for a couple of reasons: first, having no knowledge of the language allowed us to really take a step back and just watch the interaction without getting caught up in the content. And second, this was a seasoned teacher who ran a tight ship but gave a high-energy, interactive lesson which seemed to appeal to her students. And also it was fun to try to pick out the Spanish words that looked like French words and guess what the text was about.

Between observations, Annmarie and I went to stretch our legs and ended up on Boulevard Raspail, which I always think of as Hemingway country. We had a drink in one of his old haunts (at the current rate of conversion, I paid $8.75 for a glass of orange juice), then headed back to wrap up meetings.

Dinner that night was an experience; first off, I got controlled in the metro again, which is insane. Everyone agreed that I had terrible train mojo. (Hint: this is also foreshadowing.) We arrived at a lycée hotelier, a high school which specializes in service industry studies, where our dinner was prepared and served by students. They were all dressed in fine dining suits, very earnestly presenting the menus and suggesting wines. They brought our fish out and dressed them in front of us, they did a tableside presentation at dessert which involved setting liqueur on fire. And all the while their teachers were running around offering help and yelling, as the case required. It was just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. The food was excellent!

Dinner conversation was fascinating, as it always is when French people are in charge. I sat next to Mr. Moto, who talked about his diplomatic adventures around the world. We discussed the situation with my STG class, and he was refreshingly blunt about how poorly they've been treated by the educational system. (Roughly, STG kids are perceived to be not very bright; they're given little encouragement or help and are basically being babysat until they either pass their exams or drop out. Most are minorities, many are first-generation citizens, and most are understandably angry at the world.) Those of you who know my history of teaching in the hood know these are the kids I like best, even if they don't like me. And they don't like me. See that whole "angry at the world" thing.

There were lighter moments, to be sure. I found out that Mr. Moto was born in, of all places, Chattanooga. I know, right? After dinner, Annmarie was bold enough to ask Mr. Moto for a ride back to the hotel. As RFK said, only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly:

Annmarie, whose gutsiness I admire beyond description, went a step farther. When they got to the hotel, she said, "You mean we're done already?" and was rewarded with a nighttime drive through Paris, including circling the base of the Eiffel Tower. I was so jealous I could spit.

To work off the painfully large meal, most of the girls decided to walk back to the hotel, and I have to tell you, wandering the streets of Paris at night is just heartbreakingly wonderful. For me, Paris is a city that never gets old; no matter how many times I go there, it's never enough. And while it was good to be there, it was also tinged with bitterness that I can't be there all the time. I'd move there in a heartbeat.

Not quite ready to tell Paris goodnight (particularly Maureen, my favorite third world denizen, who knew her days in civilization were few), we stopped at the café on the corner and had one more round, sitting on the terrasse and watching the world go by. I slept really, really well.

Paris Day One

Three days of freedom from classes and I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. I got to the train station way early because I was just ready. I ran into another exchange teacher, Annmarie, at the hotel, and we roamed the neighborhood and had lunch together. Then we headed down to our rendezvous point to get ready for our official immigration medical visit.

I'd forgotten what a delight these were. The good parts: reuniting with all the other exchange teachers. I feel about these folks the way veterans feel about their platoon mates: we've Been Through Stuff that no one else will ever understand. We were all positively giddy to see each other.

The doctors took us in pairs-- I was with Joanna, and let me tell you, these docs have the system down. They shuffled Joanna and me around the room like magic; we never once ran into each other, and somehow we both managed to be weighed, measured and given an eye exam within about two minutes. The doctors were cracking jokes-- at one point, Joanna made a big production over the doctor asking her if she were pregnant, which he thought was just hilarious. Seriously, he almost fell down laughing, then he opened various doors to tell everyone what she'd just said.

After the doctors were finished with us, they hustled us into a hallway with three doors, told us to each pick a room, strip down to the waist, and wait for someone to come get us. Ah yes, the chest x-ray. I'd forgotten about this little delight. What's that you say? Drapes or paper shirts to protect one's modesty? Surely you jest. What are you, some sort of prudish American who's so ashamed of your own body you're not comfortable parading around naked in front of a bunch of lab techs? Some people have the craziest hangups.

I tried to brazen my way through it, but it's just a godawful experience. Someone comes to get you and walk you in to the xray room. This is the standup variety, so a helpful lab tech will walk up behind you and smash your boobs against a cold metal wall. At this point, the lab tech decided to pull my hair into a clip of some sort, and that kicked my discomfort level through the roof. After all, scientists have identified hand-to-head as pretty frigging high up on the human intimacy scale, and I felt like Nurse Ratched was rushing me a bit.

After we got our handy souvenir chest xrays, we were called individually to another doctor for a medical history. This is where I lie a lot, because it's so much easier to just answer "no" than to deal with follow-up questions. However, I was so proud to actually know the French word for "arthroscopy" that I eagerly volunteered that bit of information. He then asked what the doctors found and I had to feel stupid once again. It wasn't even a vocabulary deficiency; I remember I asked my knee doctor three times what they did to me, and he told me, but it all went over my head.

Finally we worked our way back out to the main office, where we were given our official visas:

Here we are in the Place des Vosges admiring our lungs:

That night we had a cocktail party with the Agency in charge of our exchange, and we shared the time (and wine, and food) with a group of college students who are spending a semester in France. They're newly arrived and a little petrified, and it was so nice to talk to them about living in France. Honestly, my confidence has been absolutely decimated since school started, so I was thrilled to be able to feel knowledgeable and capable again.

We also got to meet several high-level bureaucrats, including the director of the Commission, a Frenchman with a longish aristocratic name* who was quite friendly and knew me immediately because he'd spent so much time looking at our files. Which have photographs. And my hair makes me easy to identify. Go figure. I also met a very nice lady from the Embassy who travels the world with her daughter and lived four years in New Orleans, so that was fun to talk about.

Maureen (my favorite third world denizen) and I had dinner and a glass of wine, then we went back to the hotel to prepare for our first day of meetings.

*This is foreshadowing. This man will appear in tomorrow's post.

French Music: Paris Edition

By the time this video posts, I will be in PARIS! To celebrate, I am indulging myself: today's selection is the incomparable Edith Piaf. Bonus Points to anyone who sees her biopic, La Vie en Rose. (Marion Cotillard won an Oscar for her spot-on performance. Excellent film.)