French Words of the Week: “Locksmith”+“1,290.40 euros”

Well, I can finally say that I have lost count of what week it is, a sign that is both good and bad. I recognize that I am quickly approaching the halfway mark of my time in France, and I am beginning to reflect on whether or not I have used my time effectively. I will say that overall, my time could be described as relaxed, with moments of punctuated intensity. I am most definitely well integrated into my life here and feel an ease and comfort in taking care of my needs, both quotidian and with novel ones, which cause me great anxiety.

            Case in point, on Tuesday of last week, I had one of the most trying experiences of my time here in France (more trying even than the time I was attacked on the metro). Having come home from teaching, I dropped my things off quickly at my house and then left to purchase a few groceries.  Upon my return, I put my key in the door and turned the lock as usually. However, this time instead of the decrepit insides of my lock clumsily tumbling into my place my key abruptly snapped in half, leaving half of itself behind.  My mind exploded…

First thoughts: WHAT?!?!? C’est pas vrai? a key can’t literally break in half… Granted it was a bit old, but surely this didn’t just happen! Next thoughts: Shit. I have no backup plan… Normally I could call the lady who has an extra-copy of the key; however, currently that would serve no purpose as the keyhole was still blocked by the remainder of the key. Final Thoughts: Crap! Both my natural Greek yogurt and an unusually fair-priced piece of meat are going to spoil? (For those of you who are wondering, Yes, I was more distraught about the yogurt as Greek yogurt + raspberry jam is the truth!)

         
      After sending a number of desperate messages to all of my friends in France, I was advised to call a locksmith (Thanks, Miao). I must tell you that as someone who experiences a good deal of anxiety in social situations in which I may not be able to understand the language, speaking on the phone is my worst nightmare. When speaking on the phone in a foreign language many of the inferential cues fundamental to successful communication are stripped away. You cannot see body language or, more importantly for me, read lips. Accordingly, I was dreading the phone call and moreover, I had no idea of the vocabulary for a lock, locksmith, lock hole—really all things “lock” were beyond me. Anyways, necessity called, I summoned my courage and surprisingly found my conversation with the locksmith to be both easily accessible and pleasant. I passed the test! And my “Serrurier”  aka Locksmith aka savior would arrive at chez moi in a short 30 minutes.


            Upon his arrival, I was fretting about the 80 euros I would have to pay him to let me into the apartment. However, I was more concerned when he told me that if he had to replace the lock (a fact that was nearly unavoidable as the key was still irretrievably trapped in my door) it could cost up to 700 euros. Once he arrived, he soundly broke into my apartment in less than 7 minutes using only a sheet of plastic and a well-placed kick. (This is something that I now find to be a both disconcerting and impressive). Once inside, we began the grand discussion of how to salvage my key. Though my French was perfectly passable and I negotiated in all ways possible. At the end of the day, my key was not coming out of that lock hole, and I was going to have to purchase—on the spot—a new lock.

After looking at my system, the locksmith regretted to inform me that the only lock that was compatible with the system installed on my door was 920 euros (not including the VAT tax of 10%). I asked him about cheaper options and did my best to verify his comments both online and in the reference book he provided me. There was no way around it. With metaphorical tears pooling in my eyes, I reluctantly handed over my bankcard and watched as with one fell swoop half of my bank account was incinerated … because of a broken key. But I had no choice. If I left the apartment, I would be forced to leave my door open, hoping both that I wasn’t robbed and that some do-gooder neighbor wouldn’t close the door, in an active of civic duty, and unintentionally locking me out again. (at least at this point I would be able to call up my good friend, Young Mr. Locksmith. We didn’t exchange names, except for when he wrote mine on the bill.) Accordingly, I paid my new locksmith friend the grand sum of 1,290.40 Euros, nearly $1500 dollars. I will say that I truly believe that price to be correct to the best of the locksmith’s knowledge.  I don’t believe that he in any way tried to swindle me. However, at the end of the day 1300 euros is an enormous amount of money for me as I am living off of a scholarship.

Following this interaction, one that as far as customer service is concerned was very pleasant. I have to say that, though I am disheartened about the money, I now feel more confident in my ability to conduct myself in this city. I truly believe I didn’t have a choice in what happened with the lock, and on the bright side, I was able to convey all of my needs, hopes, and fears to the Mr. YML (Young Mr. Locksmith). He even told me that unfortunately, in Paris, this situation happens every day, and there is nothing that can be done. Regarding the money and potential reimbursement, things are not resolved with my landlord. Though she is very understanding and going to enormous lengths to help me recoup the money. She has in no way taken responsibility for the episode. We are currently and actively pursuing two lines of insurance to try and get my money back. However, I can’t help but be nervous at the thought of losing nearly 1500 dollars. 

Anyways, this is where I am at this week. I believe I have learned how to handle myself with true autonomy in this country. However, money poses its ever-constant problem. Keep your fingers crossed ladies and gentlemen that assurance will indeed come through; two months rent hangs in the balance.  On another note, I truly love France, and if I don’t get into one of the 5 Ph.D programs to which I have applied, I will try and find a way to stay for the indefinite future.  I find the style of life suits me here, and I love my colleagues and school. I could most definitely see myself settling down here. All my best, and if your reading, please come visit! You can have a key... I have 4 brand new ones :)

My Football Renaissance, in a Flash!

As I sit down to right this blog post, I am conflicted and feeling guilty. In my last two attempts to start a blog, first in Oxford and then in Angers, I only managed to write two lovely posts before I left it by the way side. With this blog too, I have already fallen behind. In my haste to acclimate to my new schedule as well as to complete Graduate School Applications (2 down, YAY!), I let last weeks blog slip, not because I didn’t have things to say, but more so because I had so much to say that I didn’t know where to start. Accordingly, In the spirit of the book I just finished, “The Red Tent” by Anita Diamant, I am going to attempt to atone for my sins by taking a small bite out of the elephant that is my thoughts, feelings, and experiences from the last two weeks. Accordingly, here is the story about how I have come to actually enjoy football…

            For those of you who know me well, you will not be shocked to learn that I avoid football like the plague, not because I have an inability to play the sport—I am generally coordinated and further inherited a complete love of winning (shout out: Mom)—but  because I have always felt disconnected form the world that football represented. Growing up, in both of my parents households, Sunday afternoon screaming matches with the television were a regular occurrence. Dad leaping out of his chair any time some team scored against his precious Vols  or further yellin in elation anytime “Good Ole Rocky Top” was playing to the backdrop of smoky’s crooning.  For mom, her grunts of frustration were directed towards the Atlanta Falcons, to whom she has an entire room dedicated in her house… chairs, blankets, pillow pals, and even a Fat head festoon this sacred football watching area. Accordingly, football has always been apart of my American existence, even if I utterly detested it.

            I can honestly say I was never cut out for football.  In fact, though I asked for  and received a football uniform for Christmas when I was little, I did this not because I was excited about the sport but because Baghera, the black panther, was my favorite character from The Jungle Book, and also, I thought black and teal were a pretty color combination. I think it is easily surmised from that comment that team sports were never really my thing, and my involvement came to a complete and utter halt, when as a member of a peewee league I was subjected to the horror that is a cup and then later was—as my father affectionately calls it—“pancaked.” Please see photo for hyperbolic explanation:

             Being a bit “husky,” a word from every fat kids nightmares, as a child, I was pitted against the monster from another team… In my 8 year old mind this boy was massive; I was sure he was long past eating kids meals at MacDonald’s and burger King, while I was only dreaming of being able to consume an entire adult sized meal (don’t worry fair reader, I got there soon).  Regardless, standing across the line from this kid, I was not prepared when he—here comes another affection phrase of my fathers—“knocked my snot-box loose.”   The force of this kids tackle knocked every diatomic atom of Oxygen out of my desperate lungs. I was lying on my back, desperately attempting to suck in some air… I was scared. As quite possibly the most gullible child on the planet, I didn’t know that I was going to be able to breath again.  I truly thought I was broken/dying, and all because of football… I think somewhere between the wheezing and gasps, I managed to eeeek out my first, “I hate football.”   Needless-to-say, I didn’t return to the field, not because I couldn’t, but because I simply didn’t want to. Being hit by someone and hitting someone else, simply wasn’t and still isn’t my idea of a good time. In fact, I find it to be a bit barbaric.

            With this being said, I want you to know that I think football has many aspects of skill and camaraderie that are incredibly impressive and admirable; however, my early disassociation from football has forever left me feeling isolated as an American and as a male.  I don’t love this sport, I don’t want to spent 4 to 5 hours of my Saturday and or Sunday watching games on television, losing myself to rage, aggression, and desperation over 22 men lined up and ready to “knock each other’s snot boxes loose.” Furthermore, I have often felt a void when trying to connect with others because of my lack of knowledge about football. It is often hard to feel “normal” when you can’t connect with something so inextricably women into the fabric of your nations culture, like Football is in America. It becomes impossible to avoid it or at least not to attract attention when you’re forced to feign interest or even worst when you are disguised of your indifference.  It is an empty space that would have been a meaningful way to connect with both of my parents. However, even in the dead of silence, I was unable to call upon football to fill the silence at a dinner table. I simply didn’t know enough about this sport to engage my parents or others, and accordingly, my true indifference for football over years has grown into true disdain as it has caused me to grow a sense of “other”… I’d just rather read a book.

            Regardless, I have recently had a revitalization of my love, strike that, appreciation of football.  Last week, I was approached by one of my wonderful colleagues about possibly joining them and some students at the stade in La Courneuve (the suburb where I work) for a training session with the FLASH!!!  The Flash is one of only 8 elite American football teams in France, and as of last year, according to one clearly unbiased team manager, they are the best team in the league. Ironically, Having just told my father that my favorite thing about France was that I didn’t have to worry about football, I was suddenly being presented with an opportunity to walk into Dante’s 9^th level of Hell. Of course I accepted, and I am very glad that I did. 

            It was incredible and revitalizing to watch people encounter a sport that until that moment for them had largely existed only in movies. My colleagues and students and students dover right in (somewhat literally) completing running, catching, and tackling drills. For me, watching people who were simply having fun playing football was like consuming a long over-due drink of water. The weekly TV-directed screams of anguish I experienced growing up were instead replaced by laughter and cheers of triumph for successes in a new endeavor. I loved it. The French students and teachers enjoyed it as well, and if their pictures are anything to show about it, they will certainly be back soon:

 As for me and my experience, I am proud to say I caught all the balls thrown to me, and with the exception of my first throw (It had been about a decade, folks) I was able to place the ball where I wanted it to go every time.  Furthermore in those moments, experiencing football through fresh eyes, I saw the beauty of game and team sports in general.  It was as if I was experiencing football for the first time with them, and it was wonderful.  Though I am not ready to commit to season tickets—even for my beloved Mercer bears—I have rekindled an appreciation for the potentially beautiful aspect of American culture that football can be. It is a sport that has the power to create strong emotions and to unite groups; however, it can just as often divide, create tensions, and create the worst traffic imaginable—thanks Carolina Panthers for that one… And Yes, I do still think your color combinations are fabulous.

Adventures in Comparison and Comfort: A Week of Fulbright, Bureaucracy, and Teaching

As I sit waiting for the delivery of a new mattress to my little flat in Paris, I have decided to embrace the moment to carry out my intention of weekly blogging.   This last week has been both incredibly frustrating and uplifting.   In this blog I am will talk about Fulbright, France (and American) bureaucracy, and my first forays into the French classroom.

Fulbright

On Monday and Tuesday of this week, I was privileged enough to find myself in a room filled with scholars from Harvard, Yale, Cornel, Berkeley and more. As always in these situations, I have to fight some small fly buzzing in the back of my mind, telling me that I am not good enough. I don’t have the Ivy League attached to my name. Nevertheless, beyond my forays into Oxford when students showed a decided loss of interest when I told them I didn’t go to Harvard or Yale, I have never been made to feel lessor by anyone from a top name school. In fact, in interacting with people from these incredible backgrounds, I often become more thankful for the education I have received because of the holistic approach to education that Mercer adopted.  Whereas many of the afore mentioned universities are incomparable in terms of their research capacities, Mercer taught me to be a citizen and to live out the Rotary International motto of “Service Above Self.” I truly believe that I would not be on my current life trajectory, one which involves a need to serve others, to be socially critical, and to transform thoughts into actions, if not for Mercer. I am not sure all universities envision the same outcome for their students, and I am proud to be a Mercer Bear.

            Having spent the last 2 years with Teach for America, I was struck by the seeming lassitude of Fulbright orientation. Instead of running at a constant, break-neck speed in pursuit of transforming students’ lives, Fulbright’s mission is more concerned with research and cross-cultural exchange and adopts a less charged agenda.  I have to say on some levels it is very reassuring that such beliefs exist and furthermore is furthered by millions of dollars/Euros/ Yen/Etc. every year. However, I miss the charge and excitement in the air that exists at a Teach For America meeting.  Regardless of how exhausting (physically, psychological, emotionally) TFA is, there was always a very real and focused sense of purpose. Here I see an un-unified sense of purpose, everyone sitting around the tables at the Fulbright orientation was intelligent and had an individual mission—to complete a dissertation, to further research into a dying language, or to research the brain patterns of coma patients. However, beyond our belief or interest in sharing culture, I do not see a great sense of unity in what we are doing… at least not on day 1.

            On day 2 of orientation things changed a great deal. Day 2 was concentrated solely on the role of the ETA or English Teaching Assistant. I have to say, as soon as we began I felt as if I had been submerged in the most cool and refreshing water.  To talk about pedagogy and to see people excited about the act of teaching was energizing and allowed me to find that focus and charge instilled in me by TFA.  I will say I feel a bit out of place in that I am the only one of the 5 ETAs who has significant teaching experience, particularly in “multicultural” classrooms. I’m a bit of the old maid, but only in terms of my experience and vision for my time here. I love my colleagues and find each of them to be brilliant and motivated in his or her own way.

            Having taught inclusion for the last 2 years, one thing that did shock me as shocked to find that largely EC or SPED doesn’t exist here. From what I was told and I need to confirm this with teachers at my school, but it seems that there is no Inclusion type model. Students are generally expected to conform to the existing model of education, a model that is notoriously inflexible and certainly on some levels exclusive of ethnically non-French populations.

            Beyond that small shock, I was exited to learn how the ETA program in France has transformed over the years. Speaking to a Professor from Mercer, who did the Fulbright/Tapif program years ago, he was placed in one of the highest performing schools in Paris, Henri IV. In fact, while hearing from the Dean of SciencesPo (a top graduate school in France) Henri IV was mentioned as one of the best and most challenging schools but that it was a direct line to the Grandes Ecoles (a type of college/university that is highly selective and requires two years of preparation post high school but pre-admission). I will include a graph of the French higher education system which roughly explains how Higher Ed works here in France:

To briefly explain what you see: The BAccalauréat or Bac is a sort of diploma one CAN received at the end of high school, if you pass the exam.  So students in high work for 3 years to prepare for their Bac, a one chance exam. If they pass then they can go to college to study for their Licence (Bachelors Equivalent).  If they do not pass however, they cannot enter college.  The Y-axis above shows how many years post-Bac it would take to earn a certain degree. So for instance, the Licence or Bachelors takes 3 years post-bac to obtain; a masters 2 more years; and then a Phd another 3 years. The Grandes Ecoles also can give a Masters but it is notably more prestigious. Generally students receive a Diplome (BIG DEAL) from the Grandes Ecoles.

            As for Fulbright, instead of placing Fulbrighters in the feeder patterns for students who are already privileged enough to be on a direct track to High Ed, ETAs in France are placed in schools marked as “Zones Prioritaires.” This means there is a high rate of drop out, low Bac pass rate, and the area is generally high poverty. What this also means is that my students are almost exclusively racial and religious minorities.  (–As a small aside, I am truly ASTONISHED at the fact that America and France reflect this same inequality… It poses question about the impact of certain structures on educational outcomes: Political and Social structures (democratic v. Social), linguistic structures such as the machismo-ism embedded in Romance languages, and historical precedents and racial ideologies that encouch educational systems, resulting in marginalization)  Anyways, I am excited to be working in this context and am very proud that Fulbright has shifted its mission to one that can immediately make a difference for students in need. BRAVO!

            In terms of my fellow ETAs and the people at the Franco-American Commission, which is charged with the organization of the Fulbright program, they are all wonderful, kind, and brilliant people. I am very thankful to have them in my corner and have received nothing but impeccable service with any request. Also, I would like to take a moment to say that though I am critical of many things, I do so not to tear down any organization, particularly any one that I have been fortunate enough to take part in. I simply pose questions and express things as I see them, hoping to keep my personal mission of fighting for educational equality always at the forefront of my mind.

French (and American) Bureaucracy

I will make this section short and sweet as I have experienced consistent waves of anger and frustration because of Bureaucracy, just ask my poor Mom who has had to hear my frustrations and complaints, even on her birthday. Sorry, Thanks, and I LOVE YOU. 

In my attempt to spell bureaucracy correctly, I realized for the first time that the French word “Bureau” or desk is the root of it, and now I understand why, as I haven’t left my desk since immigrating to this country.  My frustration does not come only from the shear quantity but from the way things are steeped in a tradition that on some levels is ridiculous. For example, in order to make an OFII appoint, which is required to validate one’s visa—I had to get a blue seal when I applied for my Visa, then had to make 4 copies of various documents, and finally sent to an office in Paris with an “accuse de reception; furthermore, one must pay for the visit, which consists of a medical exam in which you are X-rayed for TB, by purchasing ancient stamps… I’m sorry… WHAT? I have to pay you in stamps that can’t even be used as stamps… It is the only instance in France, which I have to do this however it is nonetheless ridiculous: how about taking credit card? 

Anyways, it is truly small things like this that just happen to drive me crazy because they always costing time and money to accomplish. Also, for being such a powerful country, France needs to embrace the technological…

Interlude: YAY! Just got my package aka a new Mattress J … and I have my Bank Cart PIN now; it finally came in the mail!

Okay, so ironically as I am complaining about bureaucracy, I finally after 3 weeks seem to have everything taken care of concerning my bank account. It was truly a saga. First I was turned away from the bank that is connect to BOA back home because I was told that the photocopy of my Hungarian landlady’s  passport was easily a counterfeit… Despondent, I went to another bank were a very kind man promptly helped me to open a bank account. I was turned away during that first appointment however because the same photocopy wasn’t large enough.  He then however fixed everything on our second appointment, and I thought everything was good to do. I wait nearly a week for my bankcard to come in the mail along with my Security code. I finally get a large envelope from Société Générale, my bank, I open it, feeling as if Christmas has finally arrivded; However, it was note, saying the American Government and more particularly the IRS required me to fill out a W-9 and another “Autocertification” so they could verify I didn’t avoid paying taxes… However! At long last, today I received my security code and a note saying my bank card is available whenever I want to come by and get it! Thank goodness, I am sincerely relieved. After 3 week, 5 bank trips, and 2 appointments, I can finally touch the money sitting in my bank account. This is an example of something that largely could have been handled online and therefore would have been expedited so I didn’t have to keep dipping into my ever-shrinking savings account.

  Anyways! Success at last (or at least I think so) and I am truly thankful J

The Classroom

My first impressions of “difficult” French schools is very mixed. First of all, in the three classes that I took part in, only one could be considered at all unruly, and pulling from my experiences as a CMA or New Teacher Coach for TFA over the summer, that unruliness comes from the expectations of the teacher. They were quite chatty, while I was attempting to talk with them, and whereas I realize some of them were needing translations of what I was saying to them (I spoke exclusively in English), talking when I am talking is NOT acceptable. Unfortunately the teacher’s method of classroom management is to politely shush them and say “guys.”  I one time took control and was the no-nonsense nurturer I was trained to be. They were quite. However, It couldn’tons reinforce my expectat via consequences, as it wasn’t my classroom, and I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. She told me after the class that the students need love… I smell an Unintended Enabler. I think she may be misconstruing strictness as a failure to loee.  However, I cannot exist in an environment where I cannot instruct students. I am here to make sure that these students get every opportunity and advantage on exams, in society, and life that can be afforded through mastery of another language. I will not allow their education to suffer because of a lack of behavior management.  With that being said, I am still hoping that this was simply a result of a day, which lacked structure.  She had forgotten that I was coming to the class and therefore I quickly introduced myself and then the students asked me questions and we spoke in English for the remainder of the class period (approximately 35 minutes).  However, I will say regardless of the small chatter—and it truly was small—in all three classes that I experienced, the students were not only gifted and brave—they were very willing to test out their very comprehensible English—but they were MUCH better behaved than any class I taught at Harding!  Granted this could be novelty but time will tell and I am very excited to be around students again. They are lovely and I have so much to learn from them.

            In one class we had a debate about who is the better singer Beyoncé or Rihanna… Most of the class chose Beyoncé, which is of course the right answer. J Also, I had the pleasure of being able to walk back to the metro with two of my students who are Muslim. (It was the middle of the day but French students are able to leave school for an hour for lunch).  I was struck because both of the young women were wearing their veil—In France, there is a law which prevents a Muslim woman from wearing a full burqua. I wasn’t surprised that they wore the veil; I was surprised because in class neither young woman had it on. I am now wondering if it is forbidden to wear a head covering in class, even if it for religious purposes. This is very surprising but could be a function of a society predicated on Judeo-Christian/Catholic beliefs. Even in the US, students have the right to wear the veil if they so choose.

 Anyways, These are my thoughts, musings, and explorations of the last week. Most importantly, I am starting to feel at ease here. My French skills are actually stronger after these last 3 weeks than there were when I left Angers. I went to a French movie with one of my best friends from Angers, Miao, and I was able to understand it perfectly well without subtitles (I don’t know if I could boast this in Angers).           –Another quick aside “Tu Veux ou Tu Veux Pas”  Horrible film! I would definitely not recommend it. Also, I was able to understand and communicate with someone on the phone today in order to get my mattress! YAY! It’s really difficult as you cannot see their lips or body expressions. The amount of context one receives for inferring meaning is severely limited by the phone. However, I was able to do it! So in gross, I feel good. I love Paris. And I long last I am finding friends here J

A Shocking Return: Nuns +Louis V, A Cantankerous Secretary, and “I Bust the Windows Out Your Car”

Arrival and General Feelings:

   So I can describe Paris as nothing less than overwhelming. Even though I have been to France before, having spent 9 months in Angers, I am nonetheless overwhelmed by the “Rhythme de Vie” here in Paris. Fast, everything is simply direct. When you walk there is no eye contact made. One pays attention to him or herself and acts as if he or she is the only person in the world. This is a very difficult sentiment considering the last two years of leger Southern living.  Particularly the amount of eye contact that one makes is fundamentally different. Here to make eye contact is to flirt shamelessly. However, in the South to hide one’s eyes means you are untrustworthy. Currently, I am finding my desire to acknowledge those around me is, at the moment, superseding my knowledge of the French culture, and unfortunately I am shamelessly flirting with many unsuspecting people, including but not limited to the people working on my apartment every morning at 8—thanks for the Hammer alarm, the man who attempted to sell me weed right next to the French Police, and to about 500 people meandering around the Parisian flea market.   I am sure that I will assimilate quickly and honestly come to enjoy it. Stripped of the expectation to acknowledge and beware of everyone around you is actually quite liberating. As opposed to in the US, here I am able to retreat into myself and reflect on what I need to do, say, or what I am observing. It is really a very lovely and nice for someone who is as cerebral as I am. However, with that positive comes the reality that retreating in that nature does not help one to make friends and to absorb fully a culture and a language.  Accordingly, I am attempting to strike a balance that validates my pensive musings while at the same time allowing me to capitalize on this amazing experience. 

            As for my French, I am pleased to say that so far my language skills are proving quite functional. Finding a taxi immediately off the plane, I was able to do so with no problems and in fact made challenging but comprehensible conversation with my Cameroonian driver. After negotiating a “Prix Fix” for the ride to my apartment we were able to discuss soccer, which cellphone provider was the cheapest, and even talk a bit about the area of my school/my apartment.  I was also proud to learn that he thought me a native speaker… (I was completely fatigued and my brain often shut down in the middle of a sentence) but nonetheless he asked me if I was from Montreal.  This was greatly encouraging as I haven’t spoken or imbibed French in gross quantities since I left Angers some three and a half years ago.  When I left, I was told that I had “practically no accent” or was often mistaken for British. I am hoping that my accent will diminish with time. Already the words, phrases, and complex syntactical constructions are returning. Each day I understand more and more, and in my delirious state (I’ve yet to sleep more than 4 hours at one time) I am often misplacing English words. In fact, though I haven’t encountered much French today—instead dedicating myself to general administrative tasks around my appartment and completing my first PhD application to NYU—I find French words slipping between the English ones on this page. It is both beautiful and frustrating. For 3 years, I have not felt the beautiful of expressing myself in French, a language which complements so well my thoughts and sentiments; However, knowing that most of my friends who would read this are a bit rusty French, I am taking out the small slips—it is truly a beautiful annoyance.

Nunns + Louis V.

On my first day of consciousness (My jetlag is EXTREME this go round), I decided to explore the area around my apartment. Beyond running quickly to the local supermarket (Fanprix) the day before, I hadn’t really seen what resources I have at my fingers tips. Much to my surprise, there is much within arms reach. For instance, the glorious chapel, Église Saint-Barnard de la Chapelle. Also the magical Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre, the artsy district of Paris, is only 10 minutes walk, and fortuantely I don’t have to climb the 3000 steps to the top J. 

            In my amblings I happened to approach le Sacré-Cœur from a hidden stairwell not overrun with tourists, and while walking around taking pictures, I wondered upon a sight even more shocking than the cultural differences I mentioned earlier. Exiting the great Basilica in front of me, habit streaming behind her in the wind, was a Nun with a mass LV bag under her arm. I was shocked, realizing that I had never actually seen a Nun in full habit and furthermore rocking what I believed to a massive Louis Vuitton bag.  Funny enough I quickly assimilated that French Nun’s operate in style, Haute Couture all the way, though after a moment I realized that the trademark LV was instead a rather pedestrian flower pattern. Oooops…

            Though a little Louis never hurt anyone, as for the Sacré-Cœur Nuns, I believe that their commitment to acetic living remains in tact… however, I’m keeping my eyes open.

                                                          

                      


Flower Print = Good to Go

Louis Vuitton = Confession

           

A Cantankerous Secretary

The next great adventure came yesterday, when I trekked the hour necessary to get to my High School out in the Suburbs (1.5 mile walk and 30 minute metro).  I have to say that I was very surprised by Lycée Jacques Brel à la Courneuve. Having heard so many rather disconcerting things about the Banlieue (Parisian suburbs), I was surprised at how at east I felt there. Where as Paris is all hustle and bustle, with buildings obscuring any view, and myriad people ignoring you on the street. La Courneuve was much the opposite. Things, while still fast, slowed down. I was able to see the surrounding area and it looked quite lovely with statues and even a Super U (what I am assuming is something like a Super Walmart).  After navigating the rather substantial walk to the school (I definitely almost got clinging to the pictures of google maps for dear life), I arrived at the school with 45 minutes to spare.  I quickly walked to a little corner café and ordered a caféso as to combat the fatigue engendered by my substantial sleep deficit. I sat for a while, watched a bit of an Italian soap opera (in French) and read my Kindle: La Verité dans l’affaire de Henry Quebert.

I was so very nervous… and jittery. Having seen a gate in front of the school, how was I supposed to get into the school? and I didn’t know where I was supposed to meet my contact  (these are the tiny details that give me an inordinate amount of anxiety and force me to meticulously count time so as to assert a bit of control in a situation where I feel powerless). Anyway, after following in some unsuspecting man, I walked into the school.  My first impression was that it was very empty. Where were all of the students? In France, for lunch students are allowed to leave for 2 hours. Many students return home eat and then find their way, one hopes, back to class. Regardless, I was able to find an adult, told him I was a new Assistant de Langue and that I was supposed to find  Mme Samira Berqoqi (the head of English). He perfectly understood and began to lead me to the teachers lounge. In route, I came across Mme. Berqoqi, whom I recognized that’s to successful stalking of Fulbright photos. However, before I could even say hello, she immediately exclaimed “Hello! C’est Josh… James?... Josh??” Anways, in that moment my anxiety was washed away. She was nice and smiling, and furthermore my name had struck again!  James Joshua Coleman. Thanks parents. Y’all have created international confusion J

Anyways, Samira was nothing short of wonderful. I honestly don’t believe I have ever met someone who was so welcoming, thoughtful, and kind. She introduced me to everyone, the professors I will be working with, the Proviseur (Principals), and—where I want to focus for one moment—the singularly most cantankerous secretary I have ever met.  Walking into her domain, hoping to barter away a key so that I can get into the high school, we were immediately greeted by a finger well accustomed to stopping requests in their tracks. I immediately thought that we were going to get nowhere with this woman. However, with a wink to me and smile to the secretary, Samira was able to sooth the chagrins of a woman whose two assistants had quit without notice and left her to navigate the administrative burden of beginning a school year on one’s own.  Furthermore, with sympathy and a listening ear, Samira was not only got me the key I so desperately needed but also got them for me without having to put forward the 35euro deposit. Incredible!

Beyond the humor of a trope so thoroughly ubiquitous as the disgruntled secretary, I was encouraged by Samira and her effortless and efficient approach to business at school. With a smile and a little caring, she proved the age-old adage “you get more flies with sugar than vinegar.”  I sincerely hope to embody this approach for the upcoming school year. The last two years of teaching have jaded me in so many ways, and I sincerely hope to infuse my life with optimism and hope and furthermore to treat everyone that I meet with that same kindness Samira offered to a woman going through a rough time.  Anyways, walking out of the doors of Jacques Brel, I couldn’t have been more excited. With a philosophy book in hand (a small gift left for me—by accident—in my little teacher box), I was truly on cloud nine. I felt excited; I felt welcome; and I felt like I was at home (something I don’t know that I ever felt at Harding).

Bust Your Windows (Out Your Car)

            So my final vignette for this post comes from something I observed about 30 seconds after I realizing my love for Jacques Brel. I suggest you click on the link in the subtitle as it will set the mood.  Walking away from the high school on cloud nine, I was shocked when I heard a crunch and realized that I was walking across broken glass. Looking to my left, I saw a car, its windows shattered on the both the driver and passenger’s side. Though students were streaming in from their lunch, I was the only one looking. What that sight forced me to realize is that, though many of my learned perceptions of the Banlieue may have been exaggerated, this was still a place where crime was necessary, necessary in the sense that people felt the need to steal in order to progress in life. In Charlotte, my students saw stealing not as a personal attack but as a way of life, an opportunity. Not to assume and also not to color all of my students and the people of La Courneuve in this light, but the fact that someone had shattered those windows spoke to a reality in todays societies and education systems, and furthermore those windows served to shatter my own illusions.

I came to France, as a Fulbright scholars, not merely to spend a year in Paris. I came to search out answers to a problem, a problem which stems from systemic racial injustice as well as education inequality. It is bizarre to me that in two of the most wealthy and powerful countries in the world, there is such an inequality both socially and in terms of education for people of color. Accordingly, though I would like to pretend that the busted windows were a function of some lovers quarrel—as expressed by this song—in reality it was a causality in the War on Poverty, a war in which I am a soldier and an educator.  

Anyways, in gross, even though I am tired and culture shocked, I am so thrilled to be here and to be back in the classroom. I love love love teaching and it seems that Jacques Brel will be an ideal school to teach in for the year J  Can’t wait for the adventure and for the opportunity to make a difference.