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).
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.
