Chagrin d'école

The last time I was in France, I was a student. I remember the first time I showed up to class with my notebook and my oh-so-american conviction that the professor would show up, too. I remember my self-righteous disgust when he/she (we’ll never know) did not. I was sitting in the front row of the auditorium with a few other exchange students who shared my dismay. After years of ditching classes, or showing up late to class, or dozing through class, the tables had finally been turned. Now we were the ones being stood up !

I kept casting inquisitive, hopeful glances towards the back of the auditorium, where the French students, who didn’t need to sit within five feet of the professor to understand, sat. I remember thinking If anything can make the wall between exchange students and French students crumble, this is it—a common enemy—shared contempt for that twat of a Professor who decided his lunch was more important than our education ! Sadly, my fantasy of solidarity quickly revealed itself to be just that—a fantasy. The students were decidedly, and mysteriously, non-plussed. They continued to talk and joke amongst themselves as though there were, in fact, no class at all. If even one of them had displayed the faintest sign of distress, I would have been reassured. This was not the case. Meanwhile, us exchange students tittered, our helplessness gnawing away at us. What we were waiting for was clear—a French student to take charge of the situation. Because we had absolutely no idea what to do.

It’s moments like this, when you can’t, despite all attempts, make sense of what’s happening that exemplify, for me, the experience of being a foreigner. You feel that you’re missing some very crucial piece to the puzzle and that, until you find it, reality will continue to feel…unreal.

Being a foreigner in France is strange, yes, but being a foreigner in the French school system is a whole new level of a strange. The word that comes to mind is : Kafkaesque. You get assigned classes in rooms that don’t exist. You get assigned classes in rooms that exist, but that, when you get there, are locked. You go to a class on romantic poetry and find yourself in a seminar on prehistoric cave painting. You’re not on the roll for classes that you’ve enrolled in, but you are on the roll for classes that you haven’t enrolled in, let alone heard of.

You’re confused.

What I didn’t realize beforehand, is that this confusion isn’t unique to students. My general impression, when teachers failed to show up to class, was that they were technologically impaired airheads who couldn’t use e-mail if their life depended on it and as such had no idea where or when their classes were taking place. Or that they had decided their various leisure activities were more important than their jobs. At any rate, it never occurred to me that they might be as confused and misinformed as I, the student, was. That is, until I became a teacher myself.

This is all a very long-winded way of saying that being a teacher in a France is every bit as Kafkaesque as being a student, but minus the comfort of being « in the same boat » with many. Sure, there are other teaching assistants, and we do have opportunities to commiserate when we run into each other. But they aren’t there when I’m standing in front of an empty set of desks and chairs, wondering whether it’s worth it to write « Miss Fish » on the board or just laisse tomber.

The image of a dozen exchange students waiting impatiently in an auditorium has now been complemented by the image of an adjacent auditorium, in which a lonely professor sits before rows upon rows of empty desks, thinking, inevitably : « here we go again. »

The first day of school as a teacher is not unlike one’s first day of school as a student—there’s this robust enthusiasm that builds and builds as you choose your cute outfit and neatly arrange your school supplies in your backpack. Only when you walk through the doors of the school itself does reality start to hit. A thought dashed through my mind : this can’t go smoothly…it’s France. And as I lingered by the door of my classroom, casting those same hopeful, inquistive glances at the students who passed by, I got a sinking feeling. No one would come into my classroom.

The various miscommunications that led to this are not interesting. I will only say that I repeated this experience at least four times throughout the week, and have, as a result, become great buddies with everyone at the vie scolaire (the office that takes care of classes, schedules etc). When I am teaching, it proves to be a terrific experience. Awkward ? Absolutely. Standing in front of a small group of students whose faces range from bashful to sullen to defiant to just plain confused as you give your simplified-yet-nuanced-so-as-not-to-be-patronizing opinion on Barack Obama isn’t exactly easy. And all the while thinking can they see how nervous I am ?

But it’s amazing how much insight a simple week of teaching has given me. All those « funny » teachers ? The ones that seemed so cool ? They were, in reality, the most nervous of all ! Nothing will send your brain into quip-mode faster than an awkward silence. I’m also starting to regret how shy I was as a student—always intimidated by the teachers I admired, afraid of looking stupid. If only I’d known what a joy it is to come across an enthusiastic student. And there are some here—kids that want to meet up and practice speaking outside of the classroom, who approach me in the hallways to talk.

What I do have, at least, is the experience of being a student not so far behind me. And a language student at that. I know how intimidating it can be to speak another language and I really admire those that have the courage to strike up a conversation even when their grade doesn’t depend on it. I want to do everything I can to encourage this. As far as I understand, the French education system isn’t exactly great at fostering self-esteem. Here, for example, it is completely acceptable for a teacher to call a student something pejorative in front of the whole class—lazy, idiot, hopeless—what have you. Add to this an incredible pressure and workload typical of a lycée and you’ve got a recipe for some pretty miserable students. I find this problematic on a number of levels, but particularly so in terms of language learning. Anyone who’s had to speak a second language will tell you that confidence is an absolutely essential part of the process. It’s why non-native speakers often feel they speak better amongst each other than with native speakers—the decreased judgment puts you at ease and voila suddenly you’re more talkative than ever ! (It might incidentally, also be why so many people claim that alcohol aids their foreign language abilities—lack of inhibitions ?) How can you expect a student to be confident if you’re constantly degrading him/her ?

As part of the introduction lesson, I asked students to describe themselves in three words. What surprised me was that more often than not, the words were either pejorative or neutral—lazy, shy, impatient, messy etc. Granted, nobody wants to brag about themselves, but I’m sure I recall doing this kind of thing in high school and most of the students saying things like : friendly, funny, creative…One thing is clear : these kids don’t seem to feel all that great about themselves.

Which might explain an interesting phenomenon—that the French, more than most European countries, have a reputation for being reluctant to speak English. When I traveled in Spain and Italy, I was surprised to discover that every time someone found out I was an anglophone, they immediately started practicing their English on me. Rarely is this the case in France, with the exception of Paris, perhaps. Although I get asked where I’m from all the time, I never get so much as attempted English in response. To be clear, I don’t think I should, I just think it’s interesting. A lot of people chalk this reticence up to snobbery—which is easy enough to do. But I’m beginning to think there’s more to it. If you’d been humiliated in front of a group of high schoolers the last time you’d tried to speak a language, would you be chomping at the bit to do it again ? In front of a native speaker no less ? My guess is no.

All of which is to say that, while I’m not exactly a proponent of babying students, I do try to be as gentle as possible with these kids. I want them to be at ease, to feel free to express themselves and make mistakes. Unfortunately, when it comes to French, they feel more than ready to express themselves, so I’ve had to make it clear that speaking in French, to me, will elicit nothing more than exaggeratedly furrowed eyebrows.

I'm going to peace out now, but I do promise some photos of St. Emilion in the very near future ;-) Bisous to all!