We're Going To Be Friends

I am bursting. And by "bursting," I don't just mean the blister on my left foot. This has been one of the strangest, funniest, most awkward, and most amazing days of my life. I wish I were kidding. Actually, I don't.

Hauling myself out of the warm cocoon of my bed at 6.00 am was a trial, I'll be honest. Getting yelled at by the bus driver in fast and rude French an hour later was also a trial. Despite using my most polite French to ask him if that particular bus went to my stop, he interrupted me and yelled: "First you must say Hello. Don't be rude." This is surprisingly the first uncomfortable interaction I've had of this kind. Yes, I've been looked at like a piece of meat. Yes, I'm sure I've been made fun of for my lack of language skills. But to be yelled at so early in the morning for such a seemingly small faux pas. It was startling and embarrassing. Not an awesome start to a day full of bewildering promise.

Here's how things went from there:
At my first school, where I've been assigned six hours of work per week:
8.30-9.15 CE2a
9.15-10.00 CE1a
10.45-11.30 CE1b

1.30-2.15 CE2b

"Lunch" in France is pretty different. For one thing, the kids have the option of going home to their families. Their moms wait for them outside the school gates. Very odd. For another, when attendance is taken in the morning, rather than saying "here," the kids say "je mange." I'm guessing this means "Je mangerai ici," (I'll be eating here) but who's to say. The French love food. Perhaps to eat is to exist in their collective cultural intellect.

School in France is also pretty different. I had the good fortune of convincing my Directrices that I really needed to spend today just observing, so had little opportunity to make more of an ass out of myself than normal. I can't remember a time when I've been so consistently stared at, and whispered about. It was pretty unnerving, and also a little exciting. Capturing the attentions of a good 150 6-9 year olds in one day. Amazing. Other thoughts:

French teachers yell at their kids. Like, a lot. A lot a lot. Or at least, the first four teachers at School Numero Uno sure as hell did. I'm sure this sounds stupid, but it was hard for me to tell whether they were trying to be scary, or whether it's just part of the culture. The French seem to not shy away from the volume in some circumstances. Maybe this is one of them? I'm not so sure, but it made me pretty uncomfortable. I could understand that it was part of their daily life, and the kids being scolded didn't seem to hang on to the chastisement, and didn't seem to resent it in a way I feel I might've at that age. (Or this, for that matter.) So I tried not to either, but I couldn't help but feel that I might not be so capable of that volume and that intensity of strictness. We'll see how that goes down. Regardless, one minute they'd be yelling at them to shut up, and the next minute would be comforting them over a school-yard fight. Versatile people, to say the least. And probably massively underpaid. What a thankless job.

My first four teachers were women. I'm really trying to reserve all judgment in every way, but this strikes me as significant, though not unexpected. What was unexpected was my fifth class today, 3.45-4.30 (which turned out to be 3.00-4.30) at School Numero Tres. I don't think the group I observed will actually be a group I teach, but I ended up observing it anyway because my schedule hasn't been worked out definitively, and this particular teacher was very keen to help me out. School Numero Tres has so far been my favorite. The Directrice at first sight conjured memories of Roald Dahl's Miss Trunchbull, if she were given way chicer clothing, stilettos, and an eventual softening in personality. I met with her on Monday and she's actually pretty nice, if not very efficient and extremely "shrewd" as my mother might say. I also met two of the language teachers on Monday, and though the three of us sat together for an hour with piles of timetables and a battery of pens, we couldn't sort too much out.

So I showed up with no expectations (other than complete silence on my part) and left at 4.30 feeling the best I've felt since I left home. My schedule still hasn't been worked out, and I suspect I'll have to muster every ounce of assertion I possess tomorrow when I pay the Inspecteur a visit, but this class was incredible. School Numero Tres is in this very odd rectangular complex, built in such a way that the stained glass (?) that serves as its canopy reflects a different color light on each classroom entrance. A rainbow colored school. Brilliant. The Directrice literally went door to door asking teachers if I could observe their classes, and only on the third interruption was I admitted. Which is funny, because the teacher who invited me in was the teacher who told me on Monday to come observe "any time at all." In fact, I think he advised me to come directly to his class.

I'm still trying to work out whether it was the infinitely better organization at this school or the teacher's approach that made the difference. His students were at most a year older than the CE2 classes I saw in the morning, but so much more interested in participating, so much more engaged, so well-behaved. He not only didn't yell once, but clearly commanded the respect of his kids. Girls (think 9 year olds, not 14 year olds) were competing to lend him their red pens, boys were trying to impress him with their knowledge of geography. It was so refreshing. He must be at most three or four years older than me and yet had the confidence to sing (loudly and well) in front of thirty small children and one complete stranger. I've never been so entirely charmed.

One of this students, a little boy named Guillaume, (he introduced himself to me as "William") was sitting closest to me and rearranged his desk so he could share with me the lyrics to the song the class was singing. I didn't ask, the teacher didn't order it. Little Guillaume clearly wanted to impress me with his gentlemanly behavior, and certainly did so. And of course afterwards, said "Maître! I shared the song with Zho-anna. Did you see?" Ridiculously cute, and kind of sleazy. They start young in France.

It's been beyond weird to refer to myself and be called "Joanna/Zhoanna" in return. I made the mistake of introducing myself to the directrices as such because of all the paperwork, but it's spread like wild fire. Apparently you can recreate yourself, even if just for a year in a foreign country. With a name that is technically yours.

This is such an inadequate entry, but I'm struggling for motivation to recount further details. We'll see what new delights tomorrow brings. Ha.

For now though, a great end to a rough beginning.
Merci, P-O.