Awkwardness: A Cultivation

Fact: I am a deeply awkward person.

Over the course of the last - hmm... seven? eight? - years, I have tried my hardest to overcome my natural tendencies to be quiet, dorky, offensively opinionated, "precocious," impolite, timid, inconsiderate, insecure etc. Clearly, my success has been limited. Ha.

For my more recent friends, (and for the delight of my brother who might be my most faithful reader, and my 'ridge comrades,) I should note that I was that kid in middle school who put up creepy and dumb stickers from Hot Topic on my locker. I spent many a Saturday evening reading about the Salem Witch Trials, hoping to discover some overlooked truth about New England and the many cons of "The Church." I also had a terrible triangle-shaped haircut that my best friend kindly told me made me resemble Eddie Vedder. I not only enjoyed being 'misunderstood,' but felt a keen satisfaction and a righteousness in the fact that people found me weird. I started wearing a lot of black and listening to music about the end of humanity. Ænima by TOOL comes to mind.

"Some say the end is near.
Some say we'll see Armageddon soon.
Certainly hope we will -
I sure could use a vacation from
This bullshit
Three-ring circus
Sideshow."


I'm not sure when precisely I started down my less misanthropic road. Maybe when the anger of my teenage years started fading? Maybe when I had to make new friends in college? Maybe when I started traveling and found myself, curiously, less of a foreigner in staggeringly foreign places? Theories abound. Whenever that shift occurred, I'm glad it did. For I now move about new people and new situations with not only less pain, but with even a deceptive comfort. As many have noted, I am if possible more comfortable talking with complete strangers than I am with mild acquaintances. That creepy middle aged man hovering by the China books? No sweat. He's planning a trip to pick up his mail-order bride? Umm. Okay. I can help him. (True story. I kid you not.) Talking to the Iraqi cashier at the store by my apartment about American politics? Why sure! Tying a random five-year-old's shoelaces? Heck yeah. Telling that guy at Vroman's that putting "Lolita" back on the shelf will be a mistake? Check. [It is a classic.] These are smallfry incidents, and of course only those that immediately come to mind. I've also done fairly stupid things like ask out coworkers - yes - on a date, make Christmas cards for near-strangers, reject a five dollar tip.

Anyway. I bring up this whole "awkward" thing because it is at least thrice a week that I have a delightfully / unbearably awkward encounter here in la France. Between the bad translations, the culture gaps, my job, and umm... everything about the French, days are rare and special when I don't feel at least a little uncomfortable.

Recent anecdotes:

1. I go to the produce market at St. Michel every Saturday morning. Not only is it an incredible cultural experience, but the vegetables and fruit are "hella" cheaper and better quality. Well worth the overwhelming urge to hiss every time I'm shoved by a miniature 80 year old woman with her grocery basket, or thwarted by a silly man in a mustache trying to get that bell pepper from under my nose. My roommate and I go around 11 am and we've gotten to the point where we know our favorite stands, and our bread lady. Who is a sourpuss. But a great maker of pain aux raisins. I buy the bulk of my produce at one particular stand, namely because I think their vegetables are better, but also because I am mildly smitten with one of the guys who works there. He has curly dark brown hair, pretty dark brown skin, kind eyes, spotty hands, and in my mind where people resemble animals physically and "essentially," reminds me of non-smelly lamb. For reasons I will not divulge, my roommate and I call him "Fruitmonger F-O." Now. FP-O is not the sole employee of said stand. His colleagues usually include a guy with a beard, a nice but loud lady, and a mysterious though benign "security" man who mostly hands out free samples and shakes hands with the regulars. I don't know his name, but he always wears the same camel colored coat, so we'll call him Chameau. ("Camel" en français.) Chameau recognizes me and talks with me often. He comments on how much broccoli I buy, on the fact that I sometimes return if I've forgotten to buy my fruit, on the weather... He's a gentle talker. Last weekend I went sans roommate but with the fortifying presence of a friend. Chameau diverged from his usual chat. Our conversation went like this: (in French of course.)

C: [offering me a plastic bag]
A: [showing him I already had one]
C: Are you Spanish?
A: [dazed by this] Sorry?
C: Are you Spanish?
A: umm.. no. I'm American, actually. But my family is Mexican, so....
C: Oh! But you live here, in France?
A: Yes.
C: And you speak French?
A: Yes, a little bit. [awkward smile at this point where I pick out my zucchini trying to make this as normal as possible]
C: What do you do here?
A: I'm a teacher.
C: What do you teach?
A: I teach English to little kids.
C: You're very young to be a teacher!
A: [moving to the onions] Ha. Yeah. I am pretty young.
C: So you live in Bordeaux. Who do you live with?
A: [silence for a good thirty seconds as I realize where this is going.] Umm... I live very close by. I live with some other teachers.
C: Ohhh! I see. Are you... married?
A: Uh..... nope. Not yet.

At this point, FP-O blessedly called Chameau away to do something, leaving me free to pay for my items and scram. The intensity of my discomfort is fighting my deep affection for this stall, and I can only imagine what new conversational delights will await me this coming Saturday when Chameau sees me again. Do I tell him I have a boyfriend? Do I accept his marriage proposal? Do I find a new fruitmonger? Oy.

2. Yesterday, being St. Patrick's Day, was a particularly amusing series of events. More due to my fanatical love of Ireland than any interest in the holiday itself, I devoted my three classes to sharing the Emerald Isle and its many gifts with my students. I put together a little slide show of pictures, played some music, gave them a St. Paddy's word search, and made them guess which countries were part of "le monde anglophone." (Two kids suggested Greece, one said Morocco, three said Alaska [Thanks Sarah Palin], and one even guessed "Asia." Hmmm.) I expected the giggles and the conspiratory looks when I started the traditional Irish music, and wasn't disappointed. But yesterday's awkward school moment came from a much different source. Because when I had my third class (the bad one I so often write about) sit on the ground with me in front of my computer, and Jeanne and Camille made the critical mistake of placing themselves in front of Ilyas, Ireland wasn't the topic of conversation. Hair was. Yes. Hair. Among my frantic cries of "Qu'est-ce que j'ai dit? Il faut être silencieux, sage, gentil. Mathis!" another cry arose:

Jeanne, near tears: "Joanna! Ilyas just told me and Camille that our hair looks like barbe à papa."

barbe à papa : cotton candy. literally, "daddy's beard."

Jeanne and Camille are both black. The only two in the class. OY VEY. Was this kid being subtly racist? Can eight year olds be racist? Consciously? He was undoubtedly being an ass, but racist? How different is the French notion of "race" from mine, and how can I fairly assess this situation with my limited knowledge? Holy shit. As the only authority in the room, and certainly the only adult, what the hell am I supposed to do? Nightmare. Awkward nightmare. I am still cringing.

3. Later that evening, after I'd told Ilyas he was to leave my classroom and spend the remainder of the period with their normal teacher - which somehow turned into him spending the remainder with the Trunch's secretary - I landed at an Irish pub with two of my friends. Pint of Guinness in hand. 11.30 pm. Some 40 year old guy comes up to our group. Glasses. White button down shirt and tight jeans, clearly alone, clearly inebriated, and clearly a sad bastard. I hear some sloppy but quiet French being spoken in my general direction. The verb "se marier" is definitely involved. I look up, surprised, and say "sorry?" He repeats.

"Excuse me, Miss. Will you marry me?"

I put on my best "I-don't-speak-French-'cause-I'm-a-dumb-foreigner" blank stare. He totters off.

Awkward.