School Starts, Finally

I survived my first week of school and have even begun my second. I admit that I felt some apprehension about the beginning of school – not so much because I wouldn’t have a clue what to do, but more because French children have a reputation for being little devils. I know it sounds harsh, but this very term has been lodged in my brain for months. Little French maniacs. It turns out there are maniacs, but its not the kids.

As a precursor, I should describe my contract with the French government. I work in the Department of the Vaucluse, which is part of the province of Provence, which is part of the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur. I also live in the Lower Luberon (a geographical name for the exact same location). From the academic perspective, I live in the Academy of Aix-Marseilles, under the circonscription of Pertuis. You got that?

I teach twelve hours a week in three schools in Pertuis. Yes, you heard me correctly. Twelve hours a week. That evens out to four hours a day, three days a week. Four hours per school. And I’m not even supposed to be teaching the full four hours. Fifteen minutes of each hour is my own, to make photocopies, drink a cup of coffee, chat with the other teachers, or twiddle my thumbs if it suits my fancy. What on earth will I do with the rest of my time, you ask? Write a novel, I suppose, and hopefully find some way of earning money under the table.

And I have to add one more little detail. Next week, as in two weeks after I started to teach, the entire country goes on vacation for ten days. We have almost two weeks off in honor of Toussaints (All Saints). No one knows what that even means here, but who cares when you have two weeks off in the middle of October?

On Monday morning, I started at my first school, La Burlière. Thanks to my mad housing search, I didn’t have time to visit the schools, or meet the directors or the teachers before my first week of teaching. I arrived at the gates, and in front of a large crowd of waiting parents and their children, went though an embarrassing process of trying to enter the school premises. I jiggled the gate, I reached through the bars and felt for a latch, I looked forlornly at the building in front of me – no luck. I learned that schools here have an archaic system by which one is required to a ring a bell (ok not so archaic – it is a button) that sounds inside an office. Then the secretary has to walk out to the gate and unlock it with a special key to allow the individual admittance. No pedophiles lurking around here!

Most of the teachers were immediately welcoming and friendly. They showed me into the small teacher’s room and introduced me around. Florence, Laurence, and Geraldine were the most notable. They were immediately using the “tu” form with me instead of “vous,” which took me by surprise. To drop this formality is very un-French, and not a simple act for a foreigner so carefully groomed to use the “vous” at all times. It turns out that in the school setting, amongst teachers and even directors, one should always use “tu”. I wonder what the story is behind that. I’ll look into. Likely, no one will be able to explain it to me.

Of course, because I am me, I had not prepared anything for my classes, so at this point I began to feel a little nervous. Seriously, though, how could I know what to teach? I didn’t know the level, or what they’d been working on this year so far. No one was clear on what my schedule was to be, and La Directrice had apparently not shown up yet to help us out. The teachers dealt with the situation amongst themselves and eventually things seemed clear enough.

I followed Florence into her classroom of CM1, or the American equivalent of 4th grade. She had her students come up to the front of class in pairs and recite the dialogue that they’d been working on: Hello. Hello. (shake hands). Who are you? I am …. Who are you? I am…. Goodbye. Goodbye. I decided not to comment on the fact that the English speakers I know would likely not ask “who are you?” But who knows, maybe the British do say weird stuff like that… I spent the rest of the class asking them what their names were and how old they were. The kids seemed sufficiently excited and challenged just to answer those simple questions, and I began to picture a year of simple amusements stretching out ahead of me, requiring little effort on my part.

I taught another 45 minute class, this time to 3rd graders. And then it was time for the 20 minute “récréation”, or recess. The teachers gathered in the teacher’s room for a cup of black coffee or a snack. There was a tall woman dressed entirely in black, with black hair and blunt bangs, and dark almost black lipstick. She spoke about something or other in a loud, irritated voice. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. She didn’t glance in my direction, not even once. I thought about the approach of Halloween, and here we had a witch right in our midst – grimace and all – but I doubted she’d like being singled out.

I looked over at Geraldine and asked quietly if this was La Directrice – mais oui! Indeed it was. And Geraldine did not attempt to hide the contempt on her face. Oh boy.

Tuesday, my second day of teaching, I headed to Albert Camus, in the center of town. Once I got passed the familiarly difficult gate system, this time aided by a little girl with glasses, I found myself in the court yard to a beautiful old school house. Since Marcel Pangol represents all images of the idyllic world of southern France, I thought of him as a child tromping up the old stone stair case in this lovely building, to have his head filled with ideas of Liberté and Franternité…As I stood there in the courtyard, my cell phone rang. It took a couple of moments, but I discerned that it was Sylvie, La Directrice, wondering if I had arrived. I looked at my watch – five minutes early. Ah well, the French continue to be unpredictable. She rushed out to collect me, and then spouted off a string of words that lasted about fifteen minutes. I didn’t have time for questions, or even to acknowledge that I had understood her before she clicked off in her high heels. She left a typed schedule of my day in my hand, and pointed me in the direction of my first class.

I walked in and again, found myself looking at a picturesque image - a French classroom this time – adorable little desks, a colorful timeline of French history, and an attractive blonde teacher standing at the front of the room. I gave her an inquisitive glance as if to say, Pardon for interrupting, how would you like me to proceed? Silently, she stepped aside, and gestured sharply for me to take her place in the center of the room. She didn’t say a word. Not even to tell me whether or not she had started English this year with her students. Not even to say hello. So much for making a young, attractive, blond friend.

The rest of my day at Camus continued in much the same vein. The teachers (most of them men at this school) seemed indifferent to my presence, and not in the least interested in giving me any information about the status of English at their school. Its possible that they were merely observing me, sizing me up. After all, who knows what kind of assistants they’ve had in the past? This is when I began to feel that I really was being used by the French government, to teach a language that no cares about, to people who feel a sense of obligation to compete on the world stage. But really, why learn anything when you already speak French?

Luckily the kids were sweet for the most part, but I still left feeling a little sad and foreign.

My third day (which was Thursday – there is no school for elementary students on Wednesdays) was at Henri Crevat. It is an ugly building, and I found a mixed reception. One teacher leant me all of her English language materials, while another interrupted me mid-lesson to inform me that I was attempting something with her students that they hadn’t yet learned. As if it wasn’t obvious to me. But hey, they have young sponge brains, why not give them a little challenge? I smiled at her and thanked her for her input.

Overall, it was a good day at Henri Crevat. I went home, exhausted, and took a nap for the first time in weeks.