Madame, you are a conne-rag, and other episodes

After the Kippour, I had a week of orientation meetings. That is to say, I had several mostly-useless rendez-vous spread out inconveniently over a week. Monday, my bated breath was bashed when I learned that the ever-elusive French Bank Acocunt, and therefore French Bank Debit Card, AND therefore, French Mobile Phone, would not available to me in the foreseeable future. (ed. note: Have since procured carte bleu and therefore mobile, AND therefore ability to call the States for free and send and receive emails from my phone for free. Holla!)

I met the assistants in the Aix-Marseille region, many being the state school “I love Amélie and croissants” type girls who send out stupid fucking emails to the list about whether they should be worried about their safety being Américaines in mostly Arab towns. Who comes to France not knowing that (mon Dieu!) it’s not all blond children carry baguettes? In fact, Provénce is rather dark-eyed gamins carrying delicious Morroccan pastries, the kind that your teacher co-workers bring a box of to work, and which you eat at least half of said box when you are alone in the teacher’s room. Actually, I have never seen a Maghreb-French kid carrying a box of gazelle’s horns, but if it was one of my kids, I would hope the box is gift for me. Usually they carry Pokemon cards or dumpy old soccer balls.

Dealing with Monique Lheman, the head admin for the assistants in the region was a particular lesson in French particularity. As a gabby French admin from a different school district dished to me, Lheman is “a special type of personality.” Just having to listen to her talk drove me nuts, because she acted like she was soooo busy and sooo put-upon, which before I met her, just from the tone of her emails, I believed. But then after meeting her, and when a bus was late and she walked past, cell phone pressed to her ear, and looked straight at me, and said , “Je vais tuer quelqu’un!” {I’m going to kill someone! Certainly not moi, madame!}, that is when I realized she’s a nut job. The nut job who is in charge of my paycheck. The nut job who, even though I sent it to her via pdf email attachment three weeks ago, only yesterday informed me she didn’t have my a copy of my birth certificate? Ah, bon? Merci a lot, you salope. This only means I might get my carte de séjour when I leave.

Anyway, I was basically relieved to finally start teaching. It went fine. Basically, I give the same lesson 10 times a week, to 10 different classes, spanning grades 3-5, ages 8-11.

I introduced myself, said in my best French that I don’t speak French, and that, donc, we must speak English. I drew a shitty outline of the USA (ahh! Les États Unis!) with a shittier outline of CA, and splotch of chalk for Los Angeles. Los Angeles. I. am. from. Los. Angeles. The. United. States. STates. St, st. Repeat: Statessss. Ssssss. I do a lot of phonetic work. Huh, huh, huh, Huh-lo! We practice: My name is. My. Name. Is. My name is Bob. Bob-uh! My name is Harry Potter. Ha ha ha HARE-EEEEE. EEEEEEE. Puh puh PAWT-ter. Do you know Harry Potter? No? Do you know Ah-rhee PotTEUR? (ahhhh! Ah-rhee PotTEUR! Oauis!)


I have to say, imparting knowledge on little kids is extremely satisfying. When they say “HAIR-ee” instead of “Ah-rhee,” it’s nothing but my influence. Sure, their teachers have already taught them hello goodbye my name is. But the difference between allo and hello, goo-by and goodbye, me na meez and my name is, this difference is massaged out (beaten out?) of their gallic tongues by me and me alone. I feel like G-d giving man the power of speech, by which he distinguishes himself from the common beasts. I have seen my work, and it is good.