A Little Bit of Life

Having now been teaching for over a month, it seems only appropriate that I would eventually talk about the town I am living in, the school I am teaching at, and the house I will be calling my home for the next eight months. Up until now, I have mentioned only very briefly these rather important aspects of my life in France. This post is about the details. A lot of details.

First, the town. As I mentioned in a previous post, Challans leaves much to be desired. It is a flat, industrialized town that passes for a city only because most of the other villages in the Vendée region have less than 10,000 inhabitants. Rather than dwelling on my unfortunate location however, I decided to walk through Challans this week in search of everything and anything beautiful I could find. It was a wonderful exercise for my photographic eye, and forced me to take a closer look at the intricacies that make up this “city” I am living in. Fall colors, typical Vendeé architecture, patterned gates – these were the things that drew my attention and helped me put a name on the hidden beauty in Challans. It is a work-in-progress, but the pictures in this post are the results of this photographic adventure…

Ironically enough, the school at which I am teaching happens to be one of the ugliest buildings in Challans. It seems to me that every major architect designing schools in France must have drawn inspiration from the blueprints of numerous prisons. Indeed, the combination middle school/high school that I am working at was built for efficiency, not esthetic appeal. The school itself is a conglomeration of four buildings, each one comprised of rectangular stacks of square classrooms with identical windows on every floor. These four buildings open up onto a cement courtyard where the students go during recesses, lunch, and physical education. Much like a prison, the school is gated from all sides as if someone was afraid the students were going to escape. Once you are inside the building, things are not so bad, but from afar it resembles a large cinder block with evenly-spaced, rectangular cut-outs to let in daylight. I’ve found that I much prefer being inside the building looking out than outside the building marveling at its stern and somewhat intimidating exterior.

Alas, I did not come to France to critique the long-forgotten architects who designed Collège Milcendeau. (As a quick side-note to avoid confusion, collège is the French equivalent of middle school.) On the subject of classes, I find that I am very much enjoying being a teacher. The other professors that I work with are at once nice, helpful, and laid-back which has turned out to be a perfect combination.

When I arrived for my first lesson, I was terrified of being left alone to conduct a class on my own, but I am coming to realize that having the freedom to teach what I want, when I want is a very nice privilege. Oftentimes, I collaborate with a professor on a lesson plan and then we split the group into two, alternating after 25 minutes. This makes my lessons very short, but as someone who is completely new to the world of teaching, I think it’s a great way to test my skills as an educator in short stints. The fact that I am testing my skills on middle school students has proved to be quite an adventure. When I was shadowing professors during my first week, I was struck by a big bad dose of déjà-vu that sent me reeling back to my own days as a 13-year old.

As far as I can tell, middle school students everywhere share certain universal characteristics – they flirt shamelessly before and after class, throw balled-up notes across the classroom (all the while thinking they are the very image of stealth), and interrupt often to comment upon the weather, the time, what a nice shirt I am wearing, the pencil shavings on the floor. When I turn around in time to see Olivier throw an eraser at Valentin, he points to the girl two rows back and exclaims loudly in French, “Madame, I swear it wasn’t me!” Sometimes I want to laugh, but knowing that this would only encourage them, I put on my sternest face and ask him to kindly explain how his eraser mysteriously appeared in Amandine’s pencil case.

There are times when I am at my wits end as well, and these are the times when I discover the strict, authoritative Emily that sounds almost like a real teacher. It must sound authentic though, because the students usually listen once I threaten to make them copy lines for the remainder of the class. I should also note here that the instructors at the assistant orientation in Nantes were mistaken when they said, “the longer your students don’t know you speak French, the more enamored with you they will be.” From experience, I know that students will only be more inclined to talk about inappropriate things in the middle of class when they don’t think you can understand them. And so, I decided to give up my exotic appeal in exchange for an amount of discipline. It not only shocked my students when they learned that I do in fact speak French, they also appeared more interested in a bilingual assistant than a strictly English speaking one. I will have to let the Nantes orientation leaders know that…

On the subject of my living situation, Kévin and I are renting a cute two bedroom house that is two minutes away from the school. It is spacious, well-kept, and, aside from a slight problem with humidity, perfect for a year in France. To my delight, I discovered that there is a dove nesting in the tree outside of the master bedroom and I often wake up to the sounds of birds cooing through the open window. As far as I am concerned, it is one of the most comforting sounds in the world…

The second bedroom has been transformed into my studio where I am free to paint, write, and design clothing to my heart’s content. The room is on the west side of the house so it gets all of the afternoon sun and is the ideal place to watch the sunset from my desk near the window. Kévin’s mom bought me a sewing machine when I first arrived in France so I am well-equipped to reacquaint myself with my artistic side. Considering that I am only working twelve hours a week, I have a feeling that my studio is going to demand much of my time and attention – something I am looking forward to.

I am growing accustomed to being a teacher, to living in Challans, and to renting a house in France. I am also coming to realize, however, that Kevin is a very convenient and comfortable crutch. He is a very nice and very talkative one as well, although I must admit that allowing him (and often asking him) to do all of my speaking outside of the classroom has made me somewhat of a social mute. When did I become so dependent, I ask myself? Have I forgotten how to make conversation? Do my vocal chords still produce sound? It seems to me, paradoxically, that I was much more autonomous when I was living in Dijon, with a host family, having my every need tended to by our wonderful program coordinator. After some reflection, I realized that the secret to this alleged lack of current independence is due to my corresponding lack of motivation to get out – by myself – and talk to people. As a student in Dijon, I had absolutely no problem going to supermarkets, bars, restaurants, book stores, markets, etc. and talking with the French people that frequented them. Now however, I find myself more shy and hesitant than ever I was before. The double irony of this predicament is that I speak French more fluently than ever before as well – indeed, I have been speaking French and only French for over two months now. Of course, I am talking on a regular basis with the other teachers I work with, but as all children learn very early, teachers are not real people with real lives and thus they do not count…

To work out the mystery of this unfamiliar silence that has settled over me, I decided to conduct an experiment. On my way into town this morning to run errands, I elected not to invite Kévin with me so that I would be forced – for the first time in two months – to do all of my own talking. I dropped a letter off at the post office and then headed to the Office of Tourism so that I could ask about maps for bike trails and hikes in the area. While I exchanged no more than ten words with the woman behind the counter, it somehow felt good to be exercising even a minimum of independence. With maps in hand I took a leisurely walk through centre-ville to continue on my quest of capturing the often illusive beauty of Challans. I was lucky today, and stumbled upon a park and a castle in the same outing.

The “castle”, called the Chateau de la Coursaudière, also happens to be the current meeting place of the Challans Billiard Club, something I find oddly amusing. It appears to be one of the older buildings in Challans but apart from its aged appearance, it more closely resembles a town hall than a castle. After several minutes of contemplation in the park behind the chateau, I decided I quite like this billiard castle. It was nice to wander freely in Challans and discover something of this town for myself, by myself. On my way home, I stopped by a boulangerie and had a brief conversation with the cashier which further bolstered my confidence in both my ability to speak French and my ability to leave the house by myself like a real adult. Wow, what a grown-up! As to the results of this experiment, I discovered that no, I have not forgotten how to make conversation, and no, my vocal chords have not shriveled up and disappeared. Two major successes in my week so far.

One other major and very necessary success has been my induction into the world of manual transmissions. At 22 years old, I am finally learning to drive a stick-shift. This rather exciting news has been somewhat tainted by the fact that I am learning in France, on roads barely wider than my pinky finger. There are also at least 4,000 roundabouts in Challans according to my latest estimate. I have flawlessly perfected the art of stalling, and not much of anything else. Kévin tells me that I am doing well and that it’s difficult for everyone at the beginning, but every time he does I feel the urge to bite his head off, or at least an ear. Things are moving along, I will admit, but painfully slowly. I will start a log of my progress so that I can keep everyone abreast of my exciting adventures in the world of automobiles. It will be entitled “A Series of Fits and Starts” by Emily Swisher, and it will read something like this:

Day one: stalled 39 times at 39 different roundabouts

Day two: tried to parallel park, backed into a tree, then stalled

Day three: stalled, made it past the first roundabout (success!), got pulled over for driving too slowly, stalled

I have a feeling that this is going to be a long and tedious process… In other news, the weather has been absolutely beautiful for November. It has been mild and sunny most days, with a few scattered showers since I arrived.

The leaves are starting to turn, or rather, have been turning for three weeks now, changing what once was green into a haze of yellow, red, and orange. It is as beautiful an autumn as I could have hoped to see. And for all the strangeness that I felt upon my arrival in Challans, I am slowly becoming habituated to this part of the country, its people, and its scenery. It may be flat, slightly over-industrialized for my taste, and lacking in people my own age, but it is certainly not without adventure. It is to this adventure that I pledge my utter devotion, in the hopes of discovering ever greater things about myself and my France. Until next time…