The walk to school on what was to be my first day teaching in France seemed to go even quicker than the previously calculated seven minutes. My mind was racing with all of the potential disasters that could occur---Will the kids understand me?---Will I understand them?---What the hell am I doing? I thought back to the prior week when I met with the director of the English department, Monsieur Cohen, and was not comforted by the memory. I had arrived expecting a tour of the school, my schedule for work, and a summary of expectations. That is not however, exactly what happened. In reality, upon arriving at the school that day I was told to go to the teachers lounge. Not having had a tour of the school yet I had no idea where it was. I stumbled my way to the square housed in the center of the school where the students congregate during breaks and then followed the smell of smoke to what turned out to be the teachers lounge. I introduced myself as the English assistant and was greeted with enthusiasm by three professors of English---Madame Pano, Monsieur laGuare and Monsieur Cohen. Madame Pano is a small, thin woman with a personality that is just about as frazzled as her brown hair. That particular morning she was racing around tying to prepare for her next class. Monsieur laGuare is a short, wiry man about my age that seemed to be perfectly relaxed. I got the feeling that the kids probably thought of him as the cool teacher. Monsieur Cohen (the director) is a round somewhat metrosexual Frenchman who seems to spend way too much time deciding what sweater best matched which shirt. I was pleased because they all appeared to be quite young so I thought I could probably relate well to their styles of teaching. When I was introduced I was shocked at how well M. Cohen and M. laGuare spoke English; they even had the perfect British accent. Mme Pano also spoke English very well but with a heavy French accent. We all began talking, slipping between English and French but never touching upon the subject of teaching. I ended up walking home that day without having received a tour of the school, without my list of expectations, and without a work schedule. As a matter of fact I still have no idea what the hell we talked about. This experience plus M. Cohen hurried explanation--- 'Sorry for the confusion today but organization is not my strong suit.' did not leave me feeling very prepared for my first day. In fact, I probably should have considered myself warned.
As I walked into the school, I was greeted with a barrage of "bonjours" and questions from teachers, students, secretaries, everyone. I answered them with my broken French, thinking to myself 'well this isn't so bad so far'. I spotted M. Cohen; he was proudly wearing a baby blue sweater that covered a bright pink shirt. I thought that if he spent half the time organizing his teaching that he does coordinating his wardrobe he would be the best teacher in Marseille. After exchanging greetings he asked me---"Why are you at school so early?" I then showed him the schedule he had eventually gotten around to emailing me during the week after our first meeting. He looked it over and immediately apologized for his mistake, informing me that the first class was only every other week. Although I was frustrated with the poor communication, I was hoping this would allow me more time to get some questions answered. I began with what I thought to be most important. "Where do I teach?" His reply was definitely unexpected---" I don't know." I questioned him again, "Okay. . .well whom do I ask?" His response was again surprising---"I am not quite sure." After many more unsuccessful attempts at getting an answer, I left him to go see if I could get some help from a more competent person in the office. After explaining my situation to the vice principal using a combination of stutters, grunts and a little French in between I received my "tentative" room assignments. Since I still had a good thirty minutes to kill, I decided to explore the school library. The hours posted outside said it was open so I knocked and waited to be let in. To my surprise no one ever answer the door. At the time I logically thought the librarian to be ill. I now know better. Jess and I have discovered that posted hours in Marseille are mere suggestions indicating when you are most likely to find someone willing to do their job. I then decided to give myself the tour of the school I had been promised.
The schools in France are quite different to those in the United States. The building itself is an antique, likely three hundred years old. It is a square-shaped building with an open center and five floors only accessible by stairs. Overall the building is pretty cold and dark and more resembles a prison then a school. Housed within the building is an open courtyard where the students mingle and generally cause trouble between classes. When I say "courtyard" what I really mean is an asphalt square decorated with a few trees, and painted with random yellow numbers. Overall not very inviting for play. After my tour I had about ten minutes left until my next class began so I decided to head to the teachers lounge. As I walked through the door a disgruntled M. Cohen greeted me. This time he was asking the questions. "Where were you? Your students have been wandering the halls for the last hour." "You have been here the entire morning and have not yet accomplished anything." he continued. I was taken aback but responded quickly, "You told me this morning that I only have this class every other week." M. Cohen retorted without hesitation, "Yes but sometimes the students show up anyway." Now utterly confused I asked "So this class is every other week but I should come every week just in case some kids show up anyway?" He responded with a confusing answer, the meaning of which eludes me to this day--- "Of course not." Not sure what that meant and not willing to ask the same question again, I decided to shift gears. Seeing as to how I had a class in less than 10 minutes, I started with the most immediate question--- "Where do I meet the kids?" He informed me that the seemingly random yellow numbers painted on the floor of the "courtyard" were actually room numbers. My next question was abruptly interrupted by a loud bell followed by the even louder sound of stampeding children and before I could repeat myself, M. Cohen turned on his heels and parted without a word. I followed only to lose him in the mass of swarming children. Confused, I walked over to the yellow number painted on the ground that corresponded to my assigned classroom. I was surprised to find that my number was in front of a line of 15 students. They greeted me with a well-rehearsed and harmonized "ello owe are yew?" I told them that I was fine and they mimicked my response in unison. I guided them up the four flights of stairs to "my room". When I (Followed by 15 French students that seemed as confused as I did) arrived at the room, I found it locked. "Of course. . .unbelievable!" I grumbled. The 15 French students then replied in unison "Of coorse, , ,hunbeleevible!" I turned and walked directly back to the teacher's lounge this time followed by 15 French parrots. I ditched my students in the courtyard and waited for an entire hour, more disgruntled by the minutes, for the return of M. Cohen.
The bell sounded to indicate the end of what would have been my first class and the herd of children again spilled into the square. The teachers slowly filed into the teacher's lounge trying to escape the madness for a few minutes. As M. Cohen sashayed his way into the room, I bounced to my feet, cutting him off before he had a chance to lose me again. He greeted me with "Hello. . .how did it go?" I agitatedly answered "It didn't. I don't have a key for the room." He responded "Oh yes, that is a problem, isn't it?" "Yes it is." I answered " So where do I get one?" He responded "Well I don't know." After the morning I had I was not entirely surprised by this answer and asked him if the office would be a likely place to find a key. He replied "Oh they would not have a key there." By this time I was so frustrated by the whole situation but I needed that key and he was unfortunately the only person I knew that could find me one. I heard my voice quivering from the effort of trying not to show my anger as I asked "Where can I find a key?" M. Cohen, not expressing the least bit of concern over the subject, looked me directly in the eye and said unbelievably "I am going to have a cigarette now." And that was it---he turned and walked away, never having addressed my question. After taking a moment to process whether I had understood him right, I collected my jaw and the rest of my belongings and had no other option but to walk home keyless. Right about now you may very well be asking yourself the same question I asked myself the whole way home---"How does someone like that keep his job?" After much grumbling and eventual acceptance, I have come to understand that some questions are not meant to be answered. Having come to this realization, I am pleased to report that I have since had several successful weeks of actual classes with my students, have been paid relatively on time, and yes, I did eventually receive my symbolic key. If you would like to know how, don't ask M. Cohen. He is still working on his cigarette. |
