Baby Got Back (and My Tongue)

As last week was “ski week” here in Paris, the kiddos were not out and about with book bags and stylish clothes on, heading to une école that would seem like prison compared to a school in the U.S. However, when I set out yesterday for my second week of class, upset that I had not had a lot of time to study my words (the auction catalog won out), I very quickly was competing for sidewalk space with fashionable mini-specs and trés chic attire that only Suri Cruise would be found in at home. The children were back to school, and so was I. As I followed behind a family eager to make their way to school, children giddy, and parents smiling, I couldn’t help but think that I was once a part of that dynamic (although I make no promises that my students were eager). I was the one who greeted the children daily, and I was the one whom the child would come home at night and talk about. And now, I can’t even speak to the children on the street -- if they dropped a pencil, I would have to run to catch up to them and then awkwardly stand there and hand it to them. No conversation, no dialogue. A smile and a shrug would have to suffice.

When I was the teacher, and an English one at that, I was constantly trying to infuse lessons on empathy into my curriculum. Thrown in amongst lessons on similes, metaphors and dissecting literature would be questions leading my monsters to look at the world from a different perspective. As I was thinking today about how I now feel like a child who is just learning to speak, unable to communicate in the ways necessary, and feeling frustrated in return (sadly, I can’t cry and flail in public), it brought me back to a book I taught yearly called Seedfolks. One of the vignettes deals with a man who lived in Ohio, but could only speak his native tongue, which was Vietnamese. When we used to discuss this plot in class, we would talk at length about how hard it would be to live somewhere where you couldn’t communicate. I would make this seem real to them for only a fraction of a second by speaking jibberish and appearing to be very mad when they could not respond. Although it got the point across, and elicited a few giggles, the reality was not there. I couldn’t produce that for them, because I didn’t know what it felt like.

Class, please answer the following questions:

4. What did Gonzalo mean when he said, “The older you are, the younger you get when you move to the United States?”
6. What caused Tío Juan to change “from a baby back into a man?”
8. Tío Juan spoke a dialect that people in his new community did not understand. How do you think he felt when he was unable to express himself through language? What else did Tío Juan have to get used to in this foreign city?

9. What did Ashley mean when she said, “The older you are, the younger you get when you move to [Paris]?” I am not talking expensive face cream here. If I ever teach again, I will now be able to answer that question for my students from personal experience. I am now the baby, and the étudiante. Not just at the Alliance Française, but as I walk around Paris, taking in the culture, the language and seizing all of the chances I have to learn about a new way of life. I can’t say that I am not struggling a wee bit, as I am grappling with learning French and can’t seem to grasp the correct timing of the welcome smooches, or make peace with the slow service that seems to be the norm here. Until now, I couldn’t remember what it was like to be so uncertain about my abilities, or to question my intelligence. However, it is all coming back to me now: in the marché, in the classroom, and on the street. I am starting from the very beginning, and in turn, feeling like a child.

I am trying to stay afloat by using humor in the classroom (the class clown was always popular), as I stumble frequently, and can never seem to find the right word at the right time -- a feeling very foreign to me. The other day I had to stop the class to point out that in the pictures we were observing to learn times of the day and the verb être, a young mademoiselle was initially wearing a shirt that had a neckline flanking her collar bones, and by the end, she had cleavage (and was walking out with the professor). Although I made my classmates laugh, I knew inside it was merely my way of distracting the class from my French language faults. I couldn’t let on that I was frustrated and upset by my own inabilities. I couldn’t let on that frequently I feel two inches tall, literally and figuratively.

So, who are these babies and youngsters that are now my newest cohorts? They are the quickly toddling (strollers for toddlers are few and far between), well-dressed younger siblings of their older daredevil-ish brothers and sisters. I say this for a few reasons; lots of scooters and bikes tear past you on the sidewalk, their captain’s hair blowing in the wind, as helmets don’t exist here. Nor does it seem that children’s booster seats, seat-belt wearing or staying in close proximity to your parent are even close to being trendy here. If you are one of the lucky babies to have a stroller (usually MacLaren), just hope your parent has not tied you to a pole outside of a restaurant while they are inside enjoying a nice warm thé (we saw that this weekend!). The good news is that at least I am part of the cool crowd here, as I was never allowed to go helmet-less while growing up. Now if only I could find a stroller in my size, I might make peace with my current demotion. I also wouldn’t mind wearing a diaper once again -- then I could drink lots of coffee in the morning and not worry about the repercussions.

Please note: attached is my Alliance Française student ID. This ID is much larger than the typical American ones, and reminds me of the cards we had to wear around our neck the first day of kindergarten. It seems to be quite applicable to this post!