After a teary cab ride from Orly airport in Paris (where I said goodbye to Mom - hélas!) followed by a frantic sprint to make the train headed toward Le Havre at the Gare St. Lazare (I did!), I was finally en route...The train ride back was rather uneventful, though a few rows in front of me I could look over the shoulder of a woman who spent literally the entirely train ride watching videos of herself strutting around in a bikini. When she opened a video that didn't immediately feature her in a bikini, she skipped forward until she found what she was looking for -- or she switched to a different video, in the hopes of finding the same. People are fascinating.
When I got off the train in Le Havre I got into a cab and headed back to the school, where students were milling about, chatting, finishing up their day. And I had a funny reaction. It wasn't what I'd have expected. Instead of feeling charmed ("aww, high schoolers!), and instead of feeling a little nervous ("I hope they like me!") -- either of which would have been entirely normal -- my first thought was terror: "MONSTERS! I'M WORKING WITH MONSTERS!" Not that they were doing ANYTHING that would merit this sort of title. Literally, I don't think they batted an eye as I walked in or even so much as noticed me. But as I walked in and saw them in their natural habitat - I know, I know, but that's honestly the term that comes to mind - I was filled with this terrible dread. This feeling that as long as the job description was working with them, I would never, never belong. "Honestly," I thought to myself, "this feels just like high school."
And that's when I realized -- DING! -- it WAS high school. And even though I wasn't necessarily subject to the same sort of transitions that they're all going through, it was impossible not to feel the weight of all that angst, energy, enthusiasm, confusion -- and, of course, the hormones that you can almost SEE ricocheting between their slouching figures. I felt like I was in high school because I WAS...and now I was the new kid.
But I was a new kid with a slight advantage: despite not being fluent in the language, at least I have a few years on them...and those few years make all the difference in the world. What they see as a glaring display of confidence and individuality I see differently -- a disguise they can hide behind, whether it be an inch of eye shadow or a Little Bo-Peep outfit, complete with perfectly buckled shoes.
Not all of them use these disguises, but for those that do I love them for it. These kids are so, so endearing, and they are WORKING SO HARD. Not just because many of them are marvelously motivated students, but because the shear effort of hashing out one's own identity when you're not even allowed to be alone in a classroom is unbearable. But they do bear it. And they even enjoy it, sometimes.
So despite the initial horror - and to use any other word would be dishonest, I think - my response has since simmered into a respect for the things that they are working through right now. And my first meetings with the students have only augmented my respect for them. They work hard, they try their best to speak well, they say hello to me in the hallway and they are EXCITED to have native speakers among them. Not all, but I think most...and I hope I'm not being idealistic. This isn't to say that they're angels -- they chitter chatter to each other in French during class (including while I'm talking at times) and some are more sullen than others. But there's a basic goodness that makes me happy to see them, and hopeful before each class. (As of now I've had 5 on my own.) I hope that by the end of the year I'll have really gotten to know them.
I think this is all for now - tomorrow's likely to be an early morning since the students are going to blockade the entrance to the school once again. (More on the strikes some other time.) But for now, things are going well. I hope my students will learn over the course of the year even a fraction of the amount I feel I've learned already from them and from the school in general.
