Romancing the black board

le 31 mars, 2014
I can hardly believe that it is almost the end of Assistanat, the end of this unbridled glorious journey! Apart from incessant and at times trying travels across Europe, I had the best time during classes.

It started with a short and chirpy “Hello!” which, by mid-term, would have changed irrevocably to an ascending and over zealously exclaimed ”Hellooohhh”, following in the footsteps of my students. I was prepared for the numerous curios stares and excited whispers that greeted m e in every class. A blond turned to a brown and spoke in hushed tones, who in turn spoke to a brunette, and hence, there was a cackle of adolescent voices, no doubt having a quick classroom exchange of notes on the newbie in the school.  Slowly, after shooting them warm smiles and encouraging words, shy voices asked me about my life, my family, my likes and dislikes; which seemed rather run-of-the-mill to me, having lived with these attributes and people all my life. However, they were welcomed with an awful lot of enthusiasm, so much so that in spite of myself, I went on a short (read massive) ego trip for the first few weeks, every time I met a new class. I was enjoying every bit of it from the copper bottom of my heart. Spotting an Indian in Verdun was like spotting a rare bird.

I was pleased to find classrooms fully equipped with computers, internet and high-end projectors and smart boards.  French schools fully understood the importance of audio-visual aids for teaching, which made the process of learning much more dynamic. I could prepare Power point presentations all that I wanted, and I joyfully came armed with a world of information on a single memory stick. Saving paper in school, which is one of the highest consumers, was never so easy. 

A language assistant such as me would normally conduct a variety of oral and written activities to improve the students’ English. It is my job to bring the fun quotient to learning a language, whilst also teaching them something worthwhile. I have had the good fortune to teach at 2 different tiers of the French school system – the college and the lycée, i.e. junior high and high school. Now, many people would think it’s difficult to handle high school students, but I have had, and continue having, a very enjoyable time at Lycée Jean-Auguste Margueritte. It is fun and also challenging to teach students who are not too young. It really gave me a chance to have meaningful discussions with them. At Collège St. Exupéry, the kids were just adorable. I can say their baby steps in English have improved to a short and comfortable stride. It is an enriching English lecture to have an Indian who helps them not only with the nuances of the language, but also explains the rich culture at the same time. 

My students were astonishingly polite, sneering and mocking practically non-existent; and I guiltily remembered how naughty a class we were, having driven out new teachers and pained old ones to no end with our “fish-market” like chatter. Even dichotomous groups in the class came together miraculously when you mentioned mischief.

The most prominent difference between French and Indian students was the attire. French students, unlike Indian, didn't have to put up with the retching dislike and shame, in the case of some, brought about by uniforms that were a treacherous C of cuts and colours. The girls here seemed to have come straight out of a fashion magazine. With long, well coiffed hair, trendy jackets and high boots, they resembled unique stylists instead of teenagers. And since they grow tall so fast, they seemed to be older than most boys their age. The boys looked more their age and funky haircuts were a rage among boys and girls alike.

However, where student’s apparel is concerned, I think Indian schools are on the right page with the enforcement of a strict uniform. While some people may think dressing up painfully to the point of perfection eats into the time young children, possibly distracting them, there is another reason why I feel a uniform is the best bet. It ensures that everybody is on an equal platform, and moreover, in a country where social differences are starkly visible from attire, I think it only just that real judgement be reserved to one’s knowledge and performance.

The students here do talk among themselves, like in India. But a teacher does not have as much power in the classroom, unlike in India. They cannot lay a finger on a misbehaving student. All must go as per the book, with intervention from the council in “dire” situations; whereas in Indian classrooms, matters are easily sorted with a tiny slap across the face, which is considered only normal. Even in cases of gross indiscipline, a teacher here is interdicted from taking severe steps. Physical contact be it innocent, with a child, is a no-no. Though high intolerance for paedophile or incongruent behaviour must have been at the base of barring even an encouraging pat – which is quite a normal reaction from a teacher, it is too bad that it has come to this.

But all in all, Assistanat is turning out to be a learning experience. The biggest challenge is to spark interest in a child’s mind, and hence activities have to be carefully chosen. Also, I am learning to be a lot more patient while dealing with students. I have learnt not to assume things and clearly ask after every few minutes whether they have understood or not. Further, condescension and exasperation have to be thrown out of the window when correcting their English. Their sensitivities are like a tortoise, one harsh word in front of the class and they might retreat into their shells. 
On a yet different note, I am being treated at par with the teachers. Even they treat me as their equals, which is quite novel as I still haven’t come out of student life entirely.

Every morning I am greeted with smiling faces, and I spend the day with a bunch of interesting kids who make the lessons worth the while. With some of them, I really feel like they have not only welcomed me in to their class, but also in to their hearts. Saying goodbye to the schools is definitely going to be hard.

Have Wings, Will Fly

Le 14 novembre, 2013

Independence. Such a sweet word. Having it corresponds to a rapid release of endorphins, much like the taste of rippling honey on hot golden waffles with a generous bouffant of whipped cream.

I take a pause just to drown in the moment of ecstasy. 

I always wondered like millions out there, as to how it would feel to live on my own. My heart always gave a green signal, much to the helpless indignation of my parents.  I can happily state now that my wondering years are over. It’s time to live!

Nicole, Karine’s mother, a gracious lady with surprising amounts of energy, had hosted me for the first two nights in Verdun. Surpassing a transient trifle unwillingness to let go of the familial warmth, I made my way to “my house”, the prospect of solitary adventure now tantalizing me no end. My address for the next seven months was to be 13 Place Galland, Verdun 55100. A building of considerable stature, tucked away at the back of the school, was what everybody called “le pavillon”. It was what I would call home.

Once in the typical French structure, I busily set about organizing “chambre 6”, my room (every wall, nook and corner of whose was painted pink, much to my distaste).  However, prettying up any space has always been a source of joy ad infinitum for me (a very girly habit, I would say). In that respect, I always earned a lot of appreciation at home. But here, at this moment, there was nobody to pat me on the back for a day’s hard work. So much for independence, eh? I settled in for my first night with mixed feelings.

The next morning however, I woke up to a different sentiment, a different me.  I walked up to the charming lace curtained French windows and looked out. The serene surroundings and crisp air engulfed my senses. I felt like I had achieved something worthwhile. Standing there, all alone, in a new country, with my family and friends miles away, I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself for having made it this far.

That morning, the alarm clock, and not my father, was what woke me up. Over the next few days, I had wheeled the shopping cart across, reaching out to items neatly laid on the racks, without glancing over at Mom for approval. The tiresome paperwork had been dealt with, and I hadn’t delegated a single job to my parent’s employees. And having had bought the groceries, it left me little choice but to cook. I now realize the value of hot meals garnished to perfection, ready on the table back home; whereas here, I don’t get a whiff of anything remotely as delicious as Indian food, unless I move a muscle. And that includes times when hunger pangs assault my stomach.

But at this instance, every cell in my body echoes with independence. Be it momentary, I am quite glad for the seclusion from Mom’s chiding words (no matter what one does, in a mother’s eyes, it can always be done better), or the daily irritation that creeps in back home.  One of the biggest, mammoth, gargantuan ups of living here is that I can step in to the house whenever I please (read-no curfews). Though Verdun is quite a countryside town with no bustling streets or shoulder to shoulder movement on pavements, or where people have little intention of painting the town red come evening, I nevertheless cherish not having to reply to my parent’s messages and calls, no doubt ordering me home. Mind, I do like them (even though I sound like a child deprived of sufficient playing time), but fortunately nowadays, I do not identify with the erstwhile feeling of getting straight-jacketed.

To all those trying to shake off a similar sentiment of being grounded, I urge you to try. Try and break the shackles. Make the journey.

Fly!

Cheers x

And miles to go before I sleep

Le 27 septembre, 2013

The day dawned bright and sunny. Happy smiles adorned the faces of the 30 odd youngsters selected for the “Assistanat” programme. Finally, the months and months of preparation had come to an end. Now all that was left to do was to jump in!

The pilot of the aircraft, our coordinator, and his team from the French Embassy, had some last minute instructions before we took the giant leap. The orientation camp in the country’s capital proved to be of help; even as all of us had been suppressing our restlessness. Evening came, bringing the moment for our final goodbyes. With a lot of enthusiasm, we wished each other farewell, and promised to meet soon, in France! Yes, we were dizzy with excitement. The word had not left our lips for a blink of an eye since the time we had got selected.  We were going to France to be English language assistants in various schools.  Going to the country whose language we had learnt and loved dearly.

At the Delhi International Airport, I said goodbye to my parents, with bearhugs and the shedding of some tears (from Mom). “Go live your life!” were her parting words before I left. For which I was really grateful. I fully understood that it would be lonely at home, what with my brother in London, and me in France. But wasn’t this the right age to step out? Let go of our mother’s apron strings?

With that thought spelling independence and freedom, I set out.

 

Le 28 septembre, 2013

My heart surged as the plane shuddered, announcing our arrival in Strasbourg, France. The day had been unavoidably adventurous. I had been compelled to muster all of my courage to maintain my “sang froid”.  At the Schiphol airport of Amsterdam, I had but half an hour to check in and get a print out of my boarding pass. I was running as soon as my feet touched the ground. I skidded to a halt at the first machine that printed boarding passes. And of course, it was out of order. Temperature soaring high, I asked for assistance and the lady suggested another machine that was at the other end of the airport! Since I had managed to see the gate number for my next flight, amidst my stupor in the flight from New Delhi, I knew she was right.

Once again, I was running; this time with my shoelaces untied and with no time to stop. It is rather strange that when one finds himself in a hurry the rest of the world seems to be aping snails. Addled with ease, they amble like they are in the Louvre, wanting to discern every painting; hence, making it spicier a commute for poor souls like me. I finally reached the immigration desk, and alas! As fate would have it, there was a queue. I asked for the priority queue, for I had to be on time, but the airport officials shook their heads. I shook mine too, and swore silently under my breath, in the sheer despondency of the situation.  I had no clue when I would check in, and further, how I would get hold of that devil of a boarding pass. Would I be too late for my flight? Would they just fly without me? After all, they wouldn’t wait for one measly passenger. But I had no time to get possessed by thoughts, of any kind. I just had to move, move, MOVE! I brushed past hordes of people, who shot me bemused looks. Once I had been declared as to the non-possession of bombs and other weapons of mass destruction, I made my way to a series of ATM like machines that printed boarding passes. A KLM attendant stood besides one like a beacon of hope. I almost snatched that little piece of paper from her and made my way to the gate finally; with 10 kilograms of baggage to lift my spirits.

I hopped on to the mini airplane to Strasbourg. Once there, tiredness combined with the apprehension of a further train journey, affected the grin forming on my face.  Navigating my way to the Strasbourg railway station was another circus altogether. The information desk opened my eyes to a different kind of reality – my train left not from the airport station called Entzheim, (as I had imagined all along) but from the station in the city. I thought that perhaps the onslaught of French had befuddled me, so I asked again. But reality persisted. My stomach did a flip. A 360˚ flip.

But I saved my hopes from being castrated by getting into action. I hauled my bags up an escalator and down another for the shuttle, but my on inserting my visa card, the machine read “carte muette”. Another blow. I gave up on the cheapest mode of transport and in a huff, got into a taxi. 29.30 € is the price one pays for some peace of mind occasionally, I assured myself.

From the central Strasbourg station, fortunately so, things went smoothly. After a pit stop for coffee and an excessively sweet doughnut, I was on my way to the platform. The uncoordinated numbers on the train and the display screen had confused me once, so I asked a couple there, if it was the correct train. Their “Oui” calmed me down from head to toe. I changed trains at Metz and hopped into the only one that went to Verdun. My destination was a stone’s throw away.

After an hour, through the huge windows, a brightly lit up petite ville welcomed me. I waved wildly at the smiling figures of Karine and her family. Jumping out, I ran straight into her outstretched arms.

Though I had landed a good 12 hours back, it was only now that I experienced the exultation.A happy uproar in my mind.