On the ground, at the brocante, laid an old handwritten music book with a cut-out white heart attached to the front cover. Thumbing through the pages I stumbled upon a song called, "Les Anges de la France. The angels of France." Instantly, I thought of children.
After raising my two French born babies in this country I can say a thing about Bringing up Bebe and or a thing or more about the school system.
Yesterday my neighbor and friend, called to ask if I could pick up her children from school, as she was running late. I was more than happy to oblige, her children are doll babies and it would get me out of the house to enjoy the brilliant blue sky/sunny day. At four thirty I walked over to the school, waited outside with the other parents until the front door was opened. Each parent then stood in line, in front of their child's classroom door, until one by one the teacher called their child to go home.
First I went to the youngest child's classroom. Grabbed her darling little silver coat to tuck her inside, as I buttoned the buttons she rattled off a tale of utmost importance, though the only words I could gather from her sweet childish voice were: Bathroom, glass, broken, blood and fireman. Her eyes widen as she waited for my response. As I didn't want to stump her enthusiasm, I simply gasped, "Oh la la!" Assuming I understood she grabbed my hand as we walked to her brother's classroom. She continued her story in record speed, round and round it went,"… Bathroom… glass… broken… blood… bathroom… fireman…" My friend's daughter is barely three, though she insists she is a big girl, and certainly not a baby. I struggled with the: Who, why, when, where part of her story due to a combination of her voice and my comprehension. I responded to the words I understood, and more so to her non verbal expressions.
The story, her story was important, and in the end it didn't matter if I understand the who, why, when, where parts. What mattered was that she expressed herself and someone listened. I mimicked her expression: Widen my eyes, covered my mouth with my hand and said, "Oh la la!" every now and then.
Arriving to her brother's classroom, the line was long. I noticed my friend's daughter grew quiet. She stood perfectly still and held my hand. Obviously, she knew the rules and respected them. I followed her lead, yet was reminded how awkward this discipline felt. Silence while waiting. Deadpan faces. Lack of joy it seemed. Though French Husband would say, "We don't have to smile to show we are happy."
When our turn arrived Y. (my friend's son) saw us, his smile widen, his eyes sparkled, he jumped up and ran towards us like he hadn't seen us in ten years! His sister jumped up and down. I stretched out my arms to hug him. In the same split second, his teacher grabbed him by the shoulder, and reprimanded him, "Y. We do not run in class. We do not get up from our chair unless we are told too. Go back and sit down until I tell you, you can come."
Oh the years of watching the French school system marking Chelsea's and Sacha's way of learning and being. Education is after all not just about reading, writing and arithmetic, it is also about sharing history, culture and how to be. I knew from the very first day that my children went to kindergarten that if I wanted them to have American roots I was going to have to water them diligently. Chelsea and Sacha didn't have a problem with the school system, I did. I had something to compare it to, where they did not. It wasn't that the school was bad, or wrong… it just was different, and the rules impossible to break.
Y. returned to his place, as he did he turned around as if to be sure we wouldn't leave, biting his lip, squeezing his hands, as if his joy didn't know where to go. His little sister (Y. is four) tugged my hand, she whispered, "Oh la la." Trying not to laugh I put my hand to my mouth and widen my eyes.
Soon his teacher called him to come to the door, reminding him to walk, and meet us. Y. with great effort stuffed his joy deep inside, walked the type of walk that wants to run but dares not, and sheepishly glanced at us. I bent down, exaggeratedly widen my mouth and eyes, stretched out my arms and cheered, "Yeah, Y. How HAPPY I am to see YOU!!!" I scooped him up and twirled around. The teacher, smiled, "Yes happy… that is why he ran…" and before he could add anything else, I said, "Merci, yes! Learning is a Joy, and Joy is celebrating what you know to be true and good!" and with that we said our goodbyes, and walked home.
Not all schools, not all teachers, but in general, French elementary schools are not as fun as I remember it to be in the States, nor is it as fun as I imagine it could be. Given that, I am not saying rules are to be ignored.
Self expression verse structure is a hard balance to create. I admire teachers. Their job is not an easy task. I fear if I taught a class, the students would learn little and I would be exhausted after one morning.
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