School Bells

Walking up to the school from its westside, I tried to remain calm. Sure, it might be in the nicest of neighborhoods. And sure, it may be somewhat notoriously 'rough.' But I can handle it. I can, I can.

The gates got to me a bit though. I stood outside the black bars helplessly, trying to figure out how to buzz someone so I could get out of the early morning cold. Standing there, looking at the high school kids standing in the courtyard below, I found myself wondering if I had made a horrible mistake.

I had been warned about where I was going to work. It's stuck right between two towns with a dangerous reputation. The school district is among France's poorest. People asked me if I was sure I would want to work out in such a rough high school. I was beginning to think I knew why.

But then finally, a tall, dark figure came towards me in an enormous puffy coat. Underneath it all, he couldn't have been over 17.

"Hi," I said. "Just wondering how I get in."
"That would be my job. Just a minute."

He unlocked the gate, told me how to get to the principal's office, and I walked into the building. Surprisingly clean, modern, and spacious, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the drab exterior had been misleading. Inside, the school was warm and almost cozy, actually. Large, open hallways connect various wings. Everything is surrounded by windows, and most facilities are clean, bright, and newish-feeling.

I told the secretary that I was there for a meeting with the principal. I was a bit early, but the principal came out to say hello anyway. She struck me immediately as someone who loves her job, works too hard, and asks for little in return. She welcomed me into her office, got to work right away, discussed with me some, smiled a lot, and began introducing me to people. I still wasn't sure whether or not I officially had the job, but she was certainly acting like I did, and I was starting to like her and her "team" more and more.

A secretary gave me a bunch of paperwork to fill out, and another one led me to the teachers' lounge. It felt funny and wrong to be there. Last time I was in a high school, that was a forbidden room, where teachers showed their real personalities and called one another by their first names.

Sitting in a corner of the salle de profs, an incredibly comfortable and neatly-designed little center, I began to work on the 20 different papers I had been given while the secretary went to fetch an English teacher with whom I was hoping to discuss a few things.

"Are you a new collegue?" a young, attractive teacher asked from in front of the coffee machine across the room .
"Um... yeah. I guess so. I'm the English assistant."
"Oh great!" he said. "Always nice to see new faces on the staff. Welcome aboard."
"Thanks," I said, and meant it.

The secretary came trotting back and said, "Actually, the English teacher is in the middle of a class, but he said you could come by if you like. Would you like to?"

This is the type of question that one can't really say no to. I was, after all, there to teach English. And I couldn't, exactly, say "Nah... I think I'll just fill out paperwork for the next hour." Knowing this, I had a moment of panic as I heard myself agreeing, realizing that in a matter of seconds, I would be up in front of a dozen or more teenagers. I found myself checking to see if my fly was zipped.

She led me through the nutty hallway system until I got to room 217. Mr. B had left the door open for me, and as we walked up, he stepped outside to say hello. Friendly, excited, and bit ruffled, he steered me into the classroom and asked me to introduce myself.

This all happened in a daze of course. My brain was a bit on overdrive. I had more or less gone into survival mode, just hoping not to trip or spit while standing in front of everyone for the first time.

Scanning the room, my eyes fell on faces of many colors. Most were sporting the typical fashions of the banlieue: athletic pants, baggy sweatshirts, pumas. They seemed surprisingly adult to me, for a group of high school students. I found out later that these kids were actually doing a post-graduate technical degree.

It's amazing how much seating arrangements can give things away. First, it was obvious to me that this was not a setup designed by the teacher, that he let everyone choose their own seat. Hence why the two of the three girls who listened intently were in the front row, in the center. The other one was on the far left of the room, near the windows. She kept straining to hear me. In the back was a group of four boys, obviously the troublemakers, obviously the "cool" guys. Amongst them were two kids who, although they weren't taking anything very seriously, were actually spitting out the most coherent sentences in English amongst everyone there. I took to them immediately. They're funny and should be allowed to goof around if it means they'll speak a lot. And really, had they not been there, the whole experience could have been terribly awkward... they were the ones who initiated the conversation and kept it afloat.

I mumbled a few things about who I am, where I'm from. I tell everyone I'm from Detroit because it's far easier than saying anything else, and they really don't know any different. The four kids in the back said, "Oh, yeah... Detroit." and then viciously started searching for the city on the map of the US in the front of their textbook.

Why are you in France? How old are you? How are you? When will you go back to the US? Why do Americans hate the French? Are you paid for this? What's your religion? What do you like better in France than in the US? Do you speak French? What kind of music do you like? Will you come to our party?

They were both nervous and excited to speak to me, and I found those that made the effort so incredibly endearing that I thought I was going to hug them. Mainly, we just chatted and got the ball rolling, and then the bell rang.

The bell. I had just forgotten, simply forgotten, about bells. When it rang, with the same loud, unpleasant ring as at my own high school, my entire life came into perspective for a brief moment: what the hell am I doing? Why am I holding the chalk? It was as if all those years I've spent since high school - that's six years now! - collapsed into a millisecond, and now here I was, back in the system but suddenly on the other side. I felt like an imposter, yet everyone was smiling and egging me on, so I just went along with it all nonetheless.

With the ringing, I felt myself relax a bit. I sat back in my chair. Mr B came over to explain a few things to me, saying that there is obviously a difference in level and that hopefully I'll be able to really help the kids that care by taking them out of the class a few days every month so they can get in some conversation practice. He pointed out the strong students to me as they were leaving, who were pretty much the same students I had spotted during the class hour. Not surprisingly, two of the students he mentioned sauntered over to us and asked me if we could work it out so that they could work with me privately or in a small group.

I was touched. I guess I had been prepared to walk into my mental image of a notoriously bad school, with some notoriously bad students. But, I had had the good fortune of stumbling into a classroom where, sure, there were lots of kids who didn't give two shits, but there were a couple who were just trying to make the most of their education. I really hope I can help them, because I have to admire their motivation and determination that somehow has managed to survive through all the chaos. It's inspirational.

I stuck around for another hour or two and met a few other English teachers. They were all helpful and friendly, and I'm hoping to get to know them all better. Mainly, I'm excited to lead some classes and get in front of the students again. They were warm, outgoing, and encouraging. I couldn't be happier with my new job. Now I've got two weeks of vacation before school picks up again, and hopefully I'll have the time to do some planning and prepping beforehand. Mainly, I'm just ready to dive in.