When did we forget how to learn? A Pontification

Yes, I know, the title is a bit pretentious, but I wanted to write about this in light of a thought I had yesterday upon receiving the grade for the midterm in my Paris in Context class. It was a commentaire du texte, and after we got them back, the professor went over the text to talk about what we should have looked at and etc.

What the article was about is kind of unimportant, but for your information it was about the Panthéon and the funeral procession of Voltaire, which was essentially a revolutionary party. Again; the subject is not the important bit but just for the context. In any case, something very interesting happened during our discussion - the class staged a silent mutiny.

Here's how it went down: The professor, in the course of the discussion, mentioned some things that we really should have known, like the fact that the monarchy was still in place in 1791 so therefore obviously place Louis XV wasn't yet place de la république; Voltaire was a playwrite as well (something I did't actually know) and so obviously the procession stopped at the Opéra and théâtre de l'Odéon; the 'Franklin' alluded to was obviously Benjamin Franklin and thus every American should know that he was extremely influential to the French revolution.

I admit: it is frustrating to hear someone tell you that any fool could have guessed these things that you honestly didn't know and thus couldn't write about at the time. However, I heard, very clearly though it was not spoken out loud, everyone in the room thinking, well, I did't know I was supposed to do that, well, I didn't know that, how could I have known, how could you dare expect me to know that. Suddenly, everyone in the room was completely on the defense, and had completely discounted everything else the professor was saying. I couldn't have known. You didn't tell me that.

Now: I am not saying this isn't valid. Yes, it's frustrating. However, what struck me the most was that suddenly the point had absolutely nothing to do with learning. The only thing that was important was getting it right, and upon not doing so, there was a mutiny. You didn't tell us how to get it right. Therefore, I have every reason to be upset, and to tune you out.

This all struck me as I was walking home. Does anyone really care about learning anymore? or do they just care about getting it right? It occured to me that this doesn't just happen in schools: take a look at Congress, for example. As far as I can tell, absolutely nobody gives a shit about learning. All they care about is being right, and if the other side doesn't agree, well that's their problem because being right is the only option.

Hang on a second. Just as I said last week, I think we can do better than that. No, I did not know that the monarchy was still technically in place in 1791. No, I did not realize that I had to specifically acknowledge the inclusion of Franklin. But now I do. If I wrote the paper again, I would do those things. Next text I may mook more specifically. I'm not trying to be condescending or put myself on a ladder. I felt just as stupid as everyone else. But I just think the point is not to be right. It's to learn. Isn't that what school is about?

At what point did it become okay to not learn, and to only be right?

French teenagers talk about school

Well, at least, I try to make them talk about it - in English. My current job, as assistant English professor at a high school just outside of Paris. I work with all years - keeping in mind that there are only three years of high school here, so my kids are sophomores through seniors. That is actually where I am currently writing this; I'm in between classes. I'm also, I'll have you know, writing this on aEuropean keyboard, which is just similar enough to be comprehensible and just different enough to be maddening. I forget constantly that you have to press shift to get a period, the W and the Z are switched, there's a Q where the A should be, and M is god knows where. Also, it took me about five minutes of staring at it before I found the apostrophe.

Mais voilà. Moving on. I'm tired today, so my thoughts are all over the place, but I wanted to write something about the discussions - or lack thereof - with my students. 

I have small groups, anywhere from 4 to 12 kids, most commonly 8. My job is to make them talk - a worthy goal, but often very difficult! For whatever reason - shyness, level, uncertainty - they are all very reluctant to participate for the most part. I'm trying to figure out how to convince them to try, because I don't believe that students don't have opinions. They just, for the most part, don't share them. It gets frustrating for me when everyone in the class is staring at me when I know they have opinions. The teachers say there are kids who just don't talk, and seem to just think that you can't change that. Of course, I am not an educated teacher, nor am I a psychologist, but it seems to me that there are certain conditions in which kids will participate and certains conditions in which they won't, and it's my job to create a space where the conditions fit the latter. These days I'm just doing it by trial and error.

When they do at last choose to share them, however, they have some interesting ideas. Across the board, they think school is 'pretty bad'. They all think there's too much work and not enough free time, a sentiment I understand. This is a private school so it is much more strict and intensive than usual, but even the public schools here pack in full days of work. 8am to 5 or 6 pm seems to be the norm, and the kids are just worn out. But of course, no teenager in their right mind really 'enjoys' school, do they? However true it may be, I think it's pretty sad.

But one thing they all keep saying, and something that I think should be listened to much more than it is, is that school is boring. I keep asking what would make it better - not because I want them to think they have no choice but because I'm actually curious. If school is boring - and I think these kids are not alone at all - then what can be done to change it? I know from experience that learning can actually be cool - but it seems to be an accepted thought and a foregone conclusion that school will be boring.

We could go to more museums and exhibitions, a few of them suggested. Good point - the opportunity to see what's out there, learn in a practical setting. Have class in different rooms, be able to choose classes so they're with their friends. Almost everyone wants to be able to choose what subjects they study - of course that's not always possible, but maybe it would be possible to create a schedule which includes the basics but also lets them study what they love.

One student said something that I thought was absolutely fascinating. Teachers should be more passionate, they said. I was intrigued. Teachers should be more passionate? Are they not? They make boring classes because they don't like the subject? I doubt that's true, but maybe it is true that we lose the passion in the act of trying to "teach". If you have to Teach, with a capital T, then maybe you worry more about if the students are Learning. But it seems to me that people respond to passion - and perhaps we should leave behind the idea of Teaching, and think about sharing - just sharing. Just like saying, hey, I think this is really cool. Let me tell you why.

Hey, it's worth a shot, right? Especially because at least 60% of every class thinks school is 'pretty bad'. As for me? I think we can do better than that. 

The Daily Life: getting used to life in Paris

Yes, I owe you all an apology. I haven't really updated the blog. To be honest, I just haven't known what to write. I've been on a couple trips, but I think you can get a good sense of them by going to my photobucket and checking out the pictures. They can be found here.

In the meantime, I just didn't know what to say. My brain has been working overtime, but most of the details would, I'm sure, bore you to death and besides you'd rather hear about Paris.

But what can I tell you about Paris? I don't know how many weeks I've been here - a little over two months, I do know that. But what that means -- I'm not sure I could say. Some days I feel like I only arrived yesterday -- most days, in fact. I really find it difficult to keep track of the day, the date, the weeks even. They go by very quickly.

I can tell you, I suppose, that occasionally I notice that life here has become habitual. I drink coffee in the morning with my host mom if we're up at the same time. Whoever's up first makes the coffee, whoever finishes it washes out the machine. I walk to classes, or more often take the metro. I buy paninis for lunch, or I bring cheese and buy a baguette.

I take it for granted that I can get a baguette at any time during the day from really anywhere, and that it will be really good. I feel shafted when, as the case has been the last two days, the boulangerie is out of them. I try to keep myself to one pastry a week but usually fail, because they are just. so. darn. good.

The first floor is not the ground level and when someone says "4th floor," I understand that means I go up 4 flights of stairs, instead of 3 in the US system. I get annoyed when the Metro magazine or the Direct Matin or the Direct Soir isn't around in the metro stations, and when they are there, I pick them up. The American TV series are dubbed into French and it surprises me whenever I hear someone on the TV speaking English.

I have finally mastered the 24 hour clock and can roughly understand what it means when it's 8 degrees celsius (cold). I have picked up several typical French speaking habits, like inserting "en fait," "fin," and "bah" in my everyday conversation, including my favorite, that something is "n'importe quoi", meaning it's nothing, rubbish, ridiculous. I don't think about answering people in French, and upon learning where I'm from, I'm very often complimented on my speaking ability. I notice American accents and am starting to hear the British accent.

What else can I tell you? I don't look at metro maps anymore. I know which lines to take in which direction and am working on remember where in the station to get on and off the cars to maximize my efficiency.

It has been two months and that seems like such an incredibly short time to me. There is yet so,so much time left here. I've been here long enough that I'm finally starting to miss certain places, and especially people. It's still a really long time until I see most of my family and friends, and that bothers me often.

I wish I could tell you more, be more specific, but my life is not specific these days -- it's just life. And that is, I suppose, the best indication that Paris is becoming home to me. I don't need to think about every day so much. It just is -- it is there, and I live it. So simple.

I'll try and be more creative -- and quicker -- with my next post.

Bisous à tous.

The Countryside Remembering: At the D-Day beaches

Samedi 30 octobre: We were supposed to take the buses -- bus verts, ligne 70. Leaves Bayeux at 12h15. Goes past the American Cemetery, Colleville-sur-mer, Vierville-sur-mer, etc. Supposedly returns from American Cemetery to Bayeux at 17h00.

But of course, upon getting on the bus and asking the bus driver (Thank GOD we asked!!), we were told that the 17h00 bus stopped running at the end of September and that we would have to take the 14h17 bus instead, giving us about one hour total to see everything.

"Sinon, vous pouvez prendre un taxi," the driver suggested.

"Combien?"

"Vingt cinq."

It wasn't 25€, it was about 38€, but it turned out to be a very good thing we took a taxi instead, because I called the company past 17h00. We had been through the American Cemetery, walked along Omaha Beach, had lunch, and checked out the Musée Memorial d'Omaha Beach.

It was a stunning fall day; not too chilly, sunny. The water looked particularly blue. It made the green of the hillsides even more brilliant. Because this country, you see, has grown in. Cows roam along the bluffs -- very surprisingly steep. The Germans, I realized, had the high ground. Their barracks, strongholds, are still there in concrete, nestled into the hillside. They are empty these days, while the green ivy and grass creeps down, above, around. The gun holes are filled with green. A butterfly sat primly in one. A rather ironic, or maybe just beautiful, image I thought.

The cemetery, on the contrary, is perfectly cultivated, in relation to the wild hillsides. Perfectly tended and trimmed grass paying tribute to the endless white crosses, a handful star of David's thrown in. There are over 9000 graves here. Walking among them, you notice how many of them died between June and August 1944. Some of them have no name. The cross says instead, "Here rests in honoured glory a comrade-in-arms. Known but to God."

I found one grave. 6 Juin 1944. Div 1. He was in the first division and died on the first day. I think, he must have been one of the first to set foot on the beaches. The first to walk directly into German machine gun fire.

As we hiked down the bluffs, I found myself wondering if it had been this beautiful that morning, if the sun had risen bright or if it was dark, gray, cloudy -- more appropriate for the bloody work that had been done. I looked at the beach and wondered what it must have been like, to board the ships leaving the channel, to watch the beach approach and then to have enough courage to get off the boat and walk forward.

The American troops landed at Omaha at 6:30 in the morning. By 8am they had the first pocket of defensible land. One and a half hours is nothing in the scheme of things, but at the time it must have felt like centuries. At the Musée there are photos and videos from the invasion, and I found myself thinking how different war is in the movies -- there, fast, sudden. These films -- it is slow, dogging, dragging stumbling. The soldiers run or walk across endless countryside, they drag their wounded back to the ships, they exist somehow in the middle of the ruckus.

The witnesses of the veterans have several things in common -- they mention it was 'tense', a strange and remarkable frankness about the battles, how they were all frightened, how the beaches were littered with bodies.

500 men died in the first few minutes. That was the price of that first pocket of defensible land. They started an impromptu cemetery but had to move it, so the incoming waves wouldn't see that 500 graves were already there. 500 in the first wave. They called it Bloody Omaha for a reason.

Throughout the whole day I couldn't help but try and imagine it, imagine the stumbling landing, the way it must have looked, the weather, the impossible courage of those men.

The thing is about these beaches, this countryside, is that it remembers. The blood has long since been washed away and the shells of mussels now litter the beach instead of bodies, but this land is where it happened. A man with a gun used to be standing where the butterfly is right now. War has never been fought on American soil -- but these people here remember, or have family who remember. They can't forget -- even though life goes on these days, the little houses quietly tucked into the hillside, the countryside vibrates with a kind of deep, somber remembering. It's not sad, really. Not broken either. Just like in its stomach, deep in the soul of this place -- it remembers. Quietly. Calmly. Letting the sun bathe the sand and the water and the grass and beating -- like this, boom, boom.