There once was a girl who had a perfect life. She had a beautiful house, a beautiful child, and a handsome husband. She lived in a dream world in a foreign country, where she had a job that motivated her to get up every morning so that she could go spread knowledge. She had two sweet, fat cats who were affectionate and friendly. Her parents were always supportive of every decision she'd made. People often told her how lucky she was, and she would nod politely or maybe just smile. What can you say, when you are sure that people are seeing exactly what you want them to see, and not everything that is hidden underneath that smile? She was skilled in the art of pretending.
But the thing about those beautiful houses is that there were so many problems with the neighbors, she stopped sleeping. She had expectations about her husband intervening, and because he was so passive, it kept him from reacting. But she swallowed that awful feeling, worked hard, and bought a new house. It was supposed to be a fresh start.
That beautiful child was a handful -- he's got anger issues, and health issues, and after spending so much time alone with him in the first year of his life, his mother was exhausted. She started resenting the person who wasn't around to help. She felt like a single mother. Alas, the older he got, the more comfortable she felt, so she was sure it would eventually be okay. She tried to push away her negative feelings.
Her husband was handsome, but his first love wasn't his little wife or his child, it was his job -- and she was partially to blame for that because she had a tendency to push him to be more ambitious, to go further, and to put herself second (or to accept, even insist, on being second). So one day when she woke up and decided that she wanted to be first instead, she could clearly see that it was impossible to reclaim her spot in the hierarchy of the household. His job came first, and that was that. She tried to accept her position in the household. She really, truly tried.
And then there was her job. For such a long time, she had settled and taken jobs that kept her busy. She always said she didn't teach for the money, because there was no money. For three years she did over the top work with sub par income, and she started to believe that was her value. Then one day, she started to wake up. She started to see that she could have a better job, where she could earn the money that reflected her skills, and she took the opportunity. It was like a fire was lit inside her and she suddenly felt like herself again -- a fun, ambitious, motivated person. People appreciated her. People needed her. It was a far cry from her life at home. It was the shake that she needed. She opened her eyes over the course of a year and by the time they were open, she realized that she was terribly unhappy and that something had to give. Work should not be the highlight of anybody's life.
In between, the house situation got worse. The baby grew more and more attached to the husband, who didn't like how angry his wife was all the time. He, in turn, grew angrier and angrier, which fed the baby's anger. Everybody was angry, and everybody was fighting all the time. The girl spent more and more time at work, throwing herself into her projects, always looking for more. The boy grew suspicious and started questioning her every move. She stopped talking to him. Their lives, which were already headed in opposite directions, took a sharp turn.
One weekend she took the baby and left. She couldn't take it anymore. She spent that night awake, with her son in her arms, thinking to herself about her future. This would be her life next year. This would be her life in five years. This would be her life in 20 years. 50 years. On her death bed. This, she realized, is the best that she could do if she chose to stay in this situation.
The next day she came home and asked for a separation. Her husband was fed up with her unhappiness and her constant search for something more and her withdrawn, uninterested attitude, so he agreed.
A lot has happened in the life of Travelling Amber since that day, and it hasn't been easy. I've felt isolated from my friends and family, and I've thrown myself even further into my projects and my work.
It's been a long time coming, but this is the end of this chapter. It's not the end of the story because I'll always have something to say, a need to document my life. Travelling Amber, however, stops here. For now. I can't find it in me to keep on writing about my life when I can't speak freely about the most pressing issue that's affecting me. I plan to take my writing elsewhere and start over. A clean page. A fresh slate. Fill in your favorite metaphor here. For the first time in my life, I don't know what tomorrow looks like. I don't know what next week or even next month looks like, but at least I know it's my own. My tomorrow is there for the taking, and I can make it whatever I want it to be.
Although my heart is empty and my mind is racing, my eyes are wide open. I'm seeing possibilities that I never thought I could have. I'm finding strength that I'd tucked away a long time ago that's given me courage to wake up every morning, to put my feet on the floor, and keep on living.
I know this isn't going to be easy, but it has to happen.
Thanks to everybody who has been reading me over the last four years. I'll let you know where I am when I'm ready, and you can always send me an email or contact me on Facebook. I came here to write about myself for my family and my friends back home who have all dwindled away over the years, but I stayed for the community that this outlet has provided me. For that community, for the support, for the understanding, I thank every last one of you. ... but now that I'm awake, it's time to go live my life.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
A day in the neighborhood
Life is really a roller coaster at the moment. Normally I like that kind of uneasy turmoil that makes you feel like something big is on the horizon, but that's not really the sensation I'm going for at the moment -- my interpretation this time around is more "barf" and less "wheeee!".
I wrapped up my school year (final exams are next week) today and let me tell you -- That felt good. And even better, we ended on a high note. I know it was too late to salvage anything with the majority of my students, but at least I know that I gave them 100%. For a moment I was thinking of quitting, but a wise friend of mine told me to finish it up, to not burn the bridge, and then be glad once it's over. Well, she was right. This is maybe the first time in my life that I've finished out a job contract without burning the bridge, so we'll see what happens in the future. At least for now, all that's left is a lot of marking, and then I can bid them adieu.
Fortunately for me things went well with my students today, because there's so much other stress that's demanding my attention, it's hard to focus and I lose my patience easily. I mentioned last time I wrote that I've been having a lot of problems with Victor, but it actually does seem to be getting better. We had a great day yesterday playing with friends, and today after I picked him up from the nanny, the temperature had increased to t-shirt only temps, so we took his bike out on the street to play for awhile. Then we played in the garden, and then we shared some fruit. Turns out he likes strawberries but he's fickle -- he also likes oranges. I hesitate to give him too many chunks of anything, but I figured a strawberry (or three..) would be worth it. Well, it was. His little grin covered in red strawberry juice was adorable, plus he's in a phase where he's really interested in mirrors and also sharing, so he kept trying to share with his reflection.
I was all ready to write this day off as a success and get ready to face another when some local teenagers came and squatted on my window sill on the front of the house. Because we're on a corner, we get a lot of traffic. Normally this doesn't bother me because it's quite fluid -- nobody ever stays long -- but they seemed quite comfortable and uninterested in going anywhere, so I had to give them a polite shove. When somebody is shouting when they are sitting on your window sill, you can hear it all through the house and it's unpleasant. I asked them nicely if they would go squat at their own homes because I needed to put my baby in bed and they were being a bit loud, and eventually they complied and I haven't seen them since, which is quite nice. But before giving in to my demands, they just had to make a comment about my race. This is the second time that's happened to me this week alone, and I'm getting a little bit fed up.
The point is, and I'm sure I've written about this before, is that I'm in France by choice. This is a country that I voluntarily chose to live in. It's a culture that I chose to adopt. I wasn't born here; there's no innate sense of belonging here for me or uncertainty as to why I'm here -- it was my choice. So yeah, I get a little bit frustrated when I get called out for having an accent, or when the first words out of somebody's mouth are "you're not French", or in this particular neighborhood, for being (for instance) purple when everybody else is, say, green. Who really cares about color anyway? It's just skin -- clearly it didn't bother me when I chose to move into a neighborhood knowing fully well that I'd be the minority, but I didn't imagine that the others would see it as a threat. So sure, I'm not French, but at the same time there are days where I feel more French than American because this was a choice -- not to say that I am denouncing my birthright by any means, but that I feel a connection to this country and to its people, and I really and truly hate it when somebody has to set me apart. In my heart, I feel just as French as these people probably do. It was a choice for their families as well, and I wish that they wouldn't forget that when looking down on me.
The difference between our new neighborhood and our old neighborhood is that this one is still better because the problems are completely different. Over there, we were all purple except for the trash next door who were green, blue, red.. who even knows.., but the difference was that some of us were educated (ahem, me) and others weren't (both pairs of crappy neighbors). Over here, I am the only purple person in the neighborhood. I didn't grow up here, my parents aren't from here nor are my grandparents, and this wasn't the location they chose when immigrating here (despite MY choosing to do so!) whereas their families got a new life here, and it's true that this neighborhood "belongs" to them in that sense. But that doesn't mean that I can't live here.
So rather than throw in the towel again and jump ship, I decided this time around it would be different. We've made such good friends with the lady that sold us the house that I call her on a regular basis and she pops in to say hi. Her daughter babysits for us and her brother-in-law is our plumber. When people see me with her, they should know that I, like her, am good people. Tonight on the phone she told me not to worry, because I've got an adoptive green family that will help all the other green people see why somebody purple would want to live here. And what's truly best about that is I know she means it. Their family is very traditionally green -- the mom comes from one country, the dad from another, so the children have three nationalities and they are practicing the religion of their people. The mom made the comment to me last night that she was having a hard time with the fact that her son dating a "European" as she put it (a purple person like me) but that because the green religion says you should love everybody (funnily enough, much like the purple religion) she's doing her best to accept that. Standing in front of her I couldn't help but to feel like she no longer saw that I was indeed "European" like her son's girlfriend, because she was confiding this in me. I felt accepted and integrated, and it was cool.
The other neighbors don't know me though. They don't know that I'm here by choice and that much like them(or their families) I chose to immigrate to Roubaix. I could have bought a house anywhere, but this is the town that caught my eye (don't ask me why) and this is the house I fell in love with. I don't feel like I'm gentrifying the neighborhood. Despite my jokes about it, that has never been my objective.
So I'm not going to give up. Another neighbor came by this evening to let me know that I can come to her any time I need anything. Physically, we look very different. Her hair is wrapped up tight, her arms and her legs are covered, but we both have big smiles and warm hearts. They are also teaching me some of the jargon of the neighborhood so that I can better understand what people are trying to say to me because they have a lot of their own words. They promised we would get together for coffee so that I can get to know the other ladies on the street better. Just call us a multicultural Wisteria Lane. I'm hoping that once I've asserted myself and let them know politely and firmly that I intend to stay here, that with time they'll come to accept me in the same way the others have. All I want is a little acceptance, and a little peace. I don't think that's too much to ask for with all the other turmoil going on in my life.
I wrapped up my school year (final exams are next week) today and let me tell you -- That felt good. And even better, we ended on a high note. I know it was too late to salvage anything with the majority of my students, but at least I know that I gave them 100%. For a moment I was thinking of quitting, but a wise friend of mine told me to finish it up, to not burn the bridge, and then be glad once it's over. Well, she was right. This is maybe the first time in my life that I've finished out a job contract without burning the bridge, so we'll see what happens in the future. At least for now, all that's left is a lot of marking, and then I can bid them adieu.
Fortunately for me things went well with my students today, because there's so much other stress that's demanding my attention, it's hard to focus and I lose my patience easily. I mentioned last time I wrote that I've been having a lot of problems with Victor, but it actually does seem to be getting better. We had a great day yesterday playing with friends, and today after I picked him up from the nanny, the temperature had increased to t-shirt only temps, so we took his bike out on the street to play for awhile. Then we played in the garden, and then we shared some fruit. Turns out he likes strawberries but he's fickle -- he also likes oranges. I hesitate to give him too many chunks of anything, but I figured a strawberry (or three..) would be worth it. Well, it was. His little grin covered in red strawberry juice was adorable, plus he's in a phase where he's really interested in mirrors and also sharing, so he kept trying to share with his reflection.
I was all ready to write this day off as a success and get ready to face another when some local teenagers came and squatted on my window sill on the front of the house. Because we're on a corner, we get a lot of traffic. Normally this doesn't bother me because it's quite fluid -- nobody ever stays long -- but they seemed quite comfortable and uninterested in going anywhere, so I had to give them a polite shove. When somebody is shouting when they are sitting on your window sill, you can hear it all through the house and it's unpleasant. I asked them nicely if they would go squat at their own homes because I needed to put my baby in bed and they were being a bit loud, and eventually they complied and I haven't seen them since, which is quite nice. But before giving in to my demands, they just had to make a comment about my race. This is the second time that's happened to me this week alone, and I'm getting a little bit fed up.
The point is, and I'm sure I've written about this before, is that I'm in France by choice. This is a country that I voluntarily chose to live in. It's a culture that I chose to adopt. I wasn't born here; there's no innate sense of belonging here for me or uncertainty as to why I'm here -- it was my choice. So yeah, I get a little bit frustrated when I get called out for having an accent, or when the first words out of somebody's mouth are "you're not French", or in this particular neighborhood, for being (for instance) purple when everybody else is, say, green. Who really cares about color anyway? It's just skin -- clearly it didn't bother me when I chose to move into a neighborhood knowing fully well that I'd be the minority, but I didn't imagine that the others would see it as a threat. So sure, I'm not French, but at the same time there are days where I feel more French than American because this was a choice -- not to say that I am denouncing my birthright by any means, but that I feel a connection to this country and to its people, and I really and truly hate it when somebody has to set me apart. In my heart, I feel just as French as these people probably do. It was a choice for their families as well, and I wish that they wouldn't forget that when looking down on me.
The difference between our new neighborhood and our old neighborhood is that this one is still better because the problems are completely different. Over there, we were all purple except for the trash next door who were green, blue, red.. who even knows.., but the difference was that some of us were educated (ahem, me) and others weren't (both pairs of crappy neighbors). Over here, I am the only purple person in the neighborhood. I didn't grow up here, my parents aren't from here nor are my grandparents, and this wasn't the location they chose when immigrating here (despite MY choosing to do so!) whereas their families got a new life here, and it's true that this neighborhood "belongs" to them in that sense. But that doesn't mean that I can't live here.
So rather than throw in the towel again and jump ship, I decided this time around it would be different. We've made such good friends with the lady that sold us the house that I call her on a regular basis and she pops in to say hi. Her daughter babysits for us and her brother-in-law is our plumber. When people see me with her, they should know that I, like her, am good people. Tonight on the phone she told me not to worry, because I've got an adoptive green family that will help all the other green people see why somebody purple would want to live here. And what's truly best about that is I know she means it. Their family is very traditionally green -- the mom comes from one country, the dad from another, so the children have three nationalities and they are practicing the religion of their people. The mom made the comment to me last night that she was having a hard time with the fact that her son dating a "European" as she put it (a purple person like me) but that because the green religion says you should love everybody (funnily enough, much like the purple religion) she's doing her best to accept that. Standing in front of her I couldn't help but to feel like she no longer saw that I was indeed "European" like her son's girlfriend, because she was confiding this in me. I felt accepted and integrated, and it was cool.
The other neighbors don't know me though. They don't know that I'm here by choice and that much like them(or their families) I chose to immigrate to Roubaix. I could have bought a house anywhere, but this is the town that caught my eye (don't ask me why) and this is the house I fell in love with. I don't feel like I'm gentrifying the neighborhood. Despite my jokes about it, that has never been my objective.
So I'm not going to give up. Another neighbor came by this evening to let me know that I can come to her any time I need anything. Physically, we look very different. Her hair is wrapped up tight, her arms and her legs are covered, but we both have big smiles and warm hearts. They are also teaching me some of the jargon of the neighborhood so that I can better understand what people are trying to say to me because they have a lot of their own words. They promised we would get together for coffee so that I can get to know the other ladies on the street better. Just call us a multicultural Wisteria Lane. I'm hoping that once I've asserted myself and let them know politely and firmly that I intend to stay here, that with time they'll come to accept me in the same way the others have. All I want is a little acceptance, and a little peace. I don't think that's too much to ask for with all the other turmoil going on in my life.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Taking a deep breath.
The month of May in France is kind of particular. If the French don't get enough vacation in a year, they are all moody and grumpy, so in May, the powers that be have decided that we'll only work a little bit. There are usually four bank holidays between the 1st of May and the beginning of June, and any time one of them lands within the week, we take what they call a "bridge" -- you don't work on the days between the weekend and the bank holiday. We have three day work weeks sandwiched with four-day weekends two weeks running, and if the weather would improve a little bit I might actually enjoy having all this extra time to myself.
The first of the epic long weekends in May was, well, epic. Ironically, we did a "systeme D" (think MacGuyver) on the heat before our plumber went out of town, and the very next morning the house was sweltering because of all the sun radiating through the windows. It was a nice change for once so I cut off all the radiators and opened the house up. I was alone for the majority of that weekend and had something to do and people to see nearly every day. It was a positive change that really boosted my spirits. I don't think I actually got out of bed before 10 am a single morning. Then Wednesday I went back to work with my students (only two more weeks left..) and celebrated my birthday in torrential downpour. It wasn't my best birthday ever, but not my worst birthday ever, either. It's just different. When you are a little kid and it's your birthday, you get a party at school, a party on the weekend with your friends at home, cards and gifts in the mail, and a funfetti cake baked just right (something that for the life of me I cannot succeed at from scratch, period. Somebody mail me a box please?) and when you are an adult, it's anti-climactic. Thanks to all of my cake fails, there wasn't a cake for me at all this year. I didn't even buy one at the store. There were no gifts on my birthday, no calls either -- just a lot of text messages and Facebook messages which feel like a cop-out. My friends organized a surprise get-together for me last night that i'll write about another day which was pretty cool, but since I already had the initial kind of "down" feeling about the actual day, I couldn't enjoy it as much as I wanted to.
Going back to work on Thursday was hard though. Even though there were only two days following my birthday, they were booked solid. Jeremie decided to go to Paris for the weekend to give Victor and I some time to catch up and to give him some time off, so that's where I am right now -- a weekend with a grumpy baby who's just returned from holiday, who is off his routine, and wants nothing to do with me because he has severe attachment anxiety with Jeremie. Jeremie can't even walk in a room or speak without Victor crying for him. He walks around the house alternating "dada" and "papa", looking for J. As the mother of this child, the one who lost my body for him and has spent numerous nights up with him, harassing doctors, worrying, caring.. it's not easy to deal with this much rejection. Some days I even wonder if he knows who I am because there is no spark of recognition when he sees me, no outburst of "mama!", no hugs or kisses for me (just bruises and bites), and the older it gets the worse it seems to be. But I'm a fighter, and we'll get through it like we always do. I know that phases are short in the life of a child, so this is yet another test that'll prepare me for something else the little guy will surely throw at me next.
So Victor is finally sleeping after an hour and a half struggle, and now I'm much too tired to do anything for myself. I just needed to express that it's a hard job being a mom, and this is usually the place where I vent things like that cause on Facebook I'll get all these comments like "Mommies have the best job ever, omgz!" and "I think you're silly! It's AWESOME being a mommy!". I'm typically a positive person but evenings like these where I know my weekend will be very long and my nights will be very short, it's hard to focus on the good stuff that makes being a mommy awesome. I know and try to remember that some day when he's older, we will have a lot of fun playing Legos together and going rock climbing and ice skating.
I had some other job-related things to mention but it's harder to focus on them after my solo-parenting crisis. I'll be commuting to Lyon and Paris starting in a few weeks, and it would be awesome to meet up with other bloggers in those areas. I'm also going to start doing a lot of translating and content-writing, which I haven't done in awhile but really enjoy. My deadlines are short so I've blocked all of my bank holidays and "bridge" days between now and the end of May to work on them. It'll be a real test for me to see if this is something I actually want to continue doing, and if so, how to proceed.
For the rest of my evening, there are three avocados waiting to become my dinner in the form of guacamole. It is Cinco de Mayo after all.. in college we'd all have been up to our ears in fish bowl sized margaritas by now. Funny how life changes so quickly.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Morning
I've mentioned before that I used to be a backpacker. I've spent summers in New Mexico and lots of weekends year-round all over the Appalachians. It was a time in my life where I've never felt so free, so strong, and so in-tune with who I am as a person. It's amazing what you learn about yourself when you are pushed down to your bare bones, and I've been reflecting on that a lot lately. Every day of my trip, I wrote in a journal, and I've been reading a lot of my old journals lately. On the top of every new day in my trail journal, it says "Nothing is worth more than this day". The journal is full of quotations I picked up from the people I hiked with, because we clung to these little sayings to get us from one place to another, from one challenge and up and over the next. There was another one that one of the rangers I hiked with used to write on letters to us -- "I will be there in the morning, remember who you are".
I really liked this one, because I feel like I've spent such a large part of my life trying to carve something out for myself. I know I have a tendency to isolate people or to isolate myself. My personality is intense, to say the least. But it was always refreshing to remember that in life, the people who actually matter will still be there in the morning, and they don't care who you are -- they love you in spite of yourself and your best efforts to sabotage all of your own hard work.
Life abroad hasn't really worked out that way for me, though -- this has always been a new kind of survival mode. I've found that relationships with mountains can be abusive yet forgiving in the end but something you really have to work on. People don't always embrace the quality of forgiveness quite as easily. Countries and cultures are the same. They don't have to love you for all of your flaws if they don't want to or try to be understanding -- they can just drop you and be done with you. I've seen a lot of friendships come and go in my time here, for whatever reason. I learned how to sort through the people I surround myself with so that I keep the ones I want to, and release the ones bringing bad vibes my way.
I'm in a strange place right now with a number of new and old friendships. I have more of a social life at the moment since I was in college, because my colleagues seem to genuinely like spending time with each other (either that or they've really got nothing better to do with themselves on a Friday night!) and despite my best efforts to be socially awkward and bastardizing their language, they keep inviting me out. I'm in the awkward position of trying to be just the right mix of myself and reserved (which isn't me at all, I have to really fight for this) but that seems to be how the French do it. You sit politely, listening. Then a few weeks later maybe you comment. Then a few months later you might be the one making the joke or entertaining the table with a story. I have to remember that I'm not there yet with most of these people, and to walk before I run. They don't have to accept me with all of my crazy for any particular reason, so I have to remind myself to slowly release the crazy over time, and by then the friendships will be forged and my intensity should seem less obvious.
But why am I talking about that? Because while the boys are in the South of France all week this week, I've been invited to do a number of things myself. Although there are a lot of changes happening for us right now, I'm hoping that by keeping busy I'll make it through to the other side more myself than I've been in awhile. Our little family is experiencing some turmoil, and in the process it's easy to lose sight of yourself, of your goals, and what makes you happy in life. I'm hoping to find some answers to a lot of the questions I've been asking myself. I have to remember who I am, and let those that will still be there for me in the morning. And even though it's been raining for weeks and my house is still cold, when those mornings do come (as they seem to every day), I need to remind myself to get up and live it the best I can, because in truth there really is nothing worth more than this day.
I really liked this one, because I feel like I've spent such a large part of my life trying to carve something out for myself. I know I have a tendency to isolate people or to isolate myself. My personality is intense, to say the least. But it was always refreshing to remember that in life, the people who actually matter will still be there in the morning, and they don't care who you are -- they love you in spite of yourself and your best efforts to sabotage all of your own hard work.
Life abroad hasn't really worked out that way for me, though -- this has always been a new kind of survival mode. I've found that relationships with mountains can be abusive yet forgiving in the end but something you really have to work on. People don't always embrace the quality of forgiveness quite as easily. Countries and cultures are the same. They don't have to love you for all of your flaws if they don't want to or try to be understanding -- they can just drop you and be done with you. I've seen a lot of friendships come and go in my time here, for whatever reason. I learned how to sort through the people I surround myself with so that I keep the ones I want to, and release the ones bringing bad vibes my way.
I'm in a strange place right now with a number of new and old friendships. I have more of a social life at the moment since I was in college, because my colleagues seem to genuinely like spending time with each other (either that or they've really got nothing better to do with themselves on a Friday night!) and despite my best efforts to be socially awkward and bastardizing their language, they keep inviting me out. I'm in the awkward position of trying to be just the right mix of myself and reserved (which isn't me at all, I have to really fight for this) but that seems to be how the French do it. You sit politely, listening. Then a few weeks later maybe you comment. Then a few months later you might be the one making the joke or entertaining the table with a story. I have to remember that I'm not there yet with most of these people, and to walk before I run. They don't have to accept me with all of my crazy for any particular reason, so I have to remind myself to slowly release the crazy over time, and by then the friendships will be forged and my intensity should seem less obvious.
But why am I talking about that? Because while the boys are in the South of France all week this week, I've been invited to do a number of things myself. Although there are a lot of changes happening for us right now, I'm hoping that by keeping busy I'll make it through to the other side more myself than I've been in awhile. Our little family is experiencing some turmoil, and in the process it's easy to lose sight of yourself, of your goals, and what makes you happy in life. I'm hoping to find some answers to a lot of the questions I've been asking myself. I have to remember who I am, and let those that will still be there for me in the morning. And even though it's been raining for weeks and my house is still cold, when those mornings do come (as they seem to every day), I need to remind myself to get up and live it the best I can, because in truth there really is nothing worth more than this day.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
A Moment
Picture this for a moment.
There are large windows all along the wall of my kitchen, and the (rare) afternoon sun is streaming in. Victor is in his highchair with a spoon in one hand, and glass jar of fruit in the other. He's dancing along as I'm singing Zombie at the top of my lungs. The chorus drops, I belt out a note, and in Victor's fit of laughter, the jar drops to the floor and shatters all over the tiles.
I should have seen that one coming.
The jar is in a million tiny pieces, transforming my kitchen from the battlefield that it already was -- cut up tiles, broken shards of pipes, an old rusty radiator laying haphazardly waiting to be removed, tools askew -- into a veritable mine field. Victor simply looks at it and gives it a good Gallic shrug as any tiny French person would, and goes back to chomping down on his bread.
The song ends and I turn the music off. I reach for my broom and sweep up as much of the mess as possible. As I turn to look for my dustpan, I remember -- it's still at the old house. Time to improvise. I go for the mop in the garage and wedging it into my sink in between yesterday's (ok.. this week's) unwashed dishes, I manage to get some sudsy water.
No sooner have I put the mop to the floor and started cleaning that I feel the snap of the handle breaking in half in my hands. It spent a little bit too much time outside at the old house, and the little pressure I applied was enough to break the rusted through handle and the flimsy plastic coating it. Rust dust goes flying every which way, clinging to the suds I'd just spread every where, little shards of glass glimmering in the soap bubbles.
My new radiator also stands on, watching. It's like Christmas Eve, all wrapped up in its plastic, ready to be ripped open, installed, and enjoyed forever and ever. Yes, like Christmas Eve because -- there it is -- and I can't do a damn thing with it. At least it should be installed by tomorrow.. and if not, some time in June. Surely I'll still get lots of use out of it, as it's frigid outside with sporadic torrential downpours.
Victor just sits in his chair, wondering when the heck his bath and bottle will be delivered.
I use my foot to push the mop head around enough to get it clean, and do the rest carefully with paper towels. I scoop up Victor in my arms and we head up the stairs and out of the battle field -- a bath would be much warmer and safer.
As we hike up the stairs, I reflect on what my life has become. We enter the bathroom and within seconds, Victor has patched the evening up.
He's got his inflatable bath tub in his arms, and he's putting it inside the tub. He goes to a cardboard box where he's spotted his bath toys, and one by one he unpacks them, tossing them into the tub as it fills. He watches as the water reaches the top, and then tries to climb in, fully clothed. Luckily he cooperates long enough to get undressed, and into the warm bath he goes.
As he plays with his ducks, squirts water at me, and splashes in the soap, I do feel better. My kitchen floor might need to be repaired, new pipes and radiator installed and now with tiny shards of glass waiting to rip open my bare feet at 3am when I go for a glass of water, but it's just a little snapshot of happiness that shows me that life isn't always as brutal as it might seem.
There are large windows all along the wall of my kitchen, and the (rare) afternoon sun is streaming in. Victor is in his highchair with a spoon in one hand, and glass jar of fruit in the other. He's dancing along as I'm singing Zombie at the top of my lungs. The chorus drops, I belt out a note, and in Victor's fit of laughter, the jar drops to the floor and shatters all over the tiles.
I should have seen that one coming.
The jar is in a million tiny pieces, transforming my kitchen from the battlefield that it already was -- cut up tiles, broken shards of pipes, an old rusty radiator laying haphazardly waiting to be removed, tools askew -- into a veritable mine field. Victor simply looks at it and gives it a good Gallic shrug as any tiny French person would, and goes back to chomping down on his bread.
The song ends and I turn the music off. I reach for my broom and sweep up as much of the mess as possible. As I turn to look for my dustpan, I remember -- it's still at the old house. Time to improvise. I go for the mop in the garage and wedging it into my sink in between yesterday's (ok.. this week's) unwashed dishes, I manage to get some sudsy water.
No sooner have I put the mop to the floor and started cleaning that I feel the snap of the handle breaking in half in my hands. It spent a little bit too much time outside at the old house, and the little pressure I applied was enough to break the rusted through handle and the flimsy plastic coating it. Rust dust goes flying every which way, clinging to the suds I'd just spread every where, little shards of glass glimmering in the soap bubbles.
My new radiator also stands on, watching. It's like Christmas Eve, all wrapped up in its plastic, ready to be ripped open, installed, and enjoyed forever and ever. Yes, like Christmas Eve because -- there it is -- and I can't do a damn thing with it. At least it should be installed by tomorrow.. and if not, some time in June. Surely I'll still get lots of use out of it, as it's frigid outside with sporadic torrential downpours.
Victor just sits in his chair, wondering when the heck his bath and bottle will be delivered.
I use my foot to push the mop head around enough to get it clean, and do the rest carefully with paper towels. I scoop up Victor in my arms and we head up the stairs and out of the battle field -- a bath would be much warmer and safer.
As we hike up the stairs, I reflect on what my life has become. We enter the bathroom and within seconds, Victor has patched the evening up.
He's got his inflatable bath tub in his arms, and he's putting it inside the tub. He goes to a cardboard box where he's spotted his bath toys, and one by one he unpacks them, tossing them into the tub as it fills. He watches as the water reaches the top, and then tries to climb in, fully clothed. Luckily he cooperates long enough to get undressed, and into the warm bath he goes.
As he plays with his ducks, squirts water at me, and splashes in the soap, I do feel better. My kitchen floor might need to be repaired, new pipes and radiator installed and now with tiny shards of glass waiting to rip open my bare feet at 3am when I go for a glass of water, but it's just a little snapshot of happiness that shows me that life isn't always as brutal as it might seem.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Dancey Dance Time!
(The title is thanks to Yo Gabba Gabba, my baby's favorite American TV show. Crack for kids, I tell ya.)
This weekend I had the privilege of attending a dance class at a conservatory lost out in a small town in the Pas de Calais. I got roped into it by one of my girl friends from my normal dance class, and went into it with a "eh, why not?" attitude. Having never danced at a conservatory (it's very different from the US) I didn't know what to expect, but I tagged along for the adventure.
The classes we signed up for were three hours of intermediate jazz (but jazz was more like modern dance, with a strong emphasis on ballet technique) split up over two days, and ... a musical comedy class. The beauty of my friend Marie is that she is a really fun girl who is basically up to try anything. Neither of us knew what to expect, but it would be okay since we'd attack it together. Besides, at such a small dance school in the middle of nowhere, we wouldn't know anybody, the classes would only last two days, and then they'd be finished. There was nobody to embarrass myself in front of, and nobody who would judge me or even likely remember me. It was the perfect situation for learning something new -- completely embarrassment risk free.
The courses were taught by a choreographer based in Paris who travels around teaching these kinds of "master classes". The jazz class was intense -- we had an intense warm up and intense choreography, but I felt good about it. After all these years I don't exactly have the right level for this sort of class anymore, but I wasn't alone and since it was just for fun, I didn't really care about messing up or making mistakes. By the time class was finished, Marie and I were grinning ear to ear -- what a great work out, and what a breath of fresh air from our usual dance lessons!
Then came our musical comedy class. I was nervous about having to sing in French, and sing and dance at the same time, and maybe even have to speak in French, but before I knew it I was even volunteering to speak! We opened with cabaret and then split into groups (there were many different ages present) where one group of us served as a "jury" like on a reality TV show, and the others would perform short dances, taking our critiques in between.
For me, participating on the jury was a risk. It was something new, but I wanted to force myself to do it. I always say that I think i'd be terrified to speak French in front of a group of people, and by doing this, I was taking one step forward towards conquering my fear. I have no problem speaking in public in English -- why should French be any different(per my last post)?
When he asked for 3 volunteers, I raised my hand and smiled at him. "Every jury has a foreigner, right?" and they laughed. I took my seat and played my role, using my accent to differentiate me from the others. I made a point of using all of the bastardized English vocabulary that the French use (C'est pas assez "clean", pas assez "fun") and everybody loved that. Then, little to my knowledge, it was time for me to perform a lip syncing routine with all of the dancers behind me. I improvised "Je suis bien" (don't know if that's really the title or not, or who it's by) and to my surprise and pleasure, Marie told me in the car yesterday after class that one of the women beside her whispered to her "elle est excellente!" while I was performing. It really made me happy to know that I could be just as outgoing and fearless in French as I am in English, and I feel like this "challenge" was a real success.
Laughter is a great prize for me, and the real success came at the end of the show. Throughout the little dance performances, the jury gets more and more agitated, disappointed in their work, and the more agitated we got, the more ridiculous their dances were. By the end, they were doing a Patrick Sebastien-style 100% disco dance, and it was the jury's role to cut them off and finish by delivering an improvised line. When at long last it was my turn to shine, I said "Oh my god (the french love this), je ne suis pas bien.." playing on my routine from earlier in the show. They were all in stitches with laughter! I was so pleased with myself, having made a joke that everybody appreciated and that was quite unexpected. It was such a great confidence booster.
On the drive back to Lille, the sun was shining and Marie and I were in good spirits. It was an amazing experience and so wonderful to really be using movement, my words and my personality to entertain people. Although we didn't have an audience, just making each other laugh was really fun. Now I'm thinking it might be fun to join an association, like the one I'm a part of for my pointe class, to do amateur musical comedies with the eventual goal of singing and dancing, in French, on a stage for an audience. I think that would be the ultimate challenge for me, and it actually feels like its within my reach.
This weekend I had the privilege of attending a dance class at a conservatory lost out in a small town in the Pas de Calais. I got roped into it by one of my girl friends from my normal dance class, and went into it with a "eh, why not?" attitude. Having never danced at a conservatory (it's very different from the US) I didn't know what to expect, but I tagged along for the adventure.
The classes we signed up for were three hours of intermediate jazz (but jazz was more like modern dance, with a strong emphasis on ballet technique) split up over two days, and ... a musical comedy class. The beauty of my friend Marie is that she is a really fun girl who is basically up to try anything. Neither of us knew what to expect, but it would be okay since we'd attack it together. Besides, at such a small dance school in the middle of nowhere, we wouldn't know anybody, the classes would only last two days, and then they'd be finished. There was nobody to embarrass myself in front of, and nobody who would judge me or even likely remember me. It was the perfect situation for learning something new -- completely embarrassment risk free.
The courses were taught by a choreographer based in Paris who travels around teaching these kinds of "master classes". The jazz class was intense -- we had an intense warm up and intense choreography, but I felt good about it. After all these years I don't exactly have the right level for this sort of class anymore, but I wasn't alone and since it was just for fun, I didn't really care about messing up or making mistakes. By the time class was finished, Marie and I were grinning ear to ear -- what a great work out, and what a breath of fresh air from our usual dance lessons!
Then came our musical comedy class. I was nervous about having to sing in French, and sing and dance at the same time, and maybe even have to speak in French, but before I knew it I was even volunteering to speak! We opened with cabaret and then split into groups (there were many different ages present) where one group of us served as a "jury" like on a reality TV show, and the others would perform short dances, taking our critiques in between.
For me, participating on the jury was a risk. It was something new, but I wanted to force myself to do it. I always say that I think i'd be terrified to speak French in front of a group of people, and by doing this, I was taking one step forward towards conquering my fear. I have no problem speaking in public in English -- why should French be any different(per my last post)?
When he asked for 3 volunteers, I raised my hand and smiled at him. "Every jury has a foreigner, right?" and they laughed. I took my seat and played my role, using my accent to differentiate me from the others. I made a point of using all of the bastardized English vocabulary that the French use (C'est pas assez "clean", pas assez "fun") and everybody loved that. Then, little to my knowledge, it was time for me to perform a lip syncing routine with all of the dancers behind me. I improvised "Je suis bien" (don't know if that's really the title or not, or who it's by) and to my surprise and pleasure, Marie told me in the car yesterday after class that one of the women beside her whispered to her "elle est excellente!" while I was performing. It really made me happy to know that I could be just as outgoing and fearless in French as I am in English, and I feel like this "challenge" was a real success.
Laughter is a great prize for me, and the real success came at the end of the show. Throughout the little dance performances, the jury gets more and more agitated, disappointed in their work, and the more agitated we got, the more ridiculous their dances were. By the end, they were doing a Patrick Sebastien-style 100% disco dance, and it was the jury's role to cut them off and finish by delivering an improvised line. When at long last it was my turn to shine, I said "Oh my god (the french love this), je ne suis pas bien.." playing on my routine from earlier in the show. They were all in stitches with laughter! I was so pleased with myself, having made a joke that everybody appreciated and that was quite unexpected. It was such a great confidence booster.
On the drive back to Lille, the sun was shining and Marie and I were in good spirits. It was an amazing experience and so wonderful to really be using movement, my words and my personality to entertain people. Although we didn't have an audience, just making each other laugh was really fun. Now I'm thinking it might be fun to join an association, like the one I'm a part of for my pointe class, to do amateur musical comedies with the eventual goal of singing and dancing, in French, on a stage for an audience. I think that would be the ultimate challenge for me, and it actually feels like its within my reach.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Multiple Personalities
I don't know why I ever imagined that I'd be the same person when speaking French as I am when speaking English, but I'm coming to find more and more every day that I am two very different people depending on the language i'm speaking.
I was thinking about this yesterday (and last week), because this is really the first year of my life in France where I haven't been surrounded by expats at every turn. I'm no longer working in an agency where everybody is foreign or has lived abroad and come back, and I'm not even seeing my Anglo-Friends that much anymore, due to life being as it is once you have a job, kids, etc etc.
Last Thursday, we had a cocktail party after work followed by an after party in Lille. I spoke English most of the evening at the cocktail because that's sort of my job -- I create an international atmosphere wherever I go, trying to encourage people to speak and make it as easy for them as possible. At the after party though, I decided to loosen up a little bit -- if I'm actually going to make friends with somebody here, they might get tired of speaking a foreign language every time they see me. To the shock and awe of everybody in the room, I actually spoke French. Then, I went from being the English teacher colleague, to being a novelty. Regardless of which language I'm speaking, there's always something that affects the way people view me.
During the cocktail hour, I had my audience in stitches, telling stories, doing my accents, basically just being myself which felt pretty good since most of the time I have to choose my words so deliberately. It was great to see everybody hanging on my every word, following my tales to the end. After I switched to French, I saw an immediate change in the way I spoke, and also in the way I captivated my audience. No longer were they following along, waiting for the punch line. Instead, they were dissecting my speech (or so it feels, sometimes). "It's so charming!" the guys say (and not "charming" in an "i'm charmed" kind of way -- charming in a condescending kind of way). "I wish I could speak so well!" the girls say. I just blush. I like being the center of attention because I'm making people laugh, and not because I want to sit on a pedestal and be picked over. Most of the time when I'm in a room full of natives, I do a lot of standing back and observing. I rarely interject things into the conversation. I'm no longer charming because I'm intelligent or funny; I'm "charming" because I make mistakes and talk with an accent. It feels so juvenile, and often like an insult to the person that I am in my native language.
A few weeks after Victor was born, I also decided to venture into the world of French social activities, and signed up for a dance class that I've mentioned a few times on my blog. At first, I felt like an idiot because the language of ballet is French (which is actually false) and sometimes I had a hard time understanding. As with all things in this country, over time it got easier and the girls did a really great job of making me feel like I was a part of the group. Still, I can tell that I'm somewhere inside the circle, yet towards the outside, because I just can't make conversation in the same way. I can't be myself, I can't charm or wow them with my stories, even if I know the right words to use and how to string them together. It's just not who I am "in French". My French persona is a big shy, a bit quiet in social settings. I really felt like I was having a hard time getting people to listen to me in class yesterday, and that my ideas were very quickly dismissed. I stewed in frustration (not really my style) but well, what else could I do? These are my friends, so I have to just be patient and try to speak up for myself when I can. I have to be careful with the people I want to build relationships with though because when i'm not shy or quiet, I am loud and aggressive.
One of Jeremie's biggest critiques of my language skills is my "aggression". I think the French interpret something as aggressive any time it can't be classified as "passive". As soon as you show a hint of a negative emotion -- BAM! You are aggressive, and the "calmez vous madame"s start flying. Jeremie hates that, but I've found that it's actually more effective for getting your work done than playing into the passive game and standing back. For instance, on Saturday we decided to call a new phone provider to get our internet hooked up because our previous one was taking too long. J asked a few questions and was then ready to hand over our bank information so that they could withdraw the deposit.
"Hold your horses!" I shouted, insisting that he pass the phone over and get more details. "Yes but I have to give the bank information, otherwise we won't know when they can come and hook up the internet." This sort of "logic" is lost on me. I don't trust it, and I don't buy into it. I then took the phone from the woman and started a very basic line of questioning -- what services were available? How much on average per month? What was the average wait time before a line could be connected? "No sooner than..." and that's where I got the answer. I never handed over any bank information, I just started questioning until she started answering. I didn't accept her speech about "well first we have to sign you up, and then we'll see...".
In the end, I chose another provider who was able to tell me what I wanted to hear, rather than dispensing our account info all across the country.
So I don't know. I can get the job done, but I can't make people laugh from humor, just my silly mistakes. I think after five years here, my personality is pretty much what it is and I'm not sure how much it will change. I'm ok with that too, but it is surprising to see how much weaker my French side is. I don't know if that's just because it's more "French" and less "American", or if I just haven't quite found my voice, despite my ability to speak the language. I guess we'll see in another five years if I still feel the same.
I was thinking about this yesterday (and last week), because this is really the first year of my life in France where I haven't been surrounded by expats at every turn. I'm no longer working in an agency where everybody is foreign or has lived abroad and come back, and I'm not even seeing my Anglo-Friends that much anymore, due to life being as it is once you have a job, kids, etc etc.
Last Thursday, we had a cocktail party after work followed by an after party in Lille. I spoke English most of the evening at the cocktail because that's sort of my job -- I create an international atmosphere wherever I go, trying to encourage people to speak and make it as easy for them as possible. At the after party though, I decided to loosen up a little bit -- if I'm actually going to make friends with somebody here, they might get tired of speaking a foreign language every time they see me. To the shock and awe of everybody in the room, I actually spoke French. Then, I went from being the English teacher colleague, to being a novelty. Regardless of which language I'm speaking, there's always something that affects the way people view me.
During the cocktail hour, I had my audience in stitches, telling stories, doing my accents, basically just being myself which felt pretty good since most of the time I have to choose my words so deliberately. It was great to see everybody hanging on my every word, following my tales to the end. After I switched to French, I saw an immediate change in the way I spoke, and also in the way I captivated my audience. No longer were they following along, waiting for the punch line. Instead, they were dissecting my speech (or so it feels, sometimes). "It's so charming!" the guys say (and not "charming" in an "i'm charmed" kind of way -- charming in a condescending kind of way). "I wish I could speak so well!" the girls say. I just blush. I like being the center of attention because I'm making people laugh, and not because I want to sit on a pedestal and be picked over. Most of the time when I'm in a room full of natives, I do a lot of standing back and observing. I rarely interject things into the conversation. I'm no longer charming because I'm intelligent or funny; I'm "charming" because I make mistakes and talk with an accent. It feels so juvenile, and often like an insult to the person that I am in my native language.
A few weeks after Victor was born, I also decided to venture into the world of French social activities, and signed up for a dance class that I've mentioned a few times on my blog. At first, I felt like an idiot because the language of ballet is French (which is actually false) and sometimes I had a hard time understanding. As with all things in this country, over time it got easier and the girls did a really great job of making me feel like I was a part of the group. Still, I can tell that I'm somewhere inside the circle, yet towards the outside, because I just can't make conversation in the same way. I can't be myself, I can't charm or wow them with my stories, even if I know the right words to use and how to string them together. It's just not who I am "in French". My French persona is a big shy, a bit quiet in social settings. I really felt like I was having a hard time getting people to listen to me in class yesterday, and that my ideas were very quickly dismissed. I stewed in frustration (not really my style) but well, what else could I do? These are my friends, so I have to just be patient and try to speak up for myself when I can. I have to be careful with the people I want to build relationships with though because when i'm not shy or quiet, I am loud and aggressive.
One of Jeremie's biggest critiques of my language skills is my "aggression". I think the French interpret something as aggressive any time it can't be classified as "passive". As soon as you show a hint of a negative emotion -- BAM! You are aggressive, and the "calmez vous madame"s start flying. Jeremie hates that, but I've found that it's actually more effective for getting your work done than playing into the passive game and standing back. For instance, on Saturday we decided to call a new phone provider to get our internet hooked up because our previous one was taking too long. J asked a few questions and was then ready to hand over our bank information so that they could withdraw the deposit.
"Hold your horses!" I shouted, insisting that he pass the phone over and get more details. "Yes but I have to give the bank information, otherwise we won't know when they can come and hook up the internet." This sort of "logic" is lost on me. I don't trust it, and I don't buy into it. I then took the phone from the woman and started a very basic line of questioning -- what services were available? How much on average per month? What was the average wait time before a line could be connected? "No sooner than..." and that's where I got the answer. I never handed over any bank information, I just started questioning until she started answering. I didn't accept her speech about "well first we have to sign you up, and then we'll see...".
In the end, I chose another provider who was able to tell me what I wanted to hear, rather than dispensing our account info all across the country.
So I don't know. I can get the job done, but I can't make people laugh from humor, just my silly mistakes. I think after five years here, my personality is pretty much what it is and I'm not sure how much it will change. I'm ok with that too, but it is surprising to see how much weaker my French side is. I don't know if that's just because it's more "French" and less "American", or if I just haven't quite found my voice, despite my ability to speak the language. I guess we'll see in another five years if I still feel the same.
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