When coming to France, I knew things were going to be different than they were in the US. I mean, it’s only logical that a different, and some might say more mature (I prefer “elderly”), culture would have a university system steeped in their own traditions and thus a flavor of academia that was all their own. In that respect, I was not disappointed, as the French system is nothing if not unique. However, much as registering for classes has proven to me that an older system does not mean a wiser or more perfect one, I’ve also learned that the transition between the two systems, the necessity of keeping one foot in the American world of GPA’s and transcripts and the other on the sol français where they are only concerned about the moyenne and promote a far more laissez-faire attitude, is equally grating on my nerves.
As with most of my rants, this one was provoked by yet another moment where my apparent utter ignorance of the way things are done here, or a complete lack of savoir faire, had me wanting to throw myself headlong into the Seine. What happened? The number 9 is what happened, meek and feeble sitting atop a hefty 20. Basic mathematics will tell you that a 9 is 45% of a 20, so when I saw that scrawled in crimson ink on one of the few assignments that will be used to determine my grade for my translation class, my aforementioned suicidal urge becomes more understandable. Admittedly, 10/20 in France is an average grade and equates, according to Middlebury’s official scale used to convert French grades, to a B-, so a 9/10 isn’t la fin du monde (the end of the world), but it is both not passing and highly disappointing.
Look, I’m fine with getting terrible grades if I deserve them. Well, not fine, but I can accept a bad grade for bad work. In this case, I’m not sure I deserved an A, but the rough equivalent of an F-, I’m not so sure was fair either. Sure, I should have stuck with my gut and put the work in the passé simple (a literary tense equivalent to the English preterit) instead of the passé composé (a tense that expresses the same idea but is spoken or used in less formal writing), but as we had translated several literary texts in class using the passé composé (and I’d left my good friend Bescherelle, master of conjugation, at home when I was working on this), I thought I was well within my rights to use either. Yeah, not so much, although it appears that that bothered her fairly inconsistently as not everyone was docked for being insufficiently erudite.
Among other little piddling things, it’s not only the inconsistent grading, but the lack of clearly spelled out expectations that has me fuming. Professors expect us to know how to work in the French paradigm, which gives anal retentive new meaning, let me assure you, without bothering to ask themselves where we, the foreign students, should acquire such knowledge. One French methodology class before flinging us from the high dive into the deep end of French scholarly waters doesn’t really cut it. Furthermore, though a 9/20 might be “plutôt correct” (fairly respectable) in France, is it so much to ask that the professors, especially those that teach at the American center, know what constitutes a passing grade for us and what does not and what a B- does to a GPA? Also, if we are being graded as French students in version (the English to French section of class which is considerably more difficult), should we not both know this ahead of time and be graded as such in thème (French to English), thereby allowing us to even out our grades (I wasn’t dissatisfied with my grade in thème, but I do feel as though I was graded as an anglophone)? Is it impossible to tell us that French professors want you to read ALL of the textbooks before class (which I find ridiculous) starts more than three days before class? What about teaching horny chauvinistic professors that American women don’t put up with the same bullshit that their European equivalents are used to and taking action when sexual harassment becomes a daily part of class? Basically, is it so much to ask that an American university that has had a school in France for decades has the professors and administrators do their homework before asking us to do ours?
What this all boils down to is the overwhelming feeling that my time and effort is not be respected in this program. I know a master’s is supposed to be hard, and I know that part of what makes getting it abroad more prestigious is that it proves you can navigate a foreign, and in this case Byzantine, system and succeed, but I feel like a culture that prides itself on being so bien elevé (well brought up) seems to be falling short where politeness is concerned. Maybe it’s the East Coast in me, maybe along with too many books and too many pairs of pants, I checked too much cultural baggage. “Time is money” where I come from and “the customer is always right” but here, time, especially that of a foreigner, is practically worthless. If I am expected to force my commentaire composés to fit their three part style, they can come to class prepared with a clear lesson plan ready to teach and not just fake it as they go along. If I’m paying $50,000 to be here, their classes should not feel like something they threw together just to collect a paycheck. I want to feel like they care about what they’re teaching and that, though they are professors, that they respect the fact that I am a human being who needs to be taught not mocked. When doing a cost/benefit analysis, I should not feel like this program is resting on gilded laurels.
I was recently asked for my opinion of what I’d like to say to the students who are potentially coming next year to this program, and though I’m sure my comments would be swept under the rug, here they are: you will learn a lot in this program, that is undeniable, but what makes Middlebury special is the school abroad and the language pledge, not the way it teaches. If you’d like to improve your French, do a work abroad program where you will spend your time speaking the language and read on your own time at a pace that allows you to digest and enjoy the books instead of hurrying you through them. In short, if you’ve got $50,000 just lying around, instead of coming here, why not do something more practical like buy a new Lexus or start a cocaine habit? You’ll have more fun and, given the economic climate and the realities of the job market (or lack thereof) for French speakers, you won’t be any worse off.
Yes, this is a little overblown, exaggerated, and reflects my complete and utter frustration more accurately than it does my actual opinion of this program, but still, it had to be said.
OMG, I’m FINALLY done with Nana:a novel of about 500 pages on the most self-centered and decadent prostitute who ever lived (well, in Emile Zola’s imagination) and who serves as an allegory for the Second Empire under Napoleon III. If Zola weren’t so damned brilliant, I’d light the book on fire and dance around it half-naked with my face painted, sacrificing it to a heathen god just for fun (well, that and if I didn’t have to do a presentation on it in a few weeks). This semester is helping me develop a deeper appreciation for 19th century literature, though I’m not sure anything besides the absence of these draconian deadlines can make slogging through this insanely long books any more enjoyable.
I think, in all fairness, that is really is the deadlines that is making me loathe my reading material at the moment as the works are actually quite brilliant. Pluie et vent sur Telumée Miracle, for example, is very well written and portrays some very important historical themes from a somewhat uncommon perspective (not that Frederick Douglas and Harriet Beecher Stowe didn’t both already do that more effectively hundreds of years earlier, but what are you going to do?). At least this book had voodoo priestesses in it. If I had been able to savor this book over a week or so instead of gobbling it down all in one afternoon, giving myself considerable intellectual indigestion, I think I might have actually enjoyed it. Likewise, I think that’s why I’m not getting that much out of the other books I’m cramming down my gullet as quickly as possible. Le ugh.Does anybody have any literary Maylox?
On a less whiny note, Hayden (one of my friends and coworkers in the program) sent me a link on Facebook that has me pretty excited! You know how Ben & Jerry’s has Free Cone Day every year? Well, Pierre Hermé, one of the fancypants macaron bakers (super light, almost meringue-y cookies with incredible fillings) has a free macaron day! They ask that you give a small donation at the door to help a charitable cause, but you get three free macarons from a seemingly endless array of flavors, so it seems pretty fair. Who knew there was free stuff in Paris?! If you’re interested, here’s the link.
My goal today is to 1) get over this stomach bug that’s had me watching what I eat for a few days so I can actually go out with Kate tonight in Montmartre as we’d planned and 2) to get through L’Exil selon Julia, another book from the French Antilles that I can’t actually say I’m looking forward to. This weekend, it’s Treblaypalooza 2010 and some serious rattrapage (catching-up) in L’Education sentilentale by Flaubert which is, thankfully, the last giant 19th century book I need to conquer before break. If I can keep all this literature down, I’ll be sitting pretty at the start of April vacation. If not, I’ll be in the toilet, puking metaphor and synecdoque all over the place.
To cleanse your palette after that rather unsavory image, I leave you with “Heavy Cross” by The Gossip, a song which I greatly enjoy and is playing all the time here in France. Enjoy!
OK, this has to be quick as I really need to get some sleep, but in case you’re wondering why you probably won’t see me out doing anything fun between now and, oh let’s say spring break, here’s my to-do list for the next 4.5 weeks:
Books to Read
Nana by Zola (in progress and probably will be finished tomorrow or Thursday
L’Éducation sentimentale by Flaubert (hoping to start and finish by this weekend
La Fille Elisa by Edmond de Goncourt (I need to actually FIND this book that Amazon doesn’t even have in order to finish it, preferably this weekend)
L’Exil selon Julia by Gisèle Pineau
Traversée de la Mangrove by Maryse Condé
Le Cœur découvert by Michel Tremblay (in progress and hopefully will be done by Sunday night)
La Duchesse et le roturier by Michel Tremblay
Les Cahiers rouges by Michel Tremblay (one or two chapters read, but a lot to go)
Les Belles Sœurs by Michel Tremblay (a play I’ve already read, but need to re-read and analyze
La Nuit des princes charmants by Michel Tremblay (again, I’ve read it, but I need to go through and actually analyze it
Éloge de la créoleté by Jean Barnabe (needs to be read and analyzed for a presentation next week)
Le ravissement de Lol V. Stein by Marguerite Duras (for another exposé)
All of the Tremblay stuff my thesis director wants me to have read for our next meeting. That’s either SOOOOOO not happening or we’re meeting in June. Whichever.
Papers to write:
7-8 pages of my thesis by FRIDAY?! SAY WHAT?! (5 or so done)
3-5 pages on whatever crap topic we have for Antilles for March 24th
10-12 page research paper May 6th for Représentations du féminin
Oral Presentations to write and give:
20 minutes on Éloge de la créolté March 17th
20 minutes on vies de prostituées, les compagnes de Nana et “Nana, est-elle crédible?” (the life of prostitues, Nana’s female companions, and “Is Nana believable/reliable?” for April 1st
25-30 minutes on some aspect of Le ravissement de Lol V. Stein for just before vacation
Is this a manageable amount of work? No, not for the faint of heart. Will I get it done? Hell, why not give it my all? I mean, if I have all this shit done by vacation, I’m REALLY going to enjoy the time off, assuming I’m not in ICU recovering from exhaustion. Would it be so wrong to just buy a ticket back to the US and find a job instead of facing this Herculean task? Le ugh.
Add to this teaching and the fact that I also have translation homework to do and classes to actually attend, and you can see why I’ve locked myself in cafés or in my apartment until further notice. Three French lit classes and a thesis at the same time? Not my brightest move. FML.
After watching Le Chef: contre-attaque with Cyrille Lignac on M6 tonight, a show which is all about slowing down and reclaiming France’s gastronomic heritage in a world of plats tout-faits (pre-made meals) and microwavable everything, I realized that some of the advances in the last century that have allowed us to accelerate life to its dizzying modern pace haven’t all been the Heaven-sent blessings they were cracked up to be. Well, that and the fact that the quick dinner I grabbed was served to me by a conveyor belt in meticulous and efficient Japanese style. We do eat too quickly and we don’t really take any joy in preparing our food these days, it’s true, and I’d love to get back to the days when that was possible. Hell, when it comes to food preparation here in France, I’d settle for an oven!
On a similar but non-food-related note, I think I’ve also been settling for the insipid, rapidly digestable, refined carbohydrates of literature lately which is nothing like the slow readings I enjoy putting on my mental back burners to stew and simmer for hours, adding the spices I find during my daily routine for flavor. Cramming all these books down my gullet at such breakneck speed just to get through them only ensures I end up with the flimsiest understanding of the basic plot. The idea of broadening my horizons through slowly peeling back the many layers of meaning just brings tears to my eyes and is fairly laughable given my impending deadlines.
Why did I opt for an accelerated master’s again? Why did I opt for an accelerated life in general? Is there something so wrong with doing things slowly and well? Blergh, I don’t have time to think about it. I need to take a power nap, get up early, drink some instant coffee, sprint to class, and speed-read all day tomorrow. At least darting around from one task to the next like a hummingbird has to burn lots of calories, right?
Posted by Jonathan Bowley on Jan 1, 2010 in Uncategorized
11th grade English was memorable for many reasons, not the least of which was our excentric English teacher, Mr. Keane. The books we read, such as Animal Farm by Orwell (or was that 10th grade?), Moby Dick by Melville, The Great Gatsby (still one of my favorites) by F. Scott Fitzgerald, among many others were pretty fantastic and though some of them were quite simple (e.g. The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway), they were almost all mind blowingly good. I think it was Mr. Keane’s English class at Harford High School that really started to make me think more deeply about literature in some sort of meaningful, more-important-than-getting-an-A sort of way.
Whether it was his vocal gender-bending as the sexy woman in red in Death of a Salesman or his heart-stopping outbursts during particularly important passages whose meaning seemed to elude us, Mr. Keane had a way of really making you stop and think about what you were reading and examine it in microscopic detail. One of the most important moments in any book, he taught us, is the mention of the title in the work, which is clearly true, but to make sure we never missed it, he would always shout, “DING DONG!” whenever one was mentioned. While watching a video snippet of Moby Dick, as the whale breaches, Captain Ahab’s ranting would be drowned out by Mr Keane’s deafening exclamation, “DING DONG!” And so it went throughout the rest of my junior year and through AP English the next year.
Mr. Keane’s technique was so effective and so memorable, in fact, that it has become some sort of autonomic response during my further studies in literature. Reading Notre-Dame de Paris in my apartment in France, Victor Hugo’s rendition of Quasimodo’s handiwork wasn’t the only chorus of bells I heard: “A whole chapter named ‘Notre-Dame de Paris?!’ DING DONG! DING DONG!” Reading Upton Sinclair’s (isn’t that a great name?) The Jungle in a double-wide in Hutto, Texas (piqued your curiosity, have I?), the hammers smashing in the cow’s heads before turning them into sawdust filled steaks wasn’t the only clattering I heard. In short, like it or not, Mr. Keane is always with me when I’m reading.
So today while reading Great Expectations by Dickens, imagine the cacophony in my head when I got to the chapter when the lawyer comes and tells Pip about his new enriched life as a gentleman at the expense of a mysterious benefactor (you’re not fooling anyone Dickens, we all know Miss Havisham is behind it); the silly solicitor must have said “great expectations” ten times in two pages! All the ding dongs risked giving me a headache, but not before working precisely as designed and making me realize how fundamentally important the passage was to the book. Pip not only has tangible “great expectations” coming to him in the form of a substantial fortune, he has them of his new life as a gentleman including the possible wooing of Estella. Joe, Biddy, and to a much lesser extent, Pip’s now feeble sister have “great expectations” of what Pip will accomplish and how far he’ll go in life. His mysterious benefactor certainly has “great expectations” of what he’ll do as a gentleman, and probably expects him to do some pretty “great” favors in return. The weight of what’s happening is palpable and nearly crushing, like the first day at a college that is costing a fortune or the first day on the job that you got based on a stellar recommendation from your previous employer. There are moments in life when you have a lot to live up to or when fate has to be exceptionally kind to fulfill a vision you’ve dreamt up for your life, and from this theme has Dickens so deftly chosen the title of his work. Ding dong! He’s a genius.
This chapter also got me thinking about the Miss Havishams in life. How many wealthy benefactors are out there making dreams come true while remaining in the shadows like this aged despondent bride? The federal government and scholarship foundations are allowing underprivileged youth to get a higher education every day and yet these unseen and generous entities go largely unthanked and unknown. It’s very encouraging to think that people with real amounts of money (far exceeding the meager $25/month I send to my little Andrés in Mexico) get something more than a tax deduction out of giving a chance to the less fortunate. Enriching the general populous is a truly altruistic gesture, and both restores my faith in humanity and helps strip away the villainous and miserly reputation the empoverished have of the more affluent. Money might not be able to buy happiness directly, but giving it away can. I’ll find out if Miss Havisham’s gift allows any happiness to creep into her dank shadow-filled existence in a few hundred pages, but in the meantime, I’ll just relish in the happiness the imaginary sounding of a bell can inspire.
