The girl with the funky accent.

My kids were out of control today with my version of Christmas Pictionnary.

First and foremost: We're extra behind in the syllabus. Why are we still working on Thanksgiving and Christmas material in the end of January? We should be doing MLK Jr. Day...just saying...

Also: “Christmas” might just be the hardest word for French people to say. I had to repeat it so many times I'm not even sure that I know how to say it right. And I know my lisp wasn't helping the situation. Is that “t” even pronounced???? I'm confused.

Lastly: Why did we take a 3-minute break today to have each kid ask me how to say their name in English. It was literally like a scene out of Love Actually where everyone was so intrigued by my accent...they've known me for 4 months now and it's still a novelty. “Cydny, dit Clément en anglais!” they cheered! “Clement," I said, followed by an eruption of laughter. Then Axel, Florentin, Margaux, Océane, Charlotte, and finally Jason. After Jason's name one of my students chimes in, “It's the same name in English...and that's because it's an English name!”

The funny thing is this is literally the second time that my 3^rd graders have asked to hear me pronounce their names in English. Is this a French thing? And I'm so sensitive. Even though they're little kids and they tell me every day that they adore me, I can't help but feel like they're making fun of the way I speak. Lately I've been asking myself, is my accent something to be mocked or is it really exotic and interesting?

Late one night about 3 weeks ago I was in the train with Lidia (from Spain) and Haley (from Texas) and these two guys in the train overheard us talking in our variety of accents. “Where are you ladies from??” they inquired. Then they tried to guess. One of the guys took a quick interest in Lidia, “You're from Spain, aren't you?” Haley was too annoyed to participate in the game. In typical Cydny fashion I wanted a bit of the attention: “Me! Me! Guess me!” But they were already occupied. The guy gushed about Lidia's accent, “Please say my name. The Spanish accent is so sexy...just say 'Bonjour Benoit'.” Lidia rolled her eyes as he begged. (Me on the side with a grimace: No one asked me to say their name!) He was so happy when she said his name that it was actually a little gross. What is it with men and accents? And why didn't he like mine? My kids get a kick out of it...

Above: Video of my preschoolers learning how to make a pie. 

(actually, mostly just cheesing for me with the camera...we're hard workers...)

What is it with people and accents? My friend, who I refer to as banquier (or bankman, because we met at the bank) once told me he found my accent to be cute. An American accent, exotic? No way, I told him. But he insisted. Then he met my italian friend, Viviana, and changed his mind. “Now THAT is a cute accent,” he said one night at dinner. I couldn't even argue: it's gorgeous when she talks. Last week banquier showed me a video of this English woman, Jane Birkin, who's lived in France for some 30+ years but still has a terrible accent. “You're not like her because she's been here forever and her level of French is just...shameful.” I don't know if he meant to say I speak as badly as her but it's bound to get better or if he meant that I already speak better than her and I'm going to get EVEN better. Either way, I got a bit sensitive. Cross your fingers for the latter because I think my accent is here to stay.

Jane Birkin in France (admittedly a weird youtube video, 

you have to skip ahead to 1:40 and 4:30 to hear her speak.)

I really don't think I sound like her...

After a week of sulking in my accent woes, and harassing every French person I know into telling me how well I speak, I've come to terms with the fact that I do sound American. And that's the thing. What's wrong with me having an accent???? It's a mark of my identity: a blend of where I'm from, sprinkled with my personality. My accent makes my kids smile almost every day, especially when I mispronounce a name (seriously, what is the difference between Noémie and Naomi???). Also Florentin, Corentin, Aurore and Lilian...those are just hard to say. And no one expects Antonio Banderas, Sophia Vergara or even Jude Law to lose their accents in America, so why should I try to change mine here in the France? My voice is charming, at least my colleagues seem to think so.


Bref, love it or you hate it, my accent is mine.

And if it's good for anything at all, it's a great conversation starter.

Ludachristmas

The Christmas market in Lille

Christmas time in France is beautiful. After seeing all the sparkling holiday markets, the local Christmas festivals, and little kids in Santa Claus (or Papa Noel, as they call him here) hats, there's no way anyone could say the opposite. December in France is a time for family, foie gras, and something else I'm surprised to say: Christmas shopping. And INTENSE Christmas shopping at that.

You see, I thought capitalism was our thing. And if I ever forgot it, some French people that I've met have been sure to let me know that America is extreme (and articles like this only help to prove their point). But after having done my Christmas shopping in Lille among a swarm of desperate, crowded, deep-pocketed spenders, I must say, they're just as “bad” as us. Minus the pepper spray.

Last week I was in FNAC, a sort of Barnes & Noble book/media/music store, and the crowded 3-story building had a sign next to the check-out line saying “20 minute wait”. Two older women ignored the seemingly endless checkout line and went straight to the cashier before being redirected. I overheard the grandmas playing it off “Ooh,” one said acting confused, “We thought the sign said that the line started here.” They ended up getting sent to the back with the rest of us. Clearly the older ladies (and when I say older, I mean, 75+) were trying to get over on the system. But the fact is, the system, no matter how leisure and chill everyone tries to make it out to be, is just as intense as in the USA. It made me think, “Damn, they don't play in France.” Back of the line. No exceptions.

Haley and I enjoying vin chaud at the Christmas market--here's the recipe!

Two weeks ago I went to Paris and really wanted to pick up some things from the Champs-Elysees. The Champs-Elysees, a place I've experienced as being calm and romantic, was transformed in the Christmas-time intensity, into a sparkling mosh pit. An overstuffed road of out-of-towners eating crepes and drinking vin chaud (which when you think of it wouldn't be that bad if I wasn't trying to get some things done). So, it was a shopping fail. Sorry family, no gifts from Paris.

The Christmas folie has also spread to my work at the school. “Everyone is ready for Christmas break,” my runny-nosed colleague remarks, “The kids are getting antsy.” And it's true. There's been a few schoolyard scraps, some angry & overbearing parents, and a lot of teachers with colds/flus/unidentified sicknesses. I feel bad for the one substitute teacher, Thomas, who has replaced at least one teacher at our school every day this week. We were talking about how a bug is going around and he seemed surprised that everyone was coming down with something. I'm not surprised. Not one bit. If you saw how many nose and booty-picking kids run around my school you wouldn't be surprised either. The preschoolers are the worst. They have NO SHAME whatsoever. I almost took a video of one of my 4-year olds come to an abrupt stop mid-sprint to search the depths of his nose, but I decided that would be too bogus. Me and another colleague were just watching and cracking up: “He's so focused!” my colleague teased.

Another preschooler has literally crapped his pants every day this week. My jaw dropped, "WE'VE got to clean that up?!?" My coworker rolled her eyes in annoyance: "Yeeup, and he's done this everyday. I spoke with his mother and told her this isn't normal." I told the preschool teachers they need to stop giving him vegetables and start feeding him baguette, that should back him up a bit. So gross. 

I must say, in the end no matter how hectic Christmas time gets, everyone seems to remember that this is a time to come together and show our appreciation for one another. The retirement home where I live has a choir and they performed at our town's Christmas market. Here's a video I took of their performance last Sunday morning (don't judge the quality, I took it on my phone). Even though the vocals were nowhere near as good as Miriah on "All I Want For Christmas," or as entertaining as...well, paint drying, I was really happy to be there and support them...especially because once a week I hear them in the foyer practicing really hard. The point isn't that they sound good, it's that they wanted to share the Christmas spirit with the community. 

And I'm learning that the Christmas spirit, in all it's stressfulness, intensity, and sweetness is universal, I mean, at least between France and the US. 

Some more examples of the Christmas spirit in action: 

My kindergarteners and 1st graders singing French Christmas songs (terribly and cute) 

A poorly lit Christmas dinner I had with some of my best friends here

A band playing my town's Christmas market

Cultural Peculiarities

Life is good. 

Fortunately, I'm never short of inspiration for this blog. This country just keeps rolling out new material for me, everyday.

In staying on this positive note, I'm getting more and more accustomed to my life here. I go to the grocery store almost every day, and the cashiers are beginning to recognize me. One cashier asks: “Are you ever going to turn in your memberhip card form?" I asked for it a month ago...oops.

They also know me at the bank. I've had to go there so many times at this point and ask for really complicated things (like international wire transfers) that we're now all on a first-name basis.

And my newfound local "celebrity" status doesn't stop there. There are TWO newspaper articles on me. One is in the town newsletter and another piece was done in the regional paper La Voix du Nord.

My town's Newsletter

The piece on me in the newsletter.  It reads "Cydny, notre jolie etudiante americaine" (Cydny, our pretty american student...I'm not a student though...they made a lot of mistakes like that)

It's even been great with friends. I spend a lot of time with my colleagues who invite me for meals. I've made new friends on the train or just walking down the street. But mostly I hang out with this group of other language assistants. It's funny because we all come from different countries (except Haley, who's from Texas...which could be considered it's own country). 

My colleague and I at the English Channel (she invited me for the day)

What's even more amusing is that our common language is French, and none of us are native French speakers. So each of us has a very distinct accent and speaks what I can only imagine is comical French. My friend Sarah often resorts to making sounds to get the message across. “I want to ...you know...*clicking sound*...*finger snaps*...to go to the gym!” We manage. The other day we all were talking and camel toe came up. It was too funny trying to explain that between all our languages. When Lidia realized what we were saying she began laughing so hard and said “In Spain we say, 'Even a deaf person can read her lips.'” I died laughing...I'm going to use that in English now...of course in appropriate settings!

The international assistants

We're all discovering France together through an array of different viewpoints, but we miraculously manage to stay on the same page.

Though everything has been going pretty well, one thing that I have been grappling with lately is how to make the distinction between what is culturally French and what is personality specific. When someone does something that I find to be socially weird, I can't necessarily evaluate through my American lens whether or not their behavior is normal in France. Some of my real life examples:

• A guy on the street lets his dog take a giant number 2 on the sidewalk? Uniquely French.

• A guy in a bar kissing my hand and then proceeding to sniff my arm and tell me I smell good? Weirdo.
  
  
• Giving kisses every time we meet? French.
  
  
• My boss telling me she's going to fart so I need to roll down the windows? Person specific.
  
  
• Wearing the same outfit more than 3 times in one week? French.

These are just some examples, but you can imagine how that could get hard to navigate. My mom's advice to always follow your instincts has actually been really helpful. But there are some things that I'm still confused about. I guess it'll take living here longer. And at least I'm making friends who always  help add their perspectives.    

French Potpourri

 Since writing the last blog I've encountered so many shareable moments, each time thinking "This would be great for my next blog!" All of these random thoughts have formed in my head a sort of hodgepodge mix of nonlinear anecdotes. I really can't focus on one. That's why this weeks blog will be fragments of my thoughts on my work, my life, and this country.


Thoughts from the classroom...

• 

  Shot from my 2nd graders class.
  I hope it's not illegal that I'm putting these up...

  No matter where you are in the world, little kids are all the same. They have no concept of how uncomfortable it makes someone when you just stare at them.
  
  
  And I get stared at a lot.
  
  
  Teacher's lecturing, I'm seated in the back of the classroom and there are a good 3-4 students per class who are completely turned around in their chairs, wide-eyed gawking. No concept of discretion. 
  
  
  One of my favorite gazers: Chubby little girl who chews on her pen and likes to whisper things to me at the back of the classroom. "Merci..."she whispers (but everyone can obvs hear), "...pour le chocolat." (I gave the kids a bunch of Halloween candy last week)

• Little French kids give me "Bises" (little kisses) to greet me which is so adorable (except when they're sweaty from recess). I still haven't quite become accustomed to this cultural phenomena. It's cute when it's people you want to see or cute little kids, but sometimes you have to kiss someone you really don't want to be close to or someone who's lips are too wet and yeah...that's gross.

  

  One of my favorite picture that a preschooler drew for me.
  It's me in blue, playing with another me, in pink.
   I asked her "Why are their two Cydnys, that's kind of impossible?"
  She responded with what her mom says is her favorite phrase,
  "C'est pas grave" (It's no big deal) 

• Kids are hilarious. They really do say the "darndest" things. Everyday during a teacher's lecture there's at least one student who raises his or her hand and shares a completely irrelevant, usually breathy, story. One kid shares, "M-M-M-Miss Cydny...my mom taught me umm how to say "bonjour" in English...ummm, I forgot."  I'm thinking 1) Cute, but irrelevant being that we're talking about Halloween. And 2) We've been back from recess for 30 minutes now, why are you out of breath?? WAY too excited about sharing their stories.
  
  
• That's another thing -- I forgot how intense recess is for Elementary students. 1 black top. 3 nerf balls. 200 students. Shit gets real. And at my school the kids have 4 recesses a day, which might seem like a lot by American standards, but French people are masters at taking breaks. The best part about recess is watching how the kids can have so much fun with nothing.  Seriously though, it's so intense. There is always that one kid who comes in crying after recess. Yep, that's about right, we average one cryer a day.

This is only a fragment of the craziness.
So intense. 

Thoughts from my vacation in Montpellier...

My voyage from the North (Lille) to the South (Montpellier)
was a 5-hr train ride that would have been a fun ride if I'd remembered my
headphones, a book, a magazine... or anything for that matter. Staring into space for 5 hours is no fun.

My second day in Montpellier I wrote in my journal:

I almost forgot the South of France.

And now that I'm here, the crisp smell of the

 Meditteranean Sea,
the rustic buildings,
the freshness of every piece of food that passes the threshold of my lips...
This is where I fell in love with France.

          

          It rained the rest of my trip.

My host parents bragged about how they had just gone swimming a few days before. I look out the window at the storm and ask “Well, do you think I can go tomorrow?” “Hahaha,” they laugh in unison, “Sure you can...if you dare!” Bogus.

That's what's so funny about France. There's this myth that the south is always warm and the north is always cold. I finally got around to watching that movie “Bienvenue Chez les Chtis” (see first blog entry) and it's definitely opened my eyes to some of the stark cultural differences (& misconceptions) about northern and southern France. Click here to see the trailer of the film (warning: terrible quality). A comedy, Bienvenue chez les Chtis tells the story of a mailman living in the coveted region of Provencal France who, after an unfortunate series of events, ends up being relocated to the northern “cold,” “unfavorable” region of Pas-de Calais (where I live!) The movie is about his trip there and how he makes friends, dispells myths, and blah blah blah...(I won't ruin it for you!) It was a cute movie. And I will say this: After watching it I see these differences...

First thing my host parents friends say when they see me (mind you, there's a STORM going on outside) is “Cydny! How can you bare it up there in the north?! It's always so rainy...and cold.” It's like the kettle calling the pot black. And on the other side, everyone in Pas-de-Calais toted about how nice my trip was going to be. “OOO Cyd, you're going to be by the pool all day!” “Make it to the beach!” “Take advantage of the sun!” And, like I've been saying...it rained my entire visit.



I picked fresh pomegranate from my host parents yard
 (something you actually can't do in the North)

For me, there's hardly any real climate differences. To better understand what I mean, let me break down a little bit of French geography for you readers back home. France is super small compared to the US. Small like, I took the train from the Northern most region to the southern most region and it was only 5 hours (5 long hours being that the lady next to me had serious underarm funk, but 5 hours all the same). In the US, that's like driving through 4 (of our 50) states. The climate reflects this ratio. No matter how much French northerns say they live in the cold, and French southerners say they live in the warm weather, neither of their extremes even touch the hottest or the coldest temperatures in our country. So, for me, the only difference is the south is warm and the north is mild. It all feels the same.

The biggest lesson I learned from my visit: Vacation is all about the people you are with, not the physical destination. 

I'm really glad I got to see my host parents. 

Thoughts with no real rhyme or reason...

       You know you're in France when...

1. The bus STOPS in the middle of a road it can hardly fit on so that the driver can make small talk with a fellow bus driver going the reverse route. You EXTRA know you're in France when no passengers seems to care. Typique. 
2. You get vacation for 10 days from public, strictly laique (or non religious institutions) schools for a catholic holiday...that no one here celebrates.
3. The Big Mac at McDonalds actually looks like the picture in the menu.

       It sucks when...

1. Your host parents go on about how much weight you lost (when you really didn't) and your host dad casually says how you used to be fort which literally means strong but in this context was most likely a euphemism for thick as hell.
2. You say one word to someone and they automatically switch to English. It's only happened once, but it's an annoying way of telling you that your accent sucks.
3. The overweight lady seated next to you in the train is sweating all over your side of the armrest. 
4. It's Sunday and every store is closed. You're out of tampons. And none of your neighbors at the retirement home have any on hand because they haven't needed one for the past three decades.
5.  You forget that French voltage is double what we use in the US, and you nearly set your hair on fire with your blowdryer...and now your hair is kind of brittle.
6. You're elementary aged students think it's funny to yell at you "HELLO" every time you walk by. That sucks...in a cute way.

OK, that's all for now.

Style that never gets lost in translation

You can't talk about France without talking about style. People always want to come to France and see what is à la mode (in style) by shopping at major fashion houses on the Champs-Élysées. Ask me if the French are more fashionable and I will tell you this: people are people. Much like in the US, you find people who can dress to impress and people who fall short of spectacular – that isn't to say there aren't serious differences.

Major Fashion Differences (according to Cyd):

• They aren't as big into sportswear as we are back home. I have yet to see someone wearing sweatpants or sweatshirts outside who isn't in route to or from the gym.
• Women wear heels like it's nobody's business. Work!
• Hairstyles seem to be pretty different. Dark hair is very popular and I see a lot of women with dyed black tresses (which frankly doesn't go well with most skin tones).

In contrast, French people haven't quite figured out my hair yet...and understandingly so. Most of the black women I've seen in France have weaves or wigs going on (and if I'm going to be super honest, terrible ones at that...if I see your tracks—which I often do – your weave is not doing it's job). However confused the people here may be in regards to my hair, they still seem fascinated by the most wretched of styles that I end up unintentionally sporting. I'll press my hair and sculpt it into a fashionable coif, and by midday after the humidity bomb has hit, my hair is left as an explosion of untamed curls and bobby pin shrapnel.

Exibit A

Exibit B

But they seem to love it. One of my retirement home neighbors ran her hands through my braids. "How did you do this? It's just so pretty!" Others inquire, confused, “Did you do something different to your hair?” The more curious, “Ooo, can I touch?” “You look very pretty today Miss Black,” one little girl says (in French of course). I don't even feel embarrassed anymore like I would back home.

Back home the exchange would be much different. “DAAAAAANNNG CYD! You look like you got bushwhacked!” I can imagine my older brother teasing (For my foreign readers, that means that it looks like I literally got whacked...by a bush.). Or, “It's not THAT bad, “ my mom would assure me, and then in a swift change of approach, “Stop caring so much about your hair...It's what's inside that matters.” Not very assuring, Mom. Nice try.

This is making me miss home.

My point is that in France my style (or lack there of) translates in it's own little way. Sometimes what wouldn't work at home works really well here. And vice versa. For instance yesterday I wore this rustic yellow turtleneck which I tucked into belted blue jeans paired with suede ankle boots. I was looking good! My colleagues here had nothing but compliments. “It's very 1960s!” two colleagues said, “I really like turtlenecks,” another shared, and “I would really like to see how you do your hair every day” (my hair was slicked back into a ponytail with a blue headband and the day before I wore an afro).” In contrast, my friends back home couldn't get enough of the fact that I was wearing a turtleneck. Tosha specifically keeps pointing out that she can't shake the image of the 1990s fad fail (I'm telling you, Tosh, they're making a comeback!)

Me in the turtleneck

Me, with friends, in the turtle neck (see, people like)

Anyway, I can gladly say that generally speaking the French dress just as well as we do back home (excluding the people that wear pajamas to go to Culvers...smh). I'm even happier to find that however I dress, it works for me, whether it doesn't work in the US or in France. At the end of the day, I've been able to rock the looks of my own choice on both sides of the ocean and feel good about it. And lucky for me, confidence hardly ever gets lost in translation.

Getting used to...well, the not city.

When I first applied to the Teaching Assistant Program in France (TAPIF), a 7-month program designed by the French government to bring in foreigners to their schools to assist secondary language teachers in the classrooms, I was excited to mark Lille as one of my top choices for city placement. Lille, a major city in the north, is on the opposite end of France in a more industrial area than Montpellier (I studied abroad in Montpellier in college). Also, it's strategically located within an hour of major european travel destinations: Brussels, Paris, London, Amsterdam, Cologne...all only within an hour or so from the city.

So here I am, placed in a town about half an hour from the Lille center and 10 minutes from a smaller city. My town is in Pas-de-Calais which is known as the most hospitable region in France. Also, they're known for their accent and being in the “sticks.” There's a famous French movie called “Bienvenue chez les cht'is” (Welcome to the sticks) that's about this region, and there's going to be an American remake of the film starring Will Smith. Everyone asks me if I've seen it. I haven't.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bienvenue_chez_les_Ch%27tis

It took me about 10 days to get pretty well set up at my retirement home. I forgot to mention: I'm living in a retirement home. Rather, an assisted living apartment building. It was the best deal I could find and the town mayor said they'd negotiate a lower price for me if I spend time with the residents and share my culture etc. I'm even on their blog: http://lavieaufoyerleonblum.over-blog.com/article-anniversaires-et-arrivee-d-une-americaine-86458118.html (of course my eyes are awkwardly closed in the picture)

I feel like I need my own reality show. I'm a 22 year old Black american girl living amongst the French elderly in the “sticks.” At first I wanted to cry about it, but after 3 weeks, I'm actually really grateful I stayed. This apartment is a steal. I have my own kitchen, bathroom, closet, TV, sleeper sofa AND queen sized bed. Also, everyone is so great.

One of my neighbors brought me bread and beignets (with apricot filling!) from her leftovers and also stole some butter and cheese from the building kitchen (she placed her finger over her mouth and shushed me not to tell.) It's not like she'd get in trouble though. She's in her 70s with four 50-something sons and a butt load of grand babies. Also, she's wider than she is tall. I mean, really? Who's going to pick a fight with her??

My other neighbors are funny too. In my hallway there are 3 other women who live in the apartments next to mine. One is nearly deaf, one talks to me like I'm slow (which kind of offends me but at the same time leaves me grateful that I can at least understand), and the other parks her walker outside of the door and doesn't talk much. The deaf one told me I could play my music loudly if I want. Score.

Downside: The first week here everyone thought I was a nurse and kept asking me to give them check ups.

My quick illustration of the retirement home:

There's

• The cook who brings me food sometimes
• The ladies who sing in the choir and always invite me to come and listen to them.
• The the landlord who helps me with anything technical and who likes to practice his English with me.
• The group of old women parked in their wheelchairs who stare at me as I walk by, always exchanging “Bonjours” or making small talk with me.
• The old man down the hall, who told everyone at lunch the other day that it was his 18^th birthday (though I'm sure it was more like his 88^th) and he's always asking me about my relationship status.

Also, the food is amazing here. There are these savory crepes called "galettes" that I LOOOVE. I found this picture on the web...but they look like this:

The best part about living in this smaller town versus the city is that I feel like I've established a bit of a network that I wouldn't have been able to do in a bigger city. I walk down the street and people know me, not everyone obviously, but if I'm outside for more than 30 minutes I'll run into some familiar face and strike up a conversation. I was so afraid that living in a small town I would feel isolated from the rest of the world, not to say that at times I don't, but I think that if I had been placed in Lille proper I might be experiencing a different kind of isolation. The kind where you have a lot of people around you but no one to talk to. Not saying it's better or worse. Probably just different.