sometimes I forget...
to turn around when I walk the dog in the morning and all those memories...
Écrire : essayer méticuleusement de retenir quelque chose, de faire survivre quelque chose : arracher quelques bribes précises au vide qui se creuse, laisser, quelque part, un sillon, une trace, une marque ou quelques signes.
To write: to try meticulously to retain something, to cause something to survive; to wrest a few precise scraps from the void as it grows, to leave somewhere a furrow, a trace, a mark or a few signs.
Paris 1973-1974”
― Georges Perec, Species of Spaces and Other Pieces
Hello again - a warm welcome to new and old subscribers, thank you for joining me on this rather chilly and unaccustomly slow Sunday.
Les vacances de Toussaint… ouph!
I feel this way at a every half term break…
School holidays away from clutter of school bags and the cacophony of children’s voices is a much appreciated bonus to my work. No more chairs scraping on floors - that noise could drive a person crazy by the end of a day - no more shrilling of bells signalling a change of class or the thunderous sound of hundreds of teenage feet on metal ramps and stairs - why are they always constructed in metal? - Or squabbles and adolescent screams at recreation time, lost clothes, lost books, homework incomplete.
With relief I arrive at the first half term of the year, it has been a complicated beginning. For two blissful weeks the constant humdrum, schedules and the seemingly incessant driving from school to school because I’m never quite lucky enough to be placed in just one, ceases. I wonder, always, during this first trimester quite how I will survive another year but it’s a question that becomes less persistent as the weeks pass, thankfully!
I openly admit it, teaching of any description is far from anything I would have chosen as a career. My faith in our systems of learning is questionable. But, living as I do, in a country that is not mine of origin, it was far from easy for me - a lady of a certain age - to find gainful employment. In this era of high tech everything, none of which remotely resembles the system I grew up with; with no recognised qualifications either I was grateful to a friend who recommended I apply to the Acadamie de Toulouse as what is known here as an AESH — accompagnants d'élèves en situation de handicap. The interview took place in Rodez, five years ago this week. I was accepted on the spot and given a temporary contract.
In recalling those first days when I trembled with nerves and lack of confidence every morning I am still not certain how I have come this far. I questioned my ability not only to be wholly present among so many people at the same time, my ability to understand all that I needed to in a foreign language but also, and this was the worst shame of all, whether I could make myself understood without being fluent in French, with such a ghastly accent too.
It was, without doubt, one of the most horribly stressful times of my life but as the year progressed, I gathered knowledge and with that, confidence. I learned about the specific difficulties the children I worked with had in order to better help them. I taught myself many practices that were to be of use not only to the child in question but to the teachers too. Unbelievably my contract was renewed and my French improved - still with a questionable accent but I was, I am, understood. By the end of the first year I felt proud of myself, as though I had reached an important milestone for the first time in my life. I was, temporarily at least, ready to face a second.
The first day of term is after the long, long holidays of summer all my courage deserts me, it happens every year, questions and doubts resurface, the fears, the debilitating anxiety, the trembling with nerves, the questioning of ability. I stumble through it, in a fog of apprehension as I always do and come out the other side smiling because it’s not in my nature to give up and never as bad as I imagined. The thought of disappointing either my students or the teams I work with evaporates
My role is not an easy one however, children have always had problems, physical, psychological and emotional but today when more and more children exhibit signs of learning difficulties and are in need of supervision, encouragement and support, my work has become an essential backup. Not only to the child in question both in terms of guidance and encouragement but also as an aid to the teachers and professors who often have more than just one or two (the average is 5 out 25) such children in any given class and in all cases my presence gives peace of mind to worried parents. However, as hard as I try to be good at my work, my days are still so often filled with despairing children who feel they are stigmatised by their inabilities. They are shy, unable to voice their fears and apprehensions, as a consequence have low self esteem and zero confidence. Feelings that are so very hard to overcome. It can be heartbreaking for all concerned.
There is a perk though… I do get to attend detailed French lessons for free and for an English woman who began life here with a somewhat limited (and that’s being generous) grasp of the French language, it’s a big one. And, I have had the good fortune to work alongside two very brilliant and modern thinking professors, who are passionate about the French language, for the last three years.
Tuesday morning I only just made it to the French literature class on time. Lost in the abstract dawn sky that reminded me of cave paintings and wolves running across vast prairies, I simply forgot to turn around with my little dog and walked far further and longer than I usually do. Hence, I arrived in class, hot, flustered from running, flush cheeked from the cold air only to find my two usual students were absent. I needn't have rushed, was placed instead with a particularly difficult and continually inattentive boy who eyed my appearance with an accusatory smirk - I double checked for stray pieces of hay - and then ignored me for the entire lesson, it was going to be a long day.
The class were asked to write an essay based on Georges Perecs’ well known biography ‘Je me souviens’. The book is not, as the title suggests, simply a list of personal memories but also events he recalls through certain years of his life. Namely during the years of 1946 and 1961 when he was aged between 10 and 25, written as 480 sentences that begin with the words ‘Je me souviens’. The lesson given to the students which, on hind sight, I am delighted not to have missed; write 10 sentences beginning with the same words, ‘je me souviens’ simple enough one would have thought. My charge for the lesson said;
“Mais c’est pas juste! On est trop jeunes, on n’a pas encore de souvenirs!” - “But its not fair! We’re too young, we don’t have any memories yet”.
The whole class erupted loudly in agreement. However, the lesson was set, the choice was not theirs to make. Furthermore, for having complained so vociferously, those who hadn’t finished the work in class would have to continue at home, each and every student would be obliged to read three of their memories out in the following lesson.
I was sorry to miss the readings, as is often the case, I am present only when my presence can be of most value to the child concerned and was absent from what I’m certain would have been an enjoyable hour. But this lesson tugged and tapped incessantly at my curiosity. I couldn’t help wondering just how difficult it would be to recall almost 500 memories from a relatively short period of my life. I’m not sure if my student had my full attention that afternoon. My head was filled with flashbacks of events so long forgotten, each tiny memory triggered another. A third of my life flashed before me in tiny snippets of astonishing detail through mathematics class, then physics and chemistry…
When I arrived home, after chasing my sheep back into our field from the neighbours garden or the farmers field below (a new daily ritual), preparing supper, clearing away dishes, clearing emails, I finally sat, on a comfortable chair with pen and paper to hand write as many memories as I could between the age of 10 and 25, personal or otherwise. In French.
Ten was easy, even twenty… I’m not sure I could have written 480 though…
How many can you recall?
Pop them in comments below I would love to read them!
Here are three of mine;
I remember August 16th 1977, the day Elvis Presley died, when my mother cried all day inconsolably.
I remember the British Airways commercial ‘The Face’.
I remember the coal miners strike and the three day week introduced by the government to help restrict electricity use and how the news was filled with blackened, rioting faces.
You’re turn!
The tragic and horrific events of the last ten days have been more than either my head or heart can cope with. As I said in my last Instagram post, I have turned off mainstream news. It was and remains necessary if normal life is to continue in our home, for the days to pass without tears and with hope.
This morning while I wandered my hill I listened to a contemplative conversation about trusting our bodies, intuition, finding harmony and solace in nature between Mariah and Renée Eli PH.D (here) I found not only wisdom in both questions and answers but guidance in difficult times - I recommend listening. Thank you both.
I am looking forward to trying this. I have an appalling recall - it’s a protective habit to shield me from emotions, I know that, a product of leaving for boarding school at an early age I think. But I shall scratch around.
I wanted to say, this is fabulous writing, Susie. Full of admiration for your role as an encourager, for the work you have put into the language, for your immersion. Brilliant. Enviable. B
I remember scraping my knee on the aroused roots of my father's pine trees, three, grown in a straight line to border our property, an old house I grew up in. I was being chased after by my cousin because I had refused to speak to her after she stole my food. I was crying, angry that I had lost this game I didn't even want to play, and she was laughing, because her life is always fun for her.
I remember my grandmother swearing, from her seat, one of two rattan chairs with colourful square cushions, one for her and one for my grandfather because she was caught off guard by a noise she'd heard from the garden. My grandfather looked up, and then returned to his newspaper, the rustling of the pages swiftly calming her down.
I remember my fringe being cut by my aunt, in her cold bathroom with the tiny blue tiles. There was a clay starfish framed on the wall behind her and I kept wondering how it would feel like to rub that starfish all over my face.