Quietly Gardening My Dreams

Posted on by je parle américain

Today, in honor of my mother, who taught me the most important things about how to live my life, I share one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard and one of the most touching music videos I’ve ever seen:

“Mother,” by Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros

The song is based on a poem that the group’s lead singer, Alex Ebert, wrote for his mother about a year ago. In a recent interview, he told Spinner, AOL’s music website, “I wanted to explain to her that taking her for granted for so much of my life was less a function of my admitted selfishness and more a function of her unwavering love for me. Her unflinching steadiness I took to be immovable fact — I took her for ‘granite,’ as the poem goes, to make my stand upon.”

I couldn’t find the lyrics published anywhere, so the following is my attempt at a transcription, true to the metaphors and plays on words Alex Ebert uses: Continue reading Quietly Gardening My Dreams

Neither Here nor There

Posted on by je parle américain
Le Parti Socialiste

It’s Wednesday, May 9, less than 3 days after François Hollande became the French President-Elect in a moment that many, myself included, had dreamed would come. There are many reasons why I supported Hollande, not the least of which is his support for same-sex marriage equality. I am hopeful that under his presidency, the French government will finally recognize the fact that I am married to a French citizen and I’ll be able to apply for a visa on that basis. There are other important reasons for my support, of course; the older I’ve gotten, the more politically liberal I’ve gotten and—yes—I now consider myself a Social Democrat, firmly allied with the interests of the French Left.

If only they seemed more welcoming.

This afternoon, I came across an article in Le Monde, posted on the French newspaper’s Facebook page. I don’t always read the French press—I admit I should do it more often if, for no other reason, than to improve my French skills—but this article caught my eye:

“M. Hollande reste un inconnu ‘socialiste’ pour nombre d’Américains”
(“Mr. Hollande remains an unknown ‘socialist’ for a number of Americans”)

Continue reading Neither Here nor There

Remember, Remember the 8th of May

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May is a month chock full of holidays here in France. Just last week, we celebrated May Day. Since it fell on a Tuesday, lots of French took Monday off as well so they could have a four-day weekend — that’s what the French call faire le pont (“to make the bridge”). This year, May is also the month that brings us such Christian holidays as Ascension on May 17 and Pentecost on May 27. While the latter is no longer a public holiday in France, the former is … but let’s not get into a discussion about laïcité, okay? Instead, I’m writing about today’s holiday:

le 8 mai

A blogger friend of mine noted in a post today that it was “Victory Day” … but no one could tell her exactly which victory it commemorated. Being the history nerd that I am, I passed along the needed information. (It also helped that my local Métro station is named for the holiday!) Given that, I figured I might as well write my own little blogpost on the holiday that I just celebrated by doing absolutely nothing special …

“Victory in Europe Day” or “V-E Day” is the day that marks the end of World War II in Europe, when the Allies formally accepted Nazi Germany’s act of military surrender. Following the fall of Berlin and Hitler’s suicide on April 30, 1945, control of Germany passed into the hands of Admiral Karl Dönitz, who established a short-lived new German government named after Flensburg, the town on the Danish border where he was holed up at Germany’s naval academy. Allied forces were advancing rapidly on what remained of the German army in northwestern Germany and, on May 4, Dönitz surrendered to British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery near Hamburg.

Continue reading Remember, Remember the 8th of May

Cinco de Mayo, or … Telling the French to Step Off

Posted on by je parle américain

For better or for worse, Cinco de Mayo — like Saint Patrick’s Day — has become one of what NPR writer Linton Weeks calls America’s “Alcoholidays”: those holidays that have become “widely celebrated by people who have no ties to the traditions they spring from” through the festive adoption of national colors and costumes, and the excessive consumption of national alcoholic beverages.

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Think about it. What would Saint Patrick’s Day in America be without the least Irish of us parading about in green while swilling Irish whiskey and chasing it with dyed beer? What would Cinco de Mayo in America be without the least Mexican of us shooting tequila while sporting a sombrero? Everyone has an opinion about whether the “mainstreaming” of such holidays is a good thing or bad thing, but I’ll leave that discussion for another day. Spending this Cinco de Mayo in France, the big question for me today (putting aside my “least Mexican”-ness) was whether I could — or should — be celebrating it here … in FRANCE.

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I’d wager that most Americans who are off imbibing great quantities of José Cuervo today haven’t the foggiest idea what they’re commemorating. Contrary to popular misconception, Cinco de Mayo is not Mexican Independence Day. That’s September 16, the day when Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, a Roman Catholic priest in the town of Dolores, announced the beginning of the Mexican War of Independence in 1810 (“El Grito de Dolores” or “El Grito de la Independencia“). On the other hand, Cinco de Mayo marks the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla in 1862, when the Mexican Army defeated a superior force of French soldiers.

Wait … the French? The French were in Mexico?

Why, yes. Indeed they were …

Continue reading Cinco de Mayo, or … Telling the French to Step Off

Yes, that child is stealing from a street performer …

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So, yes, it’s May Day, and I should be writing about springtime in Paris and the scent of muguet, or better yet, the perpetual struggle of the working class, but I’m not. I didn’t end up getting the material I was hoping for in order to do that, but I got something else rather amusing.

Parti Socialiste

May Day is a national holiday here in France, so I went out for a stroll around Paris this afternoon, expecting to see some May Day manifestations, the streets swollen with members of the Parti Socialiste mobilizing for Sunday’s second round presidential election. I guess I missed the big parades though because all I saw were lots of locals and tourists soaking up the sun and enjoying the musical offerings of various street performers … including one unlucky opera singer at the Louvre Pyramid.

Continue reading Yes, that child is stealing from a street performer …

“Aux urnes, citoyens!” • “To the ballot boxes, citizens!”

Posted on by je parle américain

Today, like some kind of United Nations election observer (or a self-appointed election journalist for the online media), I witnessed my first foreign election in progress. April 22, 2012 : It’s the first round of the French presidential elections, and I tagged along as Michel went to his polling place and exercised his franchise. It was a proud moment for him and for me. It was even memorialized on Facebook. Here’s the picture …

“Michel Denis Pouradier … a voté.” • “Michel Denis Pouradier … has voted.” © 2012 Samuel Michael Bell, all rights reserved

As an American — coming from a tradition that likes to view of itself as the father (even the guarantor) of democracy around the world — I found it very intriguing to watch the voting process here. As in America, the voting system differs from town to town, but here in La Courneuve, they still use paper ballots and ballot boxes (“urnes“). That struck me as both surprisingly outmoded and, somehow, so much more legitimate than pressing buttons on a touchscreen and watching your vote disappear into the ether. Watching Michel vote brought to mind images of elections in less developed countries that we Americans often see on our evening news, but also memories of my childhood, accompanying my parents to their polling place in rural South Carolina where, after having voted, they dropped their ballots in a little locked wooden box with a slot in the top. Nostalgia. Continue reading “Aux urnes, citoyens!” • “To the ballot boxes, citizens!”

French Carolina

Posted on by je parle américain

Carolina was an English colony, of course, but did you know that the French actually beat the English in the race to get there? Of course, the Spanish beat them all in 1526. Quelle surprise. Their settlement, San Miguel de Gualdape, was actually the first European settlement in what is now the United States, possibly located near the site of present-day Georgetown, South Carolina. Unfortunately for the Spanish, though, San Miguel was abandoned after only 3 months when famine, disease, and unrest among their Native American neighbors forced the settlers to return to Santo Domingo. The French arrived in 1562, after Admiral Gaspard de Coligny organized an expedition to settle the region. The expedition, led by Norman navigator Jean Ribault, built Charlesfort on present-day Parris Island but, like the Spanish before them, they didn’t stick it out for very long. Ribault, having returned to Europe for supplies, was detained because of the French wars of religion, leaving his fledgling settlement to founder. After only one year, all but one of the 28 remaining settlers set off across the Atlantic in a makeshift vessel. You may have read about their fate: by the time they were rescued by a passing English ship, the unfortunate crew had already resorted to cannibalism to stay alive as they drifted aimlessly on the ocean. Meanwhile, the Spanish sent an expedition from Cuba to destroy Charlesfort, and the French experiment in colonizing the area came to an end. It wasn’t the end of French settlement though …

Continue reading French Carolina

Mike Bell: Cowboy, Alligator Wrestler

Posted on by je parle américain

Being an American in France has given me, rightly or wrongly, a certain mystique thanks to the preconceptions of my French family and friends. Some of their preconceptions, of course, are not ones I readily embrace, however true they might be. Others, I tend to play up, however true they might not be. One of those embraceable preconceptions is that I’m some sort of cowboy.

Part of the attraction of “America” for some French people, I think, is the image of the cowboy as an American stereotype. Now, I’m certainly no Marlboro Man and I’d say I’m prone to being booted out of most roadhouses, but I have been on a horse, I have country line danced, and I do walk with a certain thumb-in-pocket swagger, even on the cobblestones of Paris. Growing up in the Deep South — in the country — and speaking with a certain drawl about subjects like hunting, tractors, and country-western music give me a certain “cowboy credibility” here … even though I’m a vegetarian, I’ve only shot my father’s rifle a handful of times, and the most farm work I’ve ever done was picking beans in my parents’ garden. Nevertheless, if they want to see me as a cowboy, I’m more than happy to oblige.

Last week, when I was in South Carolina, my parents and I traveled down to Hilton Head to visit my aunt and uncle. Now, we all know that Hilton Head is not exactly the Okefenokee, but I knew there’d be alligators there and I was anxious to snap a few good shots to impress Michel, who was back in France. The evening after we arrived, my uncle and I went out searching for alligators in the neighborhood and just when we thought there were none to be found, we happened upon a big daddy gator sunning himself on the bank of a pond. Like an American Crocodile Dundee, I sprang into action … Continue reading Mike Bell: Cowboy, Alligator Wrestler

Our Daily Bread

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April 2009. The beginning of a great love affair. © 2012 Samuel Michael Bell, all rights reserved

One of my favorite things about living in France is the bread. The French, as you know, have a knack for making great things in the kitchen, and their bread is undoubtedly one of their finest products. I often joke that the reason I’ve gained about 7 kilos (that would be 15 pounds) since the summer of 2009 is the fact that French bread is so readily available. In Paris, you can’t walk for more than 2 or 3 blocks without the scent of freshly baked baguettes enticing you into a boulangerie like some siren song for your waistline.

This is also why I’ve often said that I can’t really eat American bread anymore. My palate has become so snobbish about bread that I even turn my nose up at the creations of the very artisanal American bakeries that I formerly patronized and touted to the world, and I even claim that Le Pain Quotidien just tastes different in America than it does in France. I’ll never forget Michel‘s first visit to Washington back in December 2009, when I went searching for a baguette for dinner, hurrying home with a pain de campagne from my neighborhood bakery because they didn’t have any baguettes, only to blush with embarrassment upon realizing that it simply didn’t measure up to what Michel was used to eating—what I’m now used to eating. That’s why I chose a warm, fresh tradition for my last lunch in France before leaving for the U.S. last weekend. I had to get my fix before starting this two-week sojourn in the land of Merita and Sunbeam, you know. Continue reading Our Daily Bread

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Posted on by je parle américain
© Sura Nualpradid

Hey … remember me?

Yeah, it has been a while. I know that I told you I’d try to post something every now and then while slogging through my CELTA training course, but it really hasn’t been an option, guys. I promise.

Here’s a picture of what my average day has been like for the last three weeks:

I wake up around 5 a.m., practicing the day’s lesson plan in my head and obsessing over the gaps that I couldn’t recall during my anxiety-ridden dreams, I try to go back to sleep, and I succeed in dozing until around 7:15 a.m. (or 6:45 a.m. on days when I have teaching practice). Then it’s up and at ’em … I arrive at school some time between 8:15 a.m. and 8:45 a.m., where I print out lesson plans, exercises and materials, or written assignments.

Our instructional sessions start at 9:15 a.m. That’s where we learn about every conceivable facet of teaching methodology (and a bit of English grammar to boot). Then it’s “teaching practice consolidation” from about 12:30 p.m. until about 1:00 p.m., when we review our lesson plans with the other trainees who will be teaching during the same 2-hour class in the afternoon. (Since we have 40-minute lessons each on the days when we teach, there are always two other trainees with whom we have to coordinate our lessons to ensure that the afternoon is a cohesive and productive experience for the students.) Then comes lunch, but I don’t really eat much, because I’m usually spending that hour or so revising my lesson plan, making last-minute changes to the materials, and nervously anticipating my lesson. Then it’s show time—a two-hour lesson for a class of anywhere from four to ten EFL students!

Continue reading The Light at the End of the Tunnel