However, he adds—and this is indeed the catch—“. . . a sobering price is paid. Precision in thought and beauty of language are the products of an elite French school system that is repressive, frightening and stifling to many pupils who cannot keep up. There is no tolerance or time for spontaneity or weakness.”
My younger son decided to opt for the university route, so now I will be able to compare the grande école system and the university system from personal experience and not just hearsay. What I can see for the moment is that while my elder son’s struggle was limited to the two grueling years of prépa before he entered his grande école, the challenge for my younger will be to find his place within a system in which thousands of students are enrolled and no one is going to pay any particular attention to them. In the university system, the route the vast majority of French students take, students have little to no contact with professors, don’t live on a campus, and have to sink or swim in a system in which they are just a number. In spite of this, I’m optimistic and believe that each will receive an excellent education. Whether a grande école or a university, education in France is excellent. It just isn’t all that easy, but as you will see in the interview with Philippe, making things easy for students apparently isn’t a value in the French educational system.
Before I started teaching in France, I had no idea that when you get in front of a class, you are supposed to wipe that smile off your face and look serious. I was in for a big surprise.
If you go into a classroom in France, you will probably see that the teacher’s desk is on a raised platform. In most cases, the teacher is not conceived of as an equal and is always addressed with the polite vous.
French students think of a teacher as someone who should have a certain dignity and be thought of as a bit above them. They look at you like you’re a nutcase if you indulge in “unprofessorial” behavior. I know. In the courses I gave at the Institut d’Études Politiques (the French equivalent of the London School of Economics), I would very naturally gesticulate, grimace, and smile to make a point. As I did so, I could see the students in front of me knitting their brows and laughing nervously. They were clearly puzzled.
By the same token, I have been stymied over the years by students (generally women, for some odd reason) whose facial expressions indicate either extreme boredom or extreme disapproval (with me? with the class?). Each time, it turned out that there was no particular problem—it was just their normal nonsmiling expression. Apparently, smile = idiot.
In any case, French students just don’t take a smiling teacher seriously. An American teacher of English in the grandes écoles system told me that she had failed a student, first of all because he had not even attended the number of classes required to get a minimum passing grade and, second, because when he did make it to class, he made no effort at all to participate. When he discovered that she had actually failed him, he was furious—not just because of the grade but because he didn’t understand how badly he had been doing.
My friend explained the situation to him: “I told you many times that you would have to do better, but I didn’t yell at you because I didn’t want you to get a mental block about English.” He shook his head wonderingly. “No teacher has ever told me something like that,” he said, adding, “I thought that because you weren’t yelling at me, that I was okay, that the class was very relaxed, and that you would pass me.”
“No,” she told him, “I was telling you in as many ways as I could without humiliating you.”
His reply was, “But you were smiling when you said it.” The student, by the way, was twenty-three, old enough to read the instructions for failing grades but convinced that if the teacher was smiling, she wouldn’t fail him and they would work something out. Of course, this wasn’t true, but he was fooled by her relaxed manner, which did not correspond in any way, shape, or form to the reserved, dignified, and distant authority figure French students are used to.
The biggest compliment I ever got in my life was from a French student who wrote me, “Your teaching seems profoundly spontaneous, free of any formal constraints and useless rules; it is ‘free.’ ” This obviously was a big change for him, and I’m not at all convinced that the school administration would consider this attribute of spontaneity a plus.
The twenty-three-year-old probably would have understood a more frank reaction—French teachers can be very forthright. I thought at one point that perhaps my kids would like to go to an American school, where teachers tend to be gentler. They both refused categorically. Commented David at the time, “I prefer brusque teachers. I don’t want them to encourage me. I prefer them to tell me that my work is insufficient or bad rather than for them to say, ‘It is not as good today.’ ”
What he doesn’t like, however, is that as soon as the teacher hands back homework, all the kids jump around to find out what grade the others got. Encouraging competition is the whole point, of course, as the system is based on survival of the fittest. “Since I have been in fourth grade, we’ve been told about the bac and the grandes écoles. They tell us to be good students, because if not, we won’t get our bac,” said David, who by ninth grade was becoming wise to the ways of the world.
I’ll never forget my elder son’s French bac (the baccalaureate exam has been divided so that when kids are juniors, they take only the French exam; the next year, they take exams in all the other subjects). I don’t know why Benjamin was so nervous. I mean, all he had to do was study Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Marivaux and be able to discourse knowledgeably on such themes as “the birth of love in French literature” at the ripe old age of sixteen—first in an oral exam, alone with one professor for forty minutes (twenty minutes to prepare and twenty for his presentation), then in a written exam that lasts four hours.
Benjamin decided that the only thing he disliked more than French was philosophy, a subject of the following year’s exam. When it came time for the four-hour test, he got a choice of several subjects, including “Is the truth always credible? and “Isn’t work just a way for man to satisfy his needs?”
My son made the mistake (in my opinion) of choosing the third subject, an excerpt from a text of Sartre’s that starts like this: “The meaning of the past is tightly dependent on my present project. This does not mean that I can change at whim the sense of my past actions, but, on the contrary, that the fundamental project that I am following determines absolutely the meaning—for myself and for others—of the past that I must be.” Excuse the rough translation—are you still with me?
The text continues like this for another nine lines and concludes, “Who can judge the learning value of a trip, the sincerity of a pledge of love, the purity of a past intention, etc.? It is I, it is I, according to the end by which I make them explainable.” After reading the passage, the students were asked to discourse on the “philosophical interest of this text” through an “orderly study” of it.
Benjamin refused to see the philosophical interest of any of this. As an American mother, I had a hard time seeing how any seventeen-year-old would have the maturity to comprehend, let alone discuss, any of these subjects. My French husband said that both Benjamin and I were inculte (lacking culture). Another cultural breach . . .
France, in fact, is the only country in the world to require philosophy as a subject for high school students. This is why the French generally reason from the general to the particular and don’t think in terms of “Here’s a problem; I must find a solution.” What’s important is to think about problems and be able to ask questions.
In spite of his feeling about philosophy, Benjamin is an excellent student who has interiorized the system to the point where, when I asked him if he would like to continue tennis lessons during his two years of preparation for the entrance exams to the grandes écoles, he answered thanks but no thanks, since he would have to spend all his time studying. Of course he’s a case; he’s the kind of serious, mature kid who would have surprised everyone if he hadn’t gone on to a gra
nde école.
It goes without saying that French children of our social class, educational level, and aspirations (writing this, it occurred to me that perhaps it’s just our children) do not clean house. You do not even think of asking a kid to do something like ironing or vacuuming, not to mention doing the dishes or even taking out the garbage on a regular basis. My kids will clear the table, empty wastebaskets, and keep their rooms clean because they have to, but that’s about it.
One reason that parents like me accept this is that children on this educational track are supposed to be devoted to their schoolwork to the exclusion of everything else. Everything else, my sons assure me, includes cleaning. Since they have so much schoolwork and are in school so long every day, how could any parent expect them to come home and pitch in on anything?
The amount of homework French kids do astounds most Americans, who are used to being pretty cool about school, especially high school and, even more so, grade school. “One thing that shocked me,” a twenty-five-year-old American au pair working for a French family with three children told me, “was to see the six-year-old boy with a half hour of homework to do after being in school from eight-forty-five A.M. to four-thirty P.M. The two eleven-year-olds in the family had forty-five minutes of work every night.” When my son Benjamin was in preparatory school, he spent a full day at school, many days returning at 7:00 P.M. After dinner, he studied until midnight—and he was by far the least hardworking of his classmates!
It’s true that the French system is geared to those who succeed, that there’s a good deal of work, and that not everyone is suited to this rigorous system. Kids are expected to meet high standards and the system can be a bit inflexible at times. And not all French teachers would win the world championship for creativity or consideration of students’ feelings.
But there are some important advantages. Other than books, school supplies, and school lunches, the cost of my sons’ education—both through high school and beyond, all through university or the grandes écoles—was zero. Considering the level of their studies and the high standards students are expected to meet, what the French call rapport qualité/prix (cost-effectiveness) couldn’t be better.
It’s true that in this discussion on education, I have focused on the elite and the grandes écoles (I wonder why—after all, the entire French system is focused on the elite) and didn’t get into the multiple problems of education in suburbs, where the kids raise Cain and the teachers wonder whether they are there to teach or be social workers. That’s a whole other story, and since I’m writing from my personal experience, I opted to stick to what I have personally experienced. It’s been a long haul and wasn’t always easy, but in the end I’m glad I stuck it out—and anyway, what’s done is done! I really truly think that I suffered more from the French educational system and my feelings about it than my children ever did. They’re fine, thank you!
And just think—while the kids are studying, they’re off the streets, not riding around in cars or taking drugs. And since school is based on work and not extracurricular activities, there is an astonishing lack of peer pressure. True, my kids didn’t star on the basketball team, because there wasn’t one. Ditto for band. They will, though, have received a complete education in terms of knowledge. And, hey, they have the rest of their lives to develop their personalities. That, definitely, is not the job of the French public school.
Interview with Philippe
HARRIET: What do you think is the major difference between American and French education?
PHILIPPE: You don’t educate children by teaching them basketball. In France, there’s no basketball university or Ph.D. in baseball.
HARRIET: Don’t you think you’re a bit snobbish?
PHILIPPE: You think that in school you should have fun; I think that in school you should study. We’ll never agree on that point.
HARRIET: What about the grandes écoles? This system is totally incomprehensible to anyone outside France.
PHILIPPE: The system of grandes écoles is just a special form of university. But since there’s no football field, it’s not considered a university—by you. I am very upset that you never understood—or say you didn’t—the system of grandes écoles, in spite of the fact that I went to one. This is very insulting.
HARRIET: What about these mean teachers who don’t care a fig for the feelings of their students?
PHILIPPE: What about the mean boss, the mean Serbs, the mean serial killers? French education forms children for what they are going to see later on in life. The American system of education forms children who will be surprised by what they see later on. French teachers aren’t clowns. They aren’t paid to entertain children. They’re not baby-sitters. They’re professors.
HARRIET: You say that French education is great because it’s free. What are you thinking about in particular?
PHILIPPE: We never saved money to send our children to university. Thank God, because with you, it would have been hard, if not impossible. [Author’s note: Ha-ha. Very funny.] This is a fundamental point. We have gone to restaurants for the past twenty years and never once thought, Is this meal depriving our children of a university education?
Why I’ll Never Be French
(But I Really Am!)
As we near the end of French Toast, we arrive at the most important part: why I say I’ll never be French.
When people learn that I have lived in France a little over two decades, the inevitable comment is, “Then you must have become French.” My spontaneous answer to that comment is, “No.” But upon deeper reflection, I have to say that while in many circumstances the cultural gap is, if anything, only greater, in others I feel that I have indeed become “almost” French.
I have come to accept and love customs that seemed strange to me at first. For example, I was a bit surprised by country weekends that revolved entirely around food, but it didn’t take long at all to slip right into, and become a champion of, the tradition of the long, leisurely meal hour. I thought the baisemain was a tad strange, but I have to confess that I rather like it now or, shall we say, at least I don’t pull my hand away! I appreciate the lack of pressure to join groups. At one point, we lived in a small suburb of Nantes where the neighbors, mostly Catholic, were building floats for a religious parade. We’re not Catholic, but we were made to feel welcome to join in if we wished, or just stand by if we didn’t. Not being a joiner, I am grateful for this freedom.
Freedom from worry about medical bills is another major reason I appreciate living in France. Another plus is that doctors still pay house calls. Never once did I have to pry a feverish child from his sickbed to “go see the doctor.” The doctor came to us! For me, this is the mark of an eminently civilized country.
French vacations are pretty civilized as well. I love, and am slowly getting used to, planning for a minimum of five weeks vacation a year and sometimes as many as eight. I am still not French, though, in the sense that I haven’t quite got it down to barely finishing one vacation and then immediately planning the next. But I am rapidly getting there. For example, in June I start panicking about what my sons will be doing for their Christmas vacation.
I like the fact that the word no does not mean what it does in Anglo-Saxon or Germanic countries. No invariably means that the person in question does not want to bother. However, if you stand there long enough and wait him or her out, you generally get what you want.
This freedom to do what you want, more or less, has its good and bad sides. Like most foreigners, I take the good for myself and look at the bad as a necessary evil I have to live with. Smoking, for example. The good side is that the French government has decided to do something about smoke in public places, and the bad side is that many a smoker is choosing to ignore the NO SMOKING signs and sanctions. In spite of the new no-smoking rules, it will be a long time, if ever, before you can be sure of going into a restaurant and not having some dude breathe smoke into your lungs as you try to enjoy your boeuf bourguignon.
Don’t bring up the sensitive subject of smoking unless you are prepared to argue about it at length. This happened to a friend of mine who had finally gone out for an evening alone with her husband. At the restaurant they were sitting in, she remarked to the man next to her that she would appreciate it if he wouldn’t smoke his cigar in her face. That touched off a debate with the offender—on Americans, puritanism, smoking in general, politeness—that lasted right through the meal, while he continued to smoke and my friend seethed.
“But,” says another American who has also been here twenty years, “at least they aren’t puritanical about it. In the United States, they treat you like a leper.” This confirms a particularly attractive Latin characteristic of the French, little or no moralizing. In this vein, most French people think Jim and Tammy Bakker and their public confessions of sin on TV are just plain grotesque and that Richard Nixon’s downfall was a downright shame. After all, it’s a well-known fact that all politicians lie, isn’t it? And as far as fads are concerned, whether it is the no-smoking fad, jogging, or being politically correct, the French just won’t go for it. They’re too busy fighting among themselves to agree on anything.
As for fighting, I am far too Anglo-Saxon to actually enjoy a dispute, and I could certainly go without a fight a day to keep me in shape. On the other hand, I have grown to appreciate the fact that you can have it out with people without resorting to violence. As my French husband pointed out, verbal fighting is merely jousting, not to be taken too seriously. “It’s no fun to pick fights with Americans,” he says, and adds, with his characteristic Gallic sense of hyperbole, “There’s no intermediate level of aggression. It’s either a big smile and be nice or pick up a gun.”
French Toast Page 13
