I'm currently living in North Carolina at a the moment. I enjoy it here, the people are warm and welcoming. However, there are moments that I am reminded how unaware some in this country are towards the rest of the world.
Take for example a recent trip to the grocery store. We loaded up on all sorts of things, since we will be here for a long time, and ended up with more than we could carry home (since we don't drive). We called a taxi to shuttle our many bags back home and he arrived in his own time.
Like most taxi drivers he felt compelled to make small talk on the ride home. As he picked us up I mentioned that I was not familiar with the the roads to take home as we had just moved to the area (simpler than telling him that I was only here on a long term, but temporary assignment). With this tidbit of info he asked where we were from, to which I replied simply 'France'.
There was a noticeable pause on his part before he responded. His response was a confounding 'oh, where's that?'.
Normally I'm fairly quick witted, but I wasn't sure how best to respond to s inquiry. I shot back 'Well, in Europe. You know, England... France'.
Again another pause on the part of the driver before he perked up and said 'Oh! England!'. He proceed to ask me about England, and I didn't bother to attempt to redirect him.
It's certainly not the first time these sorts of conversations have taken place while I've been here, I've had many like it on previous trips, but it's always a little mind blowing when they happen.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Living Abroad... Abroad.
I am on vacation, and have been for the past two weeks, but that comes to an end on Monday and I head back to the office. However, once I get back to the office, the office is going to move halfway around the world for a couple months.
For the next couple months I will be living abroad... in the US. I will be on assignment, working on-site with one of the American teams I oversee. I'm looking forward to it, since they are a great group.
There isn't much more to say than that, just thought I'd let you know my days will be a whole lot less French for a while.
For the next couple months I will be living abroad... in the US. I will be on assignment, working on-site with one of the American teams I oversee. I'm looking forward to it, since they are a great group.
There isn't much more to say than that, just thought I'd let you know my days will be a whole lot less French for a while.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
A Turning Point
Sometimes, as I wander the streets of Paris or find myself handling prototypes years away from public knowledge, I wonder just how it is that I have arrived at such a wonderful point in my life. I can think of many things along the way that have helped foster my deep love for gaming, and ultimately put me in this career...
A beautiful girl I grew up with, to whom I had a huge crush on for years, who loved gaming.
A socially awkward childhood that lent itself well to the escapism gaming offered.
A serious injury that left me with little to do but play games for a long recovery period.
A lifelong affinity for technology.
All of these things certainly contributed in varying degrees, but quite often I come back to what my be the defining moment, the initial catalyst that kicked it all off. A moment I recently described to a new friend, and felt that it is a moment I would like to share with the rest of you as well.
During my 3rd grade year, when I was seven, my grandfather (whom, for all intents and purposes is my father, which is another story) entered me into a bicycle safety competition, which when you think about it is strange event in and of itself (does competing against other kids really encourage safety?). The goal of the event was to motivate kids of all ages to be more active, but also to educate them on the rules of the road when riding their bikes.
The event was held in a hockey arena, without the ice thankfully, and they had a number of challenges laid out on the cement floor in white tape. Some where mocked up to resembled traffic intersections and scenarios, while others were straightforward agility and skills challenges.
I loved my bike at that age, since I had been late to learn how to ride it, I appreciated it all the more. I flew through the challenges, and some days later was told that I had placed second in the entire city. They brought me to an office one night to receive a prize, which turned out to be an alarm clock (not exciting prize for a 3rd grader), and to ask me if I would like to compete in another round against all the other kids who had won in different cities across the province. The following weekend I was doing the same thing in the provincial capital.
Like the first time, the results had to be tabulated, so no one would no who won for a few days. I didn't think much of it, since I wasn't in need of another alarm clock, and went back to my daily 3rd grader routine. A few days later though, that routine took a sharp, and unexpected left turn.
One afternoon, while in the middle of our math lesson, two uniformed policemen arrived at our classroom unannounced. The teacher was visibly surprised, and they asked sharply if "James is present today". At the time, there were four kids in my class named James, three of whom used different names for ease of reference by the teacher: I was going by Jamie. We all sheepishly raised out hands while the rest of the class all ominously murmured that "Ohhhhh" sound that kids make when they know trouble is coming, like when you are called to the principle's office.
The officers, a little annoyed at the copious amount of James' in the class then asked "James Mouat?". The other three boys lowered their hands and the murmur from the class grew exponentially. The teacher set about settling the class and the policemen announced, slowly, that because of something I had done that they had come to see me today. In retrospect it seems clear now that they were playing to the crowd, but i'll be damned if it didn't work; the kids ate it up and ignored the teachers attempts to bring silence.
At this point, I suspect that I am going to jail or something even more terrible, and I don't even know why! After a pregnant pause in their speech, laid on for dramatic effect, they reveal that I had placed first in the entire province for the bicycle competition, and as such they were here to deliver my prize: a brand new NES videogame system, which one officer produced by learning out of the classroom door and retrieving it from it's hiding place in the hallway. At this point in my life was this akin to winning the lottery, in more ways than one.
Two things happened simultaneously at that moment: One, a huge rush of relief mixed with euphoria washed over me, and Two, the entire class lost their collective mind. Even my teacher, who was a an evil spawn of the devil on her best days, was uncharacteristically happy. The class was screaming, yelling and cheering at the top of their lungs as I ran up to the front of the room to claim my prize.
Remembering back to the days and months that followed this moment, I see the deep irony in the chosen award. Without a doubt it set me on my path to becoming a designer, as I took to gaming in a deep and important way, far beyond simply being entertained. The irony though came in my the form of my poor neglected bicycle. Practically overnight it went from my constant companion to a lump of rubber and steel that I passed by going to and from school each day.
I don't think I rode my bike for at least 3 months after that day. I suspect that this wasn't the outcome that the organizers of a contest meant to promote safety and physical activity had intended.
I look back on that moment as one of those moment that shaped my life, and is in large part responsible for why I know live in Paris and have a job that I love. Sure, I had been exposed to games before this, I had even had my own computer since the first grade (I learned Basic in the second grade), but until that moment it really hadn't been important to me.
Crazy huh?
A beautiful girl I grew up with, to whom I had a huge crush on for years, who loved gaming.
A socially awkward childhood that lent itself well to the escapism gaming offered.
A serious injury that left me with little to do but play games for a long recovery period.
A lifelong affinity for technology.
All of these things certainly contributed in varying degrees, but quite often I come back to what my be the defining moment, the initial catalyst that kicked it all off. A moment I recently described to a new friend, and felt that it is a moment I would like to share with the rest of you as well.
During my 3rd grade year, when I was seven, my grandfather (whom, for all intents and purposes is my father, which is another story) entered me into a bicycle safety competition, which when you think about it is strange event in and of itself (does competing against other kids really encourage safety?). The goal of the event was to motivate kids of all ages to be more active, but also to educate them on the rules of the road when riding their bikes.
The event was held in a hockey arena, without the ice thankfully, and they had a number of challenges laid out on the cement floor in white tape. Some where mocked up to resembled traffic intersections and scenarios, while others were straightforward agility and skills challenges.
I loved my bike at that age, since I had been late to learn how to ride it, I appreciated it all the more. I flew through the challenges, and some days later was told that I had placed second in the entire city. They brought me to an office one night to receive a prize, which turned out to be an alarm clock (not exciting prize for a 3rd grader), and to ask me if I would like to compete in another round against all the other kids who had won in different cities across the province. The following weekend I was doing the same thing in the provincial capital.
Like the first time, the results had to be tabulated, so no one would no who won for a few days. I didn't think much of it, since I wasn't in need of another alarm clock, and went back to my daily 3rd grader routine. A few days later though, that routine took a sharp, and unexpected left turn.
One afternoon, while in the middle of our math lesson, two uniformed policemen arrived at our classroom unannounced. The teacher was visibly surprised, and they asked sharply if "James is present today". At the time, there were four kids in my class named James, three of whom used different names for ease of reference by the teacher: I was going by Jamie. We all sheepishly raised out hands while the rest of the class all ominously murmured that "Ohhhhh" sound that kids make when they know trouble is coming, like when you are called to the principle's office.
The officers, a little annoyed at the copious amount of James' in the class then asked "James Mouat?". The other three boys lowered their hands and the murmur from the class grew exponentially. The teacher set about settling the class and the policemen announced, slowly, that because of something I had done that they had come to see me today. In retrospect it seems clear now that they were playing to the crowd, but i'll be damned if it didn't work; the kids ate it up and ignored the teachers attempts to bring silence.
At this point, I suspect that I am going to jail or something even more terrible, and I don't even know why! After a pregnant pause in their speech, laid on for dramatic effect, they reveal that I had placed first in the entire province for the bicycle competition, and as such they were here to deliver my prize: a brand new NES videogame system, which one officer produced by learning out of the classroom door and retrieving it from it's hiding place in the hallway. At this point in my life was this akin to winning the lottery, in more ways than one.
 |
| Welcome to winning the 3rd grade popularity contest! |
Two things happened simultaneously at that moment: One, a huge rush of relief mixed with euphoria washed over me, and Two, the entire class lost their collective mind. Even my teacher, who was a an evil spawn of the devil on her best days, was uncharacteristically happy. The class was screaming, yelling and cheering at the top of their lungs as I ran up to the front of the room to claim my prize.
Remembering back to the days and months that followed this moment, I see the deep irony in the chosen award. Without a doubt it set me on my path to becoming a designer, as I took to gaming in a deep and important way, far beyond simply being entertained. The irony though came in my the form of my poor neglected bicycle. Practically overnight it went from my constant companion to a lump of rubber and steel that I passed by going to and from school each day.
I don't think I rode my bike for at least 3 months after that day. I suspect that this wasn't the outcome that the organizers of a contest meant to promote safety and physical activity had intended.
I look back on that moment as one of those moment that shaped my life, and is in large part responsible for why I know live in Paris and have a job that I love. Sure, I had been exposed to games before this, I had even had my own computer since the first grade (I learned Basic in the second grade), but until that moment it really hadn't been important to me.
Crazy huh?
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Heat
For large chunks of this past spring, the weather here in Paris was leaving a lot to be desired. Lots of rain and heavy, gray cloud cover. However, I am happy to report that Summer is here with meteorological vengeance on it's mind. As evidence, today hit 37 degrees (that's 98 for my American friends) and made me glad for my A/C's office!
I was lucky enough to take advantage of this over the weekend, with lovely, meandering outings on both days, with Aja and Jen (a fantastic new Expat friend of ours). On Saturday we headed over to St. Joseph's Church in the 8th for a book sale fundraiser. St. Joseph's is an Anglophone ministry, so all the books on sale were of the English variety, and for the scant price of €5 per bag of books.
For those of you who know me, you will already have determined that I was not there for the books, as I am not an avid reader (to say the least). It was however a great excuse for me to explore the city with camera in hand. Of course, it never hurts to have company/victims to take photos of on such explorations either.
While shooting the ladies as they explored the stacks of paperbacks, I was approached first by a crazy lady insistant that I do not stake her picture. I explained I wouldn't and she wandered back to the books. Shortly after I was then approached by one of the fundraiser's organizers. I figured I knew what was coming, the typical "please don't take pictures here" line (assuming the crazy lady went and 'told on me'), but was rather surprised to find that she was in fact looking for my services.
After a short exchange, I agreed to take a few shots of the fundraiser for them, free of charge, and provided them with my card. I then set about quickly trying to grab a few telling shorts of the event, which was by then in the dying minutes and the crowds, along with the books, had disappeared in droves.
I managed to grab a few representative shots, and with a little luck they were of value to the church. I passed along my regards along with the photos and suggested that in future, if they need a photographer, or know of someone who does, to let me know! Here's to hoping I can parley a little goodwill into some work.
After the book sale we headed to an urban art exhibit, which was taking place throughout a neighborhood not far from my home. The first piece we came across, run by a small man dressed in a set of red overalls and equally red rimmed shades, was interactive in nature.
The goal of his installation, he explained in enthusiastic and well meaning English, was to discover secret messages hidden within and under a jumble of text. To do so however required special equipment, Red Glasses:
Aja was the first to search for the messages with the specially crafted spectacles, with help from the artist. Upon uncovering the messages though, she told him "But they are all in French"... to which he showed an astounding mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Realizing that the secrets of the exhibit would be lost on us, he instructed us to the next stage, to take a red marker and add our contribution to the exhibit, in whatever form we wanted.
We ended up being distracted by a monumental cemetery and not seeing many more of the events. We walked for a few hours among the ancient crypts and graves, and tired ourselves out for the day. Returning home to a feast of bread, wine and cheeses.
On sunday we took the opportunity to wander the Seine river and hang out in Luxembourg Gardens, dangling our feet in the iconic reflecting pool, as children played with toy boats and . The weather was gorgeous, and the city turned inside out, both local and tourist alike, to soak up the long awaited sunshine. All in all, I have to say that this city is absolutely magnificent, and despite the troubles I may have had with it as of late, it has redeemed itself in a single, sun-drenched weekend.
I was lucky enough to take advantage of this over the weekend, with lovely, meandering outings on both days, with Aja and Jen (a fantastic new Expat friend of ours). On Saturday we headed over to St. Joseph's Church in the 8th for a book sale fundraiser. St. Joseph's is an Anglophone ministry, so all the books on sale were of the English variety, and for the scant price of €5 per bag of books.
For those of you who know me, you will already have determined that I was not there for the books, as I am not an avid reader (to say the least). It was however a great excuse for me to explore the city with camera in hand. Of course, it never hurts to have company/victims to take photos of on such explorations either.
While shooting the ladies as they explored the stacks of paperbacks, I was approached first by a crazy lady insistant that I do not stake her picture. I explained I wouldn't and she wandered back to the books. Shortly after I was then approached by one of the fundraiser's organizers. I figured I knew what was coming, the typical "please don't take pictures here" line (assuming the crazy lady went and 'told on me'), but was rather surprised to find that she was in fact looking for my services.
After a short exchange, I agreed to take a few shots of the fundraiser for them, free of charge, and provided them with my card. I then set about quickly trying to grab a few telling shorts of the event, which was by then in the dying minutes and the crowds, along with the books, had disappeared in droves.
I managed to grab a few representative shots, and with a little luck they were of value to the church. I passed along my regards along with the photos and suggested that in future, if they need a photographer, or know of someone who does, to let me know! Here's to hoping I can parley a little goodwill into some work.
After the book sale we headed to an urban art exhibit, which was taking place throughout a neighborhood not far from my home. The first piece we came across, run by a small man dressed in a set of red overalls and equally red rimmed shades, was interactive in nature.
The goal of his installation, he explained in enthusiastic and well meaning English, was to discover secret messages hidden within and under a jumble of text. To do so however required special equipment, Red Glasses:
Aja was the first to search for the messages with the specially crafted spectacles, with help from the artist. Upon uncovering the messages though, she told him "But they are all in French"... to which he showed an astounding mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Realizing that the secrets of the exhibit would be lost on us, he instructed us to the next stage, to take a red marker and add our contribution to the exhibit, in whatever form we wanted.
We ended up being distracted by a monumental cemetery and not seeing many more of the events. We walked for a few hours among the ancient crypts and graves, and tired ourselves out for the day. Returning home to a feast of bread, wine and cheeses.
On sunday we took the opportunity to wander the Seine river and hang out in Luxembourg Gardens, dangling our feet in the iconic reflecting pool, as children played with toy boats and . The weather was gorgeous, and the city turned inside out, both local and tourist alike, to soak up the long awaited sunshine. All in all, I have to say that this city is absolutely magnificent, and despite the troubles I may have had with it as of late, it has redeemed itself in a single, sun-drenched weekend.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
American Airlines: Quality! ;)
I travel a fair bit now, all in the name of work, which puts my in airports and airplanes a LOT more often than I used to be. As such, I've begun developing my own personal tastes when it comes to my travel comforts and which airlines I feel offer better services and flights.
Near the bottom of my list is one of the airlines I find myself on fairly regularly: American Airlines. They don't offer any frills, and I suppose their price reflects that. However on my most recent cross-Atlantic flight I was greeted with an even less enjoyable visual reminder of the discount nature of the airline:
Right from the moment we got on the plane we were greeted with the sight of a broken hatch, complete with emergency oxygen masks dangling down. You know, like the ones in the incessant (and vaguely insulting) safety speeches, the ones you should don first before helping others should the cabin lose pressure.
Everyone gets on the plane, finds their seats, stows their baggage and gets settled in. The flight attendants do their best impersonation of clinically blind people and completely ignore the presence of the somewhat disturbing masks dangling out for all to see.
After about an hour into the flight, a couple flight attendants finally decide that "Hmmm, maybe we should try to put these masks out of sight, as it looks bad on us, our competance and our companies ability to maintain the vehicle everyone is currently being suspended 30,000 feet in the air within", and proceed to tape it up, using an gross amount of tape in the least effective method possible:
Their efforts are wasted, as the hatch (with the assistance of turbulence and gravity) pops open a few hours before landing. Content not to care, they never bother to attempt repair it again. Rather, they leave it to hang, with tape in tow, and occasionally joke with each other about it when they pass each other in it's proximity.
One can only hope that their engine and fuselage mechanics are more diligent.
Near the bottom of my list is one of the airlines I find myself on fairly regularly: American Airlines. They don't offer any frills, and I suppose their price reflects that. However on my most recent cross-Atlantic flight I was greeted with an even less enjoyable visual reminder of the discount nature of the airline:
Right from the moment we got on the plane we were greeted with the sight of a broken hatch, complete with emergency oxygen masks dangling down. You know, like the ones in the incessant (and vaguely insulting) safety speeches, the ones you should don first before helping others should the cabin lose pressure.
Everyone gets on the plane, finds their seats, stows their baggage and gets settled in. The flight attendants do their best impersonation of clinically blind people and completely ignore the presence of the somewhat disturbing masks dangling out for all to see.
After about an hour into the flight, a couple flight attendants finally decide that "Hmmm, maybe we should try to put these masks out of sight, as it looks bad on us, our competance and our companies ability to maintain the vehicle everyone is currently being suspended 30,000 feet in the air within", and proceed to tape it up, using an gross amount of tape in the least effective method possible:
Their efforts are wasted, as the hatch (with the assistance of turbulence and gravity) pops open a few hours before landing. Content not to care, they never bother to attempt repair it again. Rather, they leave it to hang, with tape in tow, and occasionally joke with each other about it when they pass each other in it's proximity.
One can only hope that their engine and fuselage mechanics are more diligent.
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Wall - Le Mur
As most people who know me, or have dealt with me for any serious amount of time will tell you, I am a very patient person with most things. There are exceptions, I am human after all, but I always strive towards being infinitely patient with my troubles, my friends and my colleagues. It keeps my blood pressure in a good place.
Combined this patience with a natural, single-minded determination to see things through and it combines to create a personality that gets things done and produces results. I rarely give up in frustration, I rarely "rage quit" on my projects, and I rarely push things away as "not worth the effort".
So, those few times where I reach a breaking point, it's usually after a significant period of time, pressure and repeated, soul-crushing failure. And it's happened only a couple times in my life. I've created a respectable and successful career by force of will after dropping out of highschool. I've taught myself to walk again after shattering and rebuild a section of my spinal column. I've rarely hit "The Wall". When push comes to shove, I always shove back harder.
So, when it took only a morning of being laughed at by French-speaking people (not with, at), I was surprised to find myself up against that wall. It could be argued that this was the culmination of a French related frustrations over the past year and a half that has lead to this point... but that argument isn't important here.
Why were French-speaking people laughing at me all morning? Well, it all started with my government prescribed French language lessons. One would think that with me being essentially unable to speak the language that these would be an incredible boon to my situation. One would think...
It all started to go wrong right from the start, with a government employee who lost all interest in her job, and in retrospect perhaps herself as a whole. The woman in question was a state language examiner, tasked to evaluate the level of French language competence in immigrants and assign them the appropriate level and duration of instruction to allow them to learn the language.
Her "exam" consisted of a fake invitation to an event, written in French. I was first asked to read aloud the text, to judge my ability to "read" French. Immediately this was suspect, since I'm a Latin-based language speaker with 6 months in the country to be exposed to the french vowel sounds. I am able to pronounce much of what is put in front of me with varying degrees of accuracy... but by no means can I READ it. I mistakenly assume though that this would be taken into account, especially since I have insisted to her that I don't know any French, and repeatedly insist on conducting the interview in English (much to her overt disgust).
The second half of the "examination" consists of 3 or 4 multiple choice questions, asking me to respond to the contents of the above text. This is better, or would be, if she wasn't watching and grunting at me each time I was about to answer wrong until I managed to pick the right answer. Not exactly the most effective method of testing, in retrospect, but I take it all with a grain of salt, assuming that she's just putting me through the motions after my repeated insistence of zero French language skills. Afterall, I'm assigned 200 hours worth of lessons, which is a lot of time. I assume this is the maximum amount of time at the most beginner level.
This was a mistake that I wouldn't fully comprehend until last Saturday.
I knew something was wrong when my assigned classes were way up north, outside of Paris. I had been warned even before moving to the city, warned by former Parisians, to avoid the north end of Paris. This sat a little uneasy with me, but I've lived in some less than desirable places in my time and I know how to handle that. It turns out though that the neighborhood is everything I expect, it's immigrant slum housing, and it's within my ability to "handle" it... but definitely outside of my comfort level. It is also a 1.5 hour commute from my house to the school, and another 1.5 hour commute back in the evenings.
If this is where it ended, It would be lame, bearable, but lame. However this is just where things being to come out from under me.
I arrive in class, and almost immediately the instructor and most of the class begin having comfortable conversations... in French. This is odd, but i figure that maybe to my ear what seems comfortable is in actuality rather poor French and I simply cannot tell the difference yet. Perhaps there are only a few stand out students with above average comprehension and spoken language skills, and I am not the only one that doesn't have a clue what's going on. This is not the case.
Each time the instructor asks me a question, I repeat the phrase "Je ne parle pas Francais" with increasing frustration and desperation, as it is the only real answer I have to anything she says since I am unable to comprehend any of what she is saying to me. She seems to either ignore this, or assume I am joking and continues to call on me thoughout the morning. Each question elicits my same predicable response, and each response generates bigger laughs from the class.
Were I trying to be funny, I would love the kind of laughs I was getting by the end of the morning's class. These are the kind of laughs that kickstart standup comedy careers and land people in movies. Sadly though, I was trying to learn French, and I was attempting to do so in a class for people who have a firm grasp of the language, both oral and written.
At one point during the class I discover that a man a few chairs to my left is a Tibetan man, and I learn this as he explains to the teacher his nationality and, what I assume to be, long personal history entirely in French. I almost lost my proverbial shit right there. My thoughts at that moment were clear "Even they guy from Tibet knows more French than me?! What the FUCK is going on here?!?".
I remain calm though, or as calm as possible. I toss my pen down on my note book, remove my eye glasses and rub my eyes in frustration and disbelief. At this point, I am still a few feet away from The Wall, and I am still feeling as though maybe this will all get better any moment and the teacher is simply finding out the proficiencies of the various students.
This too does not last.
As I am becoming routinely called upon by the instructor, and ever more frustrated simply by her insistence that perhaps asking me more things will suddenly make me admit I was pretending and could speak French all along, I am drawing her attention almost entirely. At first I hope that this means that she will finally sort me out and things will make sense, but instead I am becoming a topic of discussion for the class instead. At one point, she begins to describe me to the class, talking about my freckles, unusual facial hair and it's red color.
It was around this point that the laughs were coming without action on my part. I knew walking out of the train station that morning that I was the only white face I was bound to see, and the classroom was no exception, instructor included. I am used to drawing looks, I'm not an average looking guy almost anywhere. Now however we have crossed the line, I am being singled out, dicussed and laughed at in another language, and I am without recourse or ability to defend myself.
I have found The Wall at full speed. The impact is, psychologically speaking, catastrophic.
The lunch break comes and, as the class begins to file out of the room the teacher comes over to ask me if I understood anything... in French. I understand what she's asking, but more through context and tone. I tell her "No". She repeats the question two more times, and this line of questioning has inevitable result of causing the class to stop their business of leaving for lunch to stop and watch. I repeat "No" to her each time until a student who also speaks English asks me the same question in English. The answer I give this classmate, while more frustrated and verbose is still "No". She relays this to the teacher in French who simply tells me in English "this will be a very hard class for you then" and turns to deal with other students.
No fucking shit? Up until now I had been just sailing through it like a fucking dream and had no idea this was going to be very tough. Of course I don't say this, and the rest of the students all murmur and giggle and continue to leave for lunch. I wait for the teacher to finish speaking with a couple inquisitive students and then ask her why I am in this class, and if there is one more suited to my skill level. She speaks almost no English, so much of this question is finally communicated and answered via pantomime. The result: there is.
Over lunch I am transferred to a beginners course, to which I will report after I find myself a meal. I do so, and the act of eating, and speaking with my wife over the phone, keeps my from having a breakdown on the street. I feel like now that I have sorted out this big problem, I am finally where I need to be. I finish lunch and wait for my new class to resume.
I assume that, like my initial class, that this new class of beginners is also in it's first day. Sadly, after much stifled conversation with one of my new classmates and my new instructor, I learn that are 8 weeks into the course, and even here, people are already able to speak some degree of French.
The new instructor and my nearest classmate are upbeat and try their best to reassure me I can catch up and that I will fit in... but this news is the final nail in the coffin; I am defeated. I spend the remainder of the class there out of respect and politeness, but I know that I will not continue to attend. While I am required by the state to speak & write a bare minimum of French in order to renew my VISA, the method in which I learn how to is not mandatory.
As such, I have chosen to forgo the provided instructions and instead teach myself. I have done this with many other, equally complex subject in the past, and I will do it here too, but i refuse to be subjected to such counterproductive conditions in the pursuit.
I love being here in France, and I love the work I am here to do. I refuse to let some shitty, irresponsible and uncaring bureaucrats fuck that up for me. I'll pass their tests, but I will do it my way.
Combined this patience with a natural, single-minded determination to see things through and it combines to create a personality that gets things done and produces results. I rarely give up in frustration, I rarely "rage quit" on my projects, and I rarely push things away as "not worth the effort".
So, those few times where I reach a breaking point, it's usually after a significant period of time, pressure and repeated, soul-crushing failure. And it's happened only a couple times in my life. I've created a respectable and successful career by force of will after dropping out of highschool. I've taught myself to walk again after shattering and rebuild a section of my spinal column. I've rarely hit "The Wall". When push comes to shove, I always shove back harder.
So, when it took only a morning of being laughed at by French-speaking people (not with, at), I was surprised to find myself up against that wall. It could be argued that this was the culmination of a French related frustrations over the past year and a half that has lead to this point... but that argument isn't important here.
Why were French-speaking people laughing at me all morning? Well, it all started with my government prescribed French language lessons. One would think that with me being essentially unable to speak the language that these would be an incredible boon to my situation. One would think...
It all started to go wrong right from the start, with a government employee who lost all interest in her job, and in retrospect perhaps herself as a whole. The woman in question was a state language examiner, tasked to evaluate the level of French language competence in immigrants and assign them the appropriate level and duration of instruction to allow them to learn the language.
Her "exam" consisted of a fake invitation to an event, written in French. I was first asked to read aloud the text, to judge my ability to "read" French. Immediately this was suspect, since I'm a Latin-based language speaker with 6 months in the country to be exposed to the french vowel sounds. I am able to pronounce much of what is put in front of me with varying degrees of accuracy... but by no means can I READ it. I mistakenly assume though that this would be taken into account, especially since I have insisted to her that I don't know any French, and repeatedly insist on conducting the interview in English (much to her overt disgust).
The second half of the "examination" consists of 3 or 4 multiple choice questions, asking me to respond to the contents of the above text. This is better, or would be, if she wasn't watching and grunting at me each time I was about to answer wrong until I managed to pick the right answer. Not exactly the most effective method of testing, in retrospect, but I take it all with a grain of salt, assuming that she's just putting me through the motions after my repeated insistence of zero French language skills. Afterall, I'm assigned 200 hours worth of lessons, which is a lot of time. I assume this is the maximum amount of time at the most beginner level.
This was a mistake that I wouldn't fully comprehend until last Saturday.
I knew something was wrong when my assigned classes were way up north, outside of Paris. I had been warned even before moving to the city, warned by former Parisians, to avoid the north end of Paris. This sat a little uneasy with me, but I've lived in some less than desirable places in my time and I know how to handle that. It turns out though that the neighborhood is everything I expect, it's immigrant slum housing, and it's within my ability to "handle" it... but definitely outside of my comfort level. It is also a 1.5 hour commute from my house to the school, and another 1.5 hour commute back in the evenings.
If this is where it ended, It would be lame, bearable, but lame. However this is just where things being to come out from under me.
I arrive in class, and almost immediately the instructor and most of the class begin having comfortable conversations... in French. This is odd, but i figure that maybe to my ear what seems comfortable is in actuality rather poor French and I simply cannot tell the difference yet. Perhaps there are only a few stand out students with above average comprehension and spoken language skills, and I am not the only one that doesn't have a clue what's going on. This is not the case.
Each time the instructor asks me a question, I repeat the phrase "Je ne parle pas Francais" with increasing frustration and desperation, as it is the only real answer I have to anything she says since I am unable to comprehend any of what she is saying to me. She seems to either ignore this, or assume I am joking and continues to call on me thoughout the morning. Each question elicits my same predicable response, and each response generates bigger laughs from the class.
Were I trying to be funny, I would love the kind of laughs I was getting by the end of the morning's class. These are the kind of laughs that kickstart standup comedy careers and land people in movies. Sadly though, I was trying to learn French, and I was attempting to do so in a class for people who have a firm grasp of the language, both oral and written.
At one point during the class I discover that a man a few chairs to my left is a Tibetan man, and I learn this as he explains to the teacher his nationality and, what I assume to be, long personal history entirely in French. I almost lost my proverbial shit right there. My thoughts at that moment were clear "Even they guy from Tibet knows more French than me?! What the FUCK is going on here?!?".
I remain calm though, or as calm as possible. I toss my pen down on my note book, remove my eye glasses and rub my eyes in frustration and disbelief. At this point, I am still a few feet away from The Wall, and I am still feeling as though maybe this will all get better any moment and the teacher is simply finding out the proficiencies of the various students.
This too does not last.
As I am becoming routinely called upon by the instructor, and ever more frustrated simply by her insistence that perhaps asking me more things will suddenly make me admit I was pretending and could speak French all along, I am drawing her attention almost entirely. At first I hope that this means that she will finally sort me out and things will make sense, but instead I am becoming a topic of discussion for the class instead. At one point, she begins to describe me to the class, talking about my freckles, unusual facial hair and it's red color.
It was around this point that the laughs were coming without action on my part. I knew walking out of the train station that morning that I was the only white face I was bound to see, and the classroom was no exception, instructor included. I am used to drawing looks, I'm not an average looking guy almost anywhere. Now however we have crossed the line, I am being singled out, dicussed and laughed at in another language, and I am without recourse or ability to defend myself.
I have found The Wall at full speed. The impact is, psychologically speaking, catastrophic.
The lunch break comes and, as the class begins to file out of the room the teacher comes over to ask me if I understood anything... in French. I understand what she's asking, but more through context and tone. I tell her "No". She repeats the question two more times, and this line of questioning has inevitable result of causing the class to stop their business of leaving for lunch to stop and watch. I repeat "No" to her each time until a student who also speaks English asks me the same question in English. The answer I give this classmate, while more frustrated and verbose is still "No". She relays this to the teacher in French who simply tells me in English "this will be a very hard class for you then" and turns to deal with other students.
No fucking shit? Up until now I had been just sailing through it like a fucking dream and had no idea this was going to be very tough. Of course I don't say this, and the rest of the students all murmur and giggle and continue to leave for lunch. I wait for the teacher to finish speaking with a couple inquisitive students and then ask her why I am in this class, and if there is one more suited to my skill level. She speaks almost no English, so much of this question is finally communicated and answered via pantomime. The result: there is.
Over lunch I am transferred to a beginners course, to which I will report after I find myself a meal. I do so, and the act of eating, and speaking with my wife over the phone, keeps my from having a breakdown on the street. I feel like now that I have sorted out this big problem, I am finally where I need to be. I finish lunch and wait for my new class to resume.
I assume that, like my initial class, that this new class of beginners is also in it's first day. Sadly, after much stifled conversation with one of my new classmates and my new instructor, I learn that are 8 weeks into the course, and even here, people are already able to speak some degree of French.
The new instructor and my nearest classmate are upbeat and try their best to reassure me I can catch up and that I will fit in... but this news is the final nail in the coffin; I am defeated. I spend the remainder of the class there out of respect and politeness, but I know that I will not continue to attend. While I am required by the state to speak & write a bare minimum of French in order to renew my VISA, the method in which I learn how to is not mandatory.
As such, I have chosen to forgo the provided instructions and instead teach myself. I have done this with many other, equally complex subject in the past, and I will do it here too, but i refuse to be subjected to such counterproductive conditions in the pursuit.
I love being here in France, and I love the work I am here to do. I refuse to let some shitty, irresponsible and uncaring bureaucrats fuck that up for me. I'll pass their tests, but I will do it my way.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tic-Tac-Toe
Sometimes it's hard to know what is truly common knowledge, spanning generational and racial divides, and it isn't until you wind up far beyond the confines of "your world" that you begin to question all of your assumptions.
For example, up until today I had assumed that everyone in the world knew how to play tic-tac-toe. It seems so simple and elegant that it would be something that would have vaulted cultural lines with the ease of Parisian driver hopping the curb. Yet, as it turns out, this was one of my little assumptions that was wrong, and I learned so in my special little cultural purgatory; State-run, mandatory French civics lessons.
This is not my first encounter with such State enforced learning during my time here, I have had to attend other such courses. However, this one was it's own special brand of inane and ridiculous.
As one would expect the class is composed of immigrants to France (to which I think I have mistakenly been lumped into, but that's another story), and as such languages spoken vary as widely as the backgrounds. In previous classes there was a large enough contingent of Turks to warrant their own translator. Today however was a more common French & English session.
Roughly 2/3 of the room could speak French, while the remainder were English speakers of various degrees. The room was segregated to facilitate an easier addressing in English to those who needed it. In previous classes the instructor pulled double duty, doing the French explanation for each powerpoint slide, then a summary (albeit seemingly much briefer than the French explanation) in English. This class was apparently large enough to warrant a separate English speaking translator.
I use the term "English speaking" rather loosely in this case.
Immediately it was plain that the presenter was of Indian decent and had the typical sort of English that is spoken by an Indian born speaker who learned English later in life and has trouble with the English syntax and structure. I didn't mind that though, since her spoken English is still far better than my French comprehension.
At first it was cute, since phrases like "The Germany occupied France in 1940 when The Hitler attacked" colored her translations, but it quickly devolved into sheer frustration. Not because of a language barrier, but because of an effort barrier. The translator felt comfortable translating things contextually (the context being her own knowledge), and with a tone of contempt (as though we should already know all this!) if she decided to translate anything at all.
This frustrated the English speakers at first and they constantly pelted her with questions, attempting to actually learn what was being presented. These efforts quickly dwindled until all that remained was the same contempt she was putting out.
Since there is no exam at the end of these sessions, no method of testing learning, retention or the effect of the lesson, all one has to do is endure until the end of the day to receive their certificate. This was when tic-tac-toe came into play.
My notebook for the day, like all the best notebooks, was a grid paper notebook. I drew a small tic-tac-toe board on the bottom corner of my notebook and slid it over to the woman next to me. We had met at the previous class and she recognized me again this class, and sat beside me. We hadn't actually spoken much beyond her borrowing a pen in the previous class, but in a room full of immigrants any familiar face is a friendly face.
She looked at the small grid I had drawn and cocked her head to the side. I took this to mean she didn't know what it was, so I drew an X in the middle square and gestured to her. She realized it was a game of some sort, but didn't know it. This was a shock to me, as it seemed like the sort of thing every kid learns along the way through childhood. Apparently not in Cambodia.
Her English was very limited, so I proceeded to teach her that game without speaking a single word. As a game designer this is both a thrill and a small bit of professional insight presenting itself. The rules of the game are incredibly simple, but explaining them through gesture and example could become complicated, so it required careful thought before each example or gesture.
I proceeded to play an example game against myself as she watched, giving time for her to see my marks on the page as I made them, and draw little bits of feedback to show what the goal was.
The example game concluded and I drew another grid, gesturing for her to make the first mark. We played a few games and it was clear she didn't understand why this was supposed to be fun, since all of our first few games ended in a tied game. I managed to sneak a win by her and her eyes lit up with an expression that clearly said "How did that happen?"
She stopped and thought carefully before she finally spoke, quietly under the lecture, saying "the shape is too small, can it play bigger?". She was expressing a frustration with the speed at which games concluded, the lack of any serious strategy and the draws the game that our games routinely concluded in, I knew this immediately. Yet, despite my profession, I must admit that I had no answer for her since I myself had never bothered to try playing on a larger grid size.
She took my pause in response correctly, understanding that I didn't know and she went ahead and drew a four by four board. We played it and both silently agreed that this configuration was un-fun. She drew the next board back in the standard three by three configuration, scored a victory and was jazzed.
Despite the game's inherent simplicity and lack of depth, we played happily for an hour or so, with the din of untranslated French history filling the background.
The class drew to a close and we both parted ways without notice. Happy to be free of the classroom purgatory and reclaim what little remained of the day.
For example, up until today I had assumed that everyone in the world knew how to play tic-tac-toe. It seems so simple and elegant that it would be something that would have vaulted cultural lines with the ease of Parisian driver hopping the curb. Yet, as it turns out, this was one of my little assumptions that was wrong, and I learned so in my special little cultural purgatory; State-run, mandatory French civics lessons.
This is not my first encounter with such State enforced learning during my time here, I have had to attend other such courses. However, this one was it's own special brand of inane and ridiculous.
As one would expect the class is composed of immigrants to France (to which I think I have mistakenly been lumped into, but that's another story), and as such languages spoken vary as widely as the backgrounds. In previous classes there was a large enough contingent of Turks to warrant their own translator. Today however was a more common French & English session.
Roughly 2/3 of the room could speak French, while the remainder were English speakers of various degrees. The room was segregated to facilitate an easier addressing in English to those who needed it. In previous classes the instructor pulled double duty, doing the French explanation for each powerpoint slide, then a summary (albeit seemingly much briefer than the French explanation) in English. This class was apparently large enough to warrant a separate English speaking translator.
I use the term "English speaking" rather loosely in this case.
Immediately it was plain that the presenter was of Indian decent and had the typical sort of English that is spoken by an Indian born speaker who learned English later in life and has trouble with the English syntax and structure. I didn't mind that though, since her spoken English is still far better than my French comprehension.
At first it was cute, since phrases like "The Germany occupied France in 1940 when The Hitler attacked" colored her translations, but it quickly devolved into sheer frustration. Not because of a language barrier, but because of an effort barrier. The translator felt comfortable translating things contextually (the context being her own knowledge), and with a tone of contempt (as though we should already know all this!) if she decided to translate anything at all.
This frustrated the English speakers at first and they constantly pelted her with questions, attempting to actually learn what was being presented. These efforts quickly dwindled until all that remained was the same contempt she was putting out.
Since there is no exam at the end of these sessions, no method of testing learning, retention or the effect of the lesson, all one has to do is endure until the end of the day to receive their certificate. This was when tic-tac-toe came into play.
My notebook for the day, like all the best notebooks, was a grid paper notebook. I drew a small tic-tac-toe board on the bottom corner of my notebook and slid it over to the woman next to me. We had met at the previous class and she recognized me again this class, and sat beside me. We hadn't actually spoken much beyond her borrowing a pen in the previous class, but in a room full of immigrants any familiar face is a friendly face.
She looked at the small grid I had drawn and cocked her head to the side. I took this to mean she didn't know what it was, so I drew an X in the middle square and gestured to her. She realized it was a game of some sort, but didn't know it. This was a shock to me, as it seemed like the sort of thing every kid learns along the way through childhood. Apparently not in Cambodia.
Her English was very limited, so I proceeded to teach her that game without speaking a single word. As a game designer this is both a thrill and a small bit of professional insight presenting itself. The rules of the game are incredibly simple, but explaining them through gesture and example could become complicated, so it required careful thought before each example or gesture.
I proceeded to play an example game against myself as she watched, giving time for her to see my marks on the page as I made them, and draw little bits of feedback to show what the goal was.
The example game concluded and I drew another grid, gesturing for her to make the first mark. We played a few games and it was clear she didn't understand why this was supposed to be fun, since all of our first few games ended in a tied game. I managed to sneak a win by her and her eyes lit up with an expression that clearly said "How did that happen?"
She stopped and thought carefully before she finally spoke, quietly under the lecture, saying "the shape is too small, can it play bigger?". She was expressing a frustration with the speed at which games concluded, the lack of any serious strategy and the draws the game that our games routinely concluded in, I knew this immediately. Yet, despite my profession, I must admit that I had no answer for her since I myself had never bothered to try playing on a larger grid size.
She took my pause in response correctly, understanding that I didn't know and she went ahead and drew a four by four board. We played it and both silently agreed that this configuration was un-fun. She drew the next board back in the standard three by three configuration, scored a victory and was jazzed.
Despite the game's inherent simplicity and lack of depth, we played happily for an hour or so, with the din of untranslated French history filling the background.
The class drew to a close and we both parted ways without notice. Happy to be free of the classroom purgatory and reclaim what little remained of the day.
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