I did not get to go home for Thanksgiving.
On top of this depressing fact, I teach most of my classes on Thursdays. Of course, I spent Thanksgiving day talking about holidays (explaining to my British-taught students that "holidays" in the US are, in fact, not vacations. I didn't even bother to try and explain about holy days and the like). We talked about our favorite holidays, family traditions, foods we eat, our plans for the coming holidays and vacation.
In this discussion, I learned a few things. One is that "Music Day" is considered a sort of holiday, and that I have a few students who really love it. There's a parade in Paris, and people play music all over the place that day. While almost all of my students claim Christmas as their favorite holiday, very few actually decorated anything or even had especially big family dinners. They told me about the Bûche de Noël, a traditional Christmas cake in the shape of a log. I suppose this is something along the lines of the yule log, but in delicious cake form. Mmmmm. So far, I was on board with the French holiday traditions. Delicious cake. Check!
We went on to discuss some of our favorite aspects of the holidays when we finally got to the Christmas story. Recalling David Sedaris's hilarious "Six to Eight Black Men," I absolutely couldn't resist asking these kids what they did the night before Christmas. I talked about Santa Claus, and they told me about "Père Noël," AKA "Father Christmas." I could handle this. We talked about chimneys and presents and the North Pole. And then...
And then they told me about "Père Fouettard." Oh, Père Fouettard...
This, of course, would be "Father Whipper." In France, if you're bad, you don't get coal in your stocking. No, you get whipped.
Fitting, I think.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The Dehumanizing Effects of a French Medical Exam
In order to procure a "carte de sejour" (this comes after the visa and allows me to work and live here for several months), anyone outside the EU must have a medical exam. The primary point of this exam is the chest x-ray. They do this because they want to ensure that we don't bring TB into the country.
This makes sense, right? Sure. Except for the fact that I've already been here for two months. Had I brought tuberculosis with me, believe me, it would now be too late. This exam is supposedly a preventative measure. Shouldn't we have done this exam at home then and brought the proof with us? One would think.
I can make my peace with the x-ray, but the rest of the exam was fairly humiliating. When we first entered we were given a stack of papers out of a folder with our name and info on it. Then we went through to a nurse man who asked some questions and verified that we were who we said we were. He gave me my papers. Luckily, I actually went through them all and rechecked what he was supposed to have checked. I was listed as a man on the paper. I went back to the nurse man and told him, "Pardonnez moi, mais... je suis une femme."
Of course, he looked blankly back at me. Why was I telling him that I am a woman? I then dumbly pointed to my stack of papers and showed him the error. He later jokingly called me monsieur. Ha.
After this, I sat with several others until we were called into another area where we would go through the initial parts of our "exam." This was another reception-esque area, except for the fact that on the one side of the desk in the center there were bathroom stalls and the opposite side had sinks. This part of the exam would have been absolutely the worst thing imaginable as far as I'm concerned, but I was fortunate. I was not one of the people told to give a urine sample. I felt so so awful for them, though. There could not have been less privacy. While the rest of us were being weighed and measured like cattle, these people had just part of a door separating them from us while they peed into a cup. In order to wash their hands, they had to cross the reception desk to get to the sinks. While the rest of us were measured, there were open urine samples sitting on the side of the desk.
For once, I really don't think that I'm the one being OCD. This is absolutely revolting and completely unhygienic.
After some more waiting (and gagging on my part) I was called into the eye exam. When she consulted my medical chart, the doctor there told me that I have weight issues because I'm American, and that they see this kind of thing all the time. Now, this pissed me off. After they've shown clips from Bowling for Columbine and Supersize Me at the school where I teach, I'm just the tiniest bit disgusted with the sweeping generalizations imposed on my country.
So I explained to her that my family is Greek and they live in America with me and that they are not fat. A lot of my extended family who lives in Greece is fat. Maybe my grandpa, who was fat, passed down a fat gene to me and to some of my other cousins.
After more waiting, I had my chest x-ray (3 different technicians came into the room while I was changing into the hospital gown/robe thing to take my stack of papers). That went on without incident. After some more waiting, I had a "consultation" with another doctor. At my real doctor's this summer, we discovered I have White Coat Syndrome. My heart rate is always artificially high at doctors' offices. It's not really something I can control, but I feel better knowing it. Of course, my discomfiture with the entire horrid situation only exacerbated this.
I could tell that the doctor had seen my weight and judged me. He spent the whole time pushing these "healthy eating" pamphlets at me. I explained that I'd actually consulted a nutritionist before leaving home and was told that Americans don't know about that. Gee. Someone who studied this as their main job must be clueless if she's American. I took them, annoyed. He took my blood pressure 5 times on my left arm and twice on my right. I couldn't tell if he was just incompetent and couldn't figure it out or what the problem was.
At the end, the doctor gave me my chest x-ray, proving I am not a biological threat. He gave me those nutriton pamphlets. And he gave me condoms ("These prevent STDs." Thanks for the heads up. But I guess they don't really have sex ed or health classes here, so that's fair). All in all, I left with a stack of papers and stuff that brings me one step closer to getting another document, proving I'm allowed to be here.
Unfortunately, I was not allowed to take my dignity with me on my way out.
This makes sense, right? Sure. Except for the fact that I've already been here for two months. Had I brought tuberculosis with me, believe me, it would now be too late. This exam is supposedly a preventative measure. Shouldn't we have done this exam at home then and brought the proof with us? One would think.
I can make my peace with the x-ray, but the rest of the exam was fairly humiliating. When we first entered we were given a stack of papers out of a folder with our name and info on it. Then we went through to a nurse man who asked some questions and verified that we were who we said we were. He gave me my papers. Luckily, I actually went through them all and rechecked what he was supposed to have checked. I was listed as a man on the paper. I went back to the nurse man and told him, "Pardonnez moi, mais... je suis une femme."
Of course, he looked blankly back at me. Why was I telling him that I am a woman? I then dumbly pointed to my stack of papers and showed him the error. He later jokingly called me monsieur. Ha.
After this, I sat with several others until we were called into another area where we would go through the initial parts of our "exam." This was another reception-esque area, except for the fact that on the one side of the desk in the center there were bathroom stalls and the opposite side had sinks. This part of the exam would have been absolutely the worst thing imaginable as far as I'm concerned, but I was fortunate. I was not one of the people told to give a urine sample. I felt so so awful for them, though. There could not have been less privacy. While the rest of us were being weighed and measured like cattle, these people had just part of a door separating them from us while they peed into a cup. In order to wash their hands, they had to cross the reception desk to get to the sinks. While the rest of us were measured, there were open urine samples sitting on the side of the desk.
For once, I really don't think that I'm the one being OCD. This is absolutely revolting and completely unhygienic.
After some more waiting (and gagging on my part) I was called into the eye exam. When she consulted my medical chart, the doctor there told me that I have weight issues because I'm American, and that they see this kind of thing all the time. Now, this pissed me off. After they've shown clips from Bowling for Columbine and Supersize Me at the school where I teach, I'm just the tiniest bit disgusted with the sweeping generalizations imposed on my country.
So I explained to her that my family is Greek and they live in America with me and that they are not fat. A lot of my extended family who lives in Greece is fat. Maybe my grandpa, who was fat, passed down a fat gene to me and to some of my other cousins.
After more waiting, I had my chest x-ray (3 different technicians came into the room while I was changing into the hospital gown/robe thing to take my stack of papers). That went on without incident. After some more waiting, I had a "consultation" with another doctor. At my real doctor's this summer, we discovered I have White Coat Syndrome. My heart rate is always artificially high at doctors' offices. It's not really something I can control, but I feel better knowing it. Of course, my discomfiture with the entire horrid situation only exacerbated this.
I could tell that the doctor had seen my weight and judged me. He spent the whole time pushing these "healthy eating" pamphlets at me. I explained that I'd actually consulted a nutritionist before leaving home and was told that Americans don't know about that. Gee. Someone who studied this as their main job must be clueless if she's American. I took them, annoyed. He took my blood pressure 5 times on my left arm and twice on my right. I couldn't tell if he was just incompetent and couldn't figure it out or what the problem was.
At the end, the doctor gave me my chest x-ray, proving I am not a biological threat. He gave me those nutriton pamphlets. And he gave me condoms ("These prevent STDs." Thanks for the heads up. But I guess they don't really have sex ed or health classes here, so that's fair). All in all, I left with a stack of papers and stuff that brings me one step closer to getting another document, proving I'm allowed to be here.
Unfortunately, I was not allowed to take my dignity with me on my way out.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I finally made it home.
Today I found the mall.
I went to pick up my "carte bancaire" (ATM card--which, BTW, has a 300 euro withdrawal limit per week. Thank God I'm not making any money.) at la Defense today. This is a place just outside of Paris, but it's on the line 1 metro, which means it's super easy to get to from my apartment because my metro stop has lines 1, 5, and 8. I feel so wonderfully connected.
Sarah had told me that there was a mall in this area, and I've really wanted a yoga mat. I decided to check it out--especially because I would have no idea where to find a yoga mat in any store I've seen in Paris. I figured that whatever mall-like place existed here would be my best bet. And wow. I left my earbuds in, listening to my music, but, more importantly, blocking out all external noises so that for the moment I could believe. And I did. It was the most at home I've felt here. It was so...normal. Being in a mall was just so natural. I even found a yoga mat!
I went to pick up my "carte bancaire" (ATM card--which, BTW, has a 300 euro withdrawal limit per week. Thank God I'm not making any money.) at la Defense today. This is a place just outside of Paris, but it's on the line 1 metro, which means it's super easy to get to from my apartment because my metro stop has lines 1, 5, and 8. I feel so wonderfully connected.
Sarah had told me that there was a mall in this area, and I've really wanted a yoga mat. I decided to check it out--especially because I would have no idea where to find a yoga mat in any store I've seen in Paris. I figured that whatever mall-like place existed here would be my best bet. And wow. I left my earbuds in, listening to my music, but, more importantly, blocking out all external noises so that for the moment I could believe. And I did. It was the most at home I've felt here. It was so...normal. Being in a mall was just so natural. I even found a yoga mat!
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Proud to be an American
Never have I stood taller or felt as proud to be an American as this election night. I still can't believe it's true. I've hoarded several newspapers with Obama on the cover. The frenchies just love him. My students, when I asked them what they knew about the US and elections and all that jazz, responded consistently o-ba-MA (please imagine the accent). When I got excited and asked them what they liked about him... well... that one was a bit tougher for them. ¨He eez young...¨ ¨He eez blAck.¨ Either way, they're loving this, and I'm loving being American.
I feel so proud I'm almost smug, as though my absentee ballot makes me very special. It's pretty cool though. Now all I need is for the dollar to make its way to equal, and then--dare I say it?--surpass the euro! Obama's got a lot on his plate, but that would be appreciated.
I feel so proud I'm almost smug, as though my absentee ballot makes me very special. It's pretty cool though. Now all I need is for the dollar to make its way to equal, and then--dare I say it?--surpass the euro! Obama's got a lot on his plate, but that would be appreciated.
1 U.S. dollar = 0.77411364 Euros
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