#banlieue
When I first applied to teach abroad, there was a section of the application that asked if I was willing to work in a Zone Urbaine Sensible (ZUS). Sensitive Urban Zone is just a fancy term for po’ & run down. A ZUS typically has a high percentage of public housing, high rates of unemployment, and very low percentages of high school degrees. In the United States we tend to refer to these places as the inner-city, but in Paris most of these neighborhoods are found in les banlieues just outside of the city.
So knowing all of this before applying, I reluctantly marked a check in the square box. Why on earth would I agree to this, you ask? A couple reasons. The main reason being I was desperate to get into the program and thought that since many people would say no, this might help my chances. The second reason is because I wanted to have students from diverse ethnic and cultural backgrounds. I grew up in the Washington, DC metropolitan area and I am just in general used to that type of environment. But I didn’t imagine how much I would enjoy the experience.
So I ended up being placed in 3 schools in 2 different cities. Two of my schools are in a nice, clean middle class community. There are town hall meetings, weekly farmer’s markets, community centers, a movie theater, and everything a good ‘ole town needs to feel complete. The other school is placed in a town that…has a lot to be desired. Its funny because these cities are RIGHT next to one another but if you go 5 minutes in the other direction it feels like a different world.
The “lesser” city is not a ZUS but its probably one more project building away from it. When I told my other schools that I was teaching there, they all got wide eyed. “Oh you’ll never be able to control those kids. They’re wild. They all come from broken homes”. Even the teachers at that very “wild” school warned me before I entered the first day that they have a hard time controlling their students. All of a sudden I was scared. Wild? Uncontrollable? Am I about to be a teacher or a lion tamer?
“How bad could they be?”, I thought. “They’re in elementary school for crying out loud.”
I didn’t know how I would be received that first day but I certainly was not prepared for what I got. I walked in and was pleasantly surprised to see a sea of black and brown faces. Most of them are children of first generation immigrants from North and West Africa. I even have a handful of students from Cambodia, Vietnam, and India. Their excitement was borderline fanatical. I felt like a rockstar. Rich Homie Quan was right, I DO “be feeling like the man when I walk through”. Everyone came running up to me, asking me questions, shouting my name as if they’d known me for years. I finally know how Beyonce feels on the red carpet.
I’m sure there are several reasons why their love for me was so instantaneous. Maybe its because I’m American. Maybe it’s because I’m considerably cooleryounger than the other teachers. But I can’t help but feel like the main reason is simply because I am black.
We all know that representation matters. Typically when we speak on representation, we are referring to movies, sports, politics or some other platform seen behind a screen. Recent uproar on the lack of diversity within the Oscars is proof of that. But rarely do we consider the affect representation might have within an interpersonal relationship. Of all three schools, among roughly 30-40 educators, I am the only teacher of color. In schools that are made up of almost 90% minorities, you can imagine the message that subconsciously sends to the students.
I’ve learned that being Black American is also synonymous with “cool” in France. One of the first questions my 4th graders asked me that first day was if I knew how to whip and nae-nae. Immediately, almost as if rehearsed, the class sprang up and started singing and dancing that incredibly annoying popular song by Silento. The principal was shouting, attempting to calm them down but something possessed me to dance with them. Their reaction was hilarious. They clapped and cheered as if I had finished the decathlon. I was given a “cool” test and I passed with flying colors.
They love to bombard me with stereotypical questions:
Are you related to Obama?No.
Have you met him?No.
Have you seen the Queen?I’m not British.
Have you been to New York? Yes.
Do you eat hamburgers everyday?I wish.
Have you met a cowboy?….No..?
Do you wear flip flops?Huh?
Have you visited Big Ben? Again, Maxime, I’m not British.
In the first week I created a slideshow about my life in the US. I included pictures of my friends, family, doing activities growing up, etc. They went crazy over my cheerleading photo, thinking that was only something they see in movies. And they oo-ed and ah-ed when they saw how big my college football stadium was. But there were two photos in particular that really took them aback.
One picture was a photo of my sorority sisters and I at graduation, laughing with our caps on tight and tassles swinging high in the air. I had hoped they saw what I saw: Women with degrees. ** Black Girl Magic **.
The other photo was of me in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Unsure of their familiarity with American history, I noted that Lincoln is most known for liberating blacks from slavery during his presidency and then explained how Martin Luther King gave his famous “I Have a Dream” speech in that very same location. For some of them it went over their heads but I could tell some were reflecting quietly on this. They were wide-eyed when I said MLK has his own memorial in DC and that a Black History Museum is currently being built.
Imagine speaking in front of black and brown children who live in a country that rarely, if ever, discusses their ancestor’s history. And then telling them that there is a country, which is predominately white, that actually gives months and national holidays dedicated to the celebration and remembrance of people of color. To us, Black/Hispanic/Asian History Month is commonplace, but in France this is a mind-blowing, foreign concept.
After class ended that day, one of my students came up and asked where I was from. “The United States of course!” I responded.
“No,” she corrected. “I mean where are you from originally”
This is a question I’ve grown quite accustomed to being asked here. In France, people of color are never seen as just black, or maghrebin(people from North Africa), or asian, etc. Where your ancestral roots lie are a big part of you. I finally told her, “My family has been in the US for centuries. I don’t know which African country I’m originally from”.
“Oh,”she said disappointedly. “I was hoping you were from Cameroon like me”. And in that moment I wished I was too.
My students have a knack for bringing my spirits up on bad days. Thanksgiving Day was a particularly rough day for me. I was in an unhappy living situation (Read HERE), I was physically sick for the past two weeks with no medical insurance, and I was homesick on the most familial day of the year. I was eating lunch alone in the teachers lounge when one of my (favorite) 3rd grade students ran up to me and said “Happy Thanksgiving, Anndi. You are too beautiful and I love you so much”.
The hug she gave me was filled with so much love I could have sworn I was hugging a family member. That moment was really touching because it made me realize I was having a profound affect on someone.
It has now been 5 months teaching and the “bad” school, the one EVERYONE said I would never be able to handle, is my absolute favorite. These kids make me excited to go to work. They are so motivated to learn english. Most of the time I don’t even remember that they come from underprivileged neighborhoods. But every now and then I get reminders.
When I notice a student is wearing the same outfit several days in a row, I remember. When I ask a student why they don’t have any materials for class, I remember. When I had planned to do an activity where the whole class draws their family tree and am told by another teacher “thats not a good idea…”, then I remember.
Listen, this is not a Hallmark movie. I’m not Ron Clark or Hilary Swank from Freedom Writers, giving underprivileged children hope to strive for greatness in the midst of disparity. (I’m probably more akin to Jack Black in School of Rock). But I do feel like I’ve been making a positive impression in their lives and most of that I feel is because they somehow see themselves in me. I can’t pretend they don’t drive me crazy or act out from time to time. But at the end of the day, they’re good kids. They’re beautiful, they’re funny, they’re engaging, they’re sweet, and I am so happy to call them my students.
