Sleepless in Béziers

 

 

 

“You deserve to lose a night’s sleep for that one,” Peter says. 

 

“I already have!”  I whine.  Still, I cringe. 

 

My partner is right, of course – me wanting to pull our son from the local public school, and enroll him in a private one instead, all because the stiletto-teetering, cigarette-wielding, prodigiously pierced parents at his inner-city French school frighten me – well, nothing shouts “classist hypocrite” louder than that. 

 

Worse, it is impossible to disentangle race from class in this country – the poor are visibly dark-skinned, and this city has its share of them. And though I know it is not the gaggle of young, veiled women I want to escape, there is no getting around the fact that I feel out of my skin.  I – a 40-something, middle-class Canadian of Indian origin, an NDP-supporting, placard-waving, anti-every-ism feminist – am mortified.

 

 

It’s been a few weeks since my eight-year-old started school in this ancient city in the south of France.  Getting him enrolled was surprisingly easy – anyone with a rental agreement can sign their kids up.   And Sage, to our great relief, has had little trouble fitting in.   His marble-filled pockets are testament to the many friends he has already made.  Teachers have welcomed him warmly and are giving him French-language support, and with two years of French immersion under his belt, il se débrouille. 

 

I, on the other hand, am having more trouble managing.

 

As I stand in the narrow street onto which the front door of the school opens, I steal sideways glances at other parents as they chatter away.  In one cluster are the Arabic women, hair covered, absorbed, speaking in their own language, rarely looking at me.  In front of the door are the Caucasian women, equally veiled but in tattoos.  With their dangling cigarettes and fish-net stockings, they wear their poverty like a cliché.  Women half my age nestle babies, waiting for their other children to emerge; they flirt with young men on motor scooters who pull up on the curb. 

 

Behind me, standing alone and rarely speaking to one another, are a tall Franco-African man with hip-hop jewelry and hat, whose pants are belted so low, his crotch is at knee level; a few well-dressed Arabic men who stand apart from the women; and a Caucasian man whose pale complexion and gaunt frame give him the appearance of an addict.

 

So how, in this crowd, do I realize my vision?  Where are the friends who will host us for dinner, who will travel to Canada, become life-long amies?  In my bourgeois alienation I judge quickly and harshly, and bring to the fore every stereotype I have ever railed against.  Making friends in France was never supposed to be like this . . .

 

École Roland, the school to which the city assigned Sage, is one of Béziers’ oldest.  Named after a heroine who lost her head, literally, during the French Revolution, its thick stone walls have echoed children’s laughter for more than 100 years.  In the five minutes it takes to walk from our home to his school, we wind through some of Béziers’ narrowest and oldest streets.  Fresh-washed laundry hangs out from wrought-iron balcony railings, absorbing the mingled scents of fresh-baked baguettes floating up from patisseries, and of the cumin-laced curries escaping from kitchen windows.  It is clear that generations of immigrants have put their stamp on this place.  The colourful spices that form the basis of North African cuisine, along with okra, black-eyed peas, hummus and babaganouj, can be found in most shops, even the smallest of convenience stores, and restaurants bear names like Le gout d’Afrique and Zebulon Kebab.

 

Poverty, too, has made its mark.  For these ancient four and five-storied buildings house among the city’s poorest citizens – immigrants and their descendants from former French colonies, Arabs from the Maghreb (Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia), and eastern Europeans from countries like Bulgaria and Romania.  They are the jobless of Béziers and, indeed, the country’s underclass.   Tourists and locals also traverse these streets – lawyers’ offices, posh stores, cafes and heritage sites are all within only a half block of the school.  But Béziers’ middle-class has long-since evacuated the downtown core, preferring  to build bungalow-style homes in new developments on the outskirts.

 

And so, it isn’t surprising that the entrance to the two private Catholic schools we pass on the way to École Roland is jammed with BMWs, Audis, SUVs, and sports cars all depositing suburban children in smart back-to-school clothes.  They are predominantly white; they remind me of home.

 

Sage, however, feels right at home at his school.    

 

But do I? With no parent committees, no chess club, no after-school basketball, I shift awkwardly and silently, seeing no way to break through.  Language and age and gender and class – they are all barriers that seem equally insurmountable.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

It is two days later now, and shamefaced, stomach churning, but resigned to my failings, I’ve spoken with administrators at the private schools, only to learn they are full.  I head to École Roland to get Sage for lunch. 

 

A mother leans, relaxed, against the metal railing opposite the school.  “Bonjour?” I say tentatively and smile down at her son.  “Bonsoir!” she says, giving me the widest of smiles.  And I can feel my wall of anxiety starting to crack.  “What class are your children in?” I ask.

 

And we take it from there.

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~ by Rita Parikh on September 23, 2008.