Education Insurrection

As I continue my ongoing battle to scrape the bare minimum of French language skills while living In France, I have once again had to come to grips with the fact that my chosen lifestyle leaves little or no possibility for conquering this feat. There is no way that I won't gravitate towards English speaking friends because I am not a solitary or uncommunicative person. I talk too much, too loudly (as explicitly exhibited by a Librarian at the Centre Pompidou asking me to not speak so loudly today), and if I cannot express myself I usually explode on some level. I feel quite certain that most of this could be overcome if it were not for other extenuating circumstances, such as...

The fact that I teach English. The more students I have, the more money I make, the more I can travel and the longer I can stay in this foreign country. But of course, the double-edged sword of reality wields its fatal blade and with every new student there goes another hour in which my English skills are put to the test, not my French ones. Not only that, but my two hours a day (sometimes three when the evil voice of phonetics comes whispering in my ear) has slowly turned into a torture chamber of grammatical misery. This metaphor has been tragically overused, but it does in fact feel like Azkaban and the Dementors of grammatical decree are slowly sucking my soul out of my body. Since many of my native French friends have informed me that half the things I am learning are not commonly used in daily conversation, you can imagine my frustration. I had a strong urge to pull out some matches and light my grammar test on fire today... I did not have matches nor do I think this gesture would go well in my classroom or assist my visa status with the country in any way, but still... at the very least, metaphorical objects were being consistently thrown at my professor's head as we discussed the indicatif versus the subjonctif and I pondered my complete lack of comprehension when it comes to French pronouns...

Let's also add to the mix the daily happening which occurs almost every time I go to a store and attempt to use more than three words at a time... Inevitably, I will either make a mistake or my accent will be too prominent and without even asking, the vendor will switch to English. This happened to me at a Cuban restaurant last week when I tried to explain that I had called for a reservation earlier in the day, again at Starbucks (where I think they have a sixth sense and are trained to smell my American blood like drug hounds), and a third time when I went to the pharmacy and sorry, couldn't say the medicinal word "omeprezole", with a perfect French accent. Yes, I feel infantalised, to the point where yes, I would very much like to throw a toddler-like fit and sprawl on the floor in an endless and futile rage of frustration... 

Finally, I have also accidentally fallen into a bit of a side business, involving the good samaritan act of "editing" assignments for university students who "need assistance" with their research papers. Translation? I am being paid to write the research papers of various students who don't feel it's in their best interest to do it themselves. I frankly veto anyone of the opinion that this is morally wrong, as it provides me with cash and them with the ever-evolving life lesson that I am smart enough to do it and and they are rich enough to pay for it. Done and done. The only downfall for me is that I continue to spend endless hours analyzing the English language. 

I fully admit that I am in control of my own life choices and should I choose to devote more time to French, move to a small provincial town perhaps, marry a random Frenchman in exchange for fluency, forfeit my travels or ability to survive in the name of a higher education, I could freely do so. But for now, I seem to remain a wittily articulate, some might say bewitchingly beautiful,  overly English-speaking American girl in Paris.