Graduate Studies
      General Information
      Admissions
      Degrees
      Handbook
      Courses
      Student Spotlight
      Contact Us

Undergraduate Studies
      General Information
      Majors/Minors
      Courses
      Advising
      Placement Policy
      Student Spotlight

About Us
      Civilization
      Literature
      Linguistics
      Francophone Studies

Programs Abroad
      Graduate
      Undergraduate

Organizations
      FFGO
      Le Cercle français

Basic Language Program
      General Information

Directories
      Faculty
      Staff
      Graduate Students

News & Events
      Faculty Spotlight
      Film Series
      Table Ronde

In the fall of 2004, after spending two years at the Pennsylvania State University, I put my academic career and lifestyle on hold, and moved to France. I was going to spend the next seven months participating in a collaborative government program that sends young adults to foreign countries for the purpose of teaching in the public education system. This program, known as the Assistantship Program, would take advantage of my two primary scholastic interests while putting me in a unique position to evaluate the efficacy of the program.

For the purpose of this evaluation, I will be documenting my experience teaching in the Rouvière Technical High located in Toulon, France. This reflection is intended not only to provide the reader with a chronological account of my exposure to the Assistant Program, but also to contrast the expectations I had prior to my departure and the impressions that I had after I returned home.

For those unfamiliar with Assistant Program, the two primary electronic sources of information on the subject provide these descriptions:

The French Ministry of Education and the Cultural Services at the French Embassy offer between 1,000 and 1,700 teaching assistant position in French primary and secondary schools and in Instituts universitaires de formation des maîtres (IUFMs) in all regions of France and the DOM-TOMS to persons who fulfill the following requirements :

• You are an American citizen (or have a green card)
• You are between 20 and 34 years of age
• You are currently pursuing or have already attained a college degree
• You are proficient in French. Students without a major or minor in French but with a basic proficiency (about 3 semesters) in French can apply. http://www.frenchculture.org/spip.php?article396

Their responsibilities:

• Helping pupils develop confidence in speaking and understanding;
• Taking part in class alongside the teacher;
• Assisting with other educational activities at school;
• Serving as a model speaker for audio/video recordings used in teaching;
• Providing personal tutoring for pupils;
• Taking part in school exchange projects;
• Organizing conversation-based activities.

Discovering the Program

I began my sophomore year at Penn State just coming off the realization that I hated my former major and now had no idea where to take my future studies. Terrified of forever being trapped in a job that I couldn't stand, I sought to educate myself in a field that was both interesting and marketable to any prospective employers. I had decided to settle on French Culture and Education which were two areas of interest and experience from high-school. From what little I could gather, this program seemed to propose an experience where my areas of interest would not only be involved, but almost exclusively relied upon.

The presentation was given by a young representative of the French government - in English. He briefly outlined the structure of the program and what the role of an assistant actually entailed. The longer I listened, the more I realized that I made a good decision by attending. I was glad to see many familiar faces in the audience, simultaneously pleased by both the French community's accessibility and that I would be able to share my enthusiasm with a friend.

When the presentation had finished, I was thoroughly convinced that this was absolutely the most ideal opportunity to ever fall into my lap. I was still washing that bitter "you've just wasted a year of college studying things you hate" taste out of my mouth and the thought of wasting even more of my time and my parents' money sampling different majors wasn't appealing at all. I had it rationalized in my head: the assistant's monthly stipend would allow me to self-sustain in France - a country where my immersion into the local culture would aid my speaking proficiency in ways a college classroom never could. A country where I would also essentially be engaging in a seven month student teaching contract. The experience would be invaluable. Even in the worst case scenario where I realized that I hated teaching and I hated French, I would have saved myself and my parents another year's worth of time and tuition money.

I immediately phoned my parents to inform them of my idea. I barely had my foot out the door before I had the cell phone jammed against my ear. My enthusiasm proved to be contagious as my parents were just as excited as I was. After I got off the phone, I could hardly believe what I was prepared to do. I was prepared to leave my family and my friends, freezing my academic status while I spent a year teaching in France. It seemed so completely out of character that as much as I wished it would happen, I didn't honestly believe that I would actually see it through. I would get lazy and ignore the paperwork. I would get scared and chicken out. My parents would get second thoughts about the implications of dropping out of college for one year. I thought of dozens of reasons why my little dream project would never come to fruition.

The Application Process

Reading through the application was what strengthened my resolve. I realized that I was the perfect candidate. I've had previous experience working the adolescents. I've had experience teaching in a formal setting. I was confident with my level of French. Everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place. This assistant program played to all my strengths, and I endeavored to take it seriously.

My poor organizational skills and chronic distractibility usually made filling out paperwork an absolute chore. My determination in this case, however, has never been equaled, neither before nor since. I treated every sheet of paper like it was the Declaration of Independence. Each sheet was kept as white and unfolded as the day it came out of the tree. If the application requested a recommendation, I got two. I had every official university document stamped and printed on proper Penn State letterhead. I made heinous amounts of copies for everything. I wasn't going to leave anything to chance.

Application deadlines were staggered throughout December, January, and February. I put special effort in ensuring that my applications would be mailed well before the first deadline. I made the (correct by ultimately misleading) conclusion that if I got my application accepted early, I would receive my preferred placement in the city of Nice.

Although the experience was admittedly stressful - trying to track down all the right references and recommendation letters and passport photographs, I figured that once the application was sent, the worst would be behind me. I was willing to forgive what seemed to be an old-fashioned administrative paper-shuffle because it was a small price to pay. I didn't ask myself questions like, "I wonder why this application can't be submitted online?" or "Wouldn't this be so much easier if it was done electronically?" I told myself that an assistantship had affiliation with the French government and was undoubtedly taken very seriously and that traveling to Europe and being inserted into a foreign public education system was probably a very complicated affair. It had absolutely nothing to do with an endlessly frustrating archaic French bureaucracy.

Waiting for the Arreté

After I had put the cumbersome application process behind me, it was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Finally, I had some room to breathe. I wasn't anticipating any sort of reply until the late spring which left me with three months of wondering about the next step. After poking around on the net, I was ultimately led to the website, www.assistantsinfrance.com. Run by former assistants, this site had a very useful forum where prospective assistants could post questions or express concerns and then receive advice from those who had already gone through the experience. It was here I learned that almost all former assistants had, in their time in France, developed a healthy disgust for what I lovingly refer to as "French Administrivia." There's an entire thread dedicated to this subject entitled "Paperwork Inferno."

I discovered that the application was just the beginning. The website outlined the process of obtaining pesky things like passports, visas, and work permits. But for the time being, I tried to not get ahead of myself. For the most part, it was just a waiting game. Every day, I would check the mailbox to see if I had received anything. And then, finally sometime in early May, the letter came. I immediately went inside and tore open the envelope. Inside was a one page letter indicating that I had been placed in the Academy of Nice. Not only had I been accepted, but I was given the placement of my choosing!

The next step would be to wait for an additional document to arrive in the mail that would allow me to obtain my Visa. The infamous Arreté de Nomination led to a small fiasco where certain assistants were unknowingly sent an unofficial (and hence useless) version of this document. The online forum at the Assistants' webpage filled up with horror stories about assistants who drove four hours to the nearest consulate only to be refused when they realized they had the wrong paper. As a result of this and other cases of forgotten or misplaced documents, I began to dread my visit to the Embassy. It also didn't help that I received several emails each containing a different list of Visa requirements. It was all very confusing.

My official stamped Arreté finally arrived late in the summer. It informed me of my twelve hour a week contract to a high-school in Toulon (probably a suburb of Nice). I decided against mailing in the Visa application because if I made a mistake, it would take three weeks of correspondence before I found out. I opted, instead, to drive to the nearest consulate and apply in person. I left for Washington DC early in the morning, hoping to avoid the long lines and busy traffic. We arrived ten minutes before the Visa Office opened and were able to park right in front of the Embassy. I walked in, handed the Visa Officer a couple papers and some photographs, and it was all over. It didn't take longer than fifteen minutes. I even had to check my watch because I couldn't believe it was that simple. Maybe I was just lucky.

Buying the Plane Ticket

Not being a frequent airplane ticket buyer, I made the mistake of buying my ticket too close to the flight date. I later found out that other assistants flying from similar regions (and some much further away) had paid almost half of what I did. One thing I discovered was that I could always find something cheaper on the internet than the lady at our local travel agency. This is something that would come in handy when traveling during the long two-week vacations that I would have during the year. Learning how to find cheaper airline tickets is a skill that I found rather valuable.

The Day of the Flight

The day of the flight I remember being surreal. Somewhere I had it in the back of my mind that I was about to embark upon an adventure. Without a single doubt this was the craziest thing I had ever done. Yet, that morning, I was as sober as ever. I wasn't nervous. I didn't have butterflies in my stomach. I, surprisingly, didn't think of all the things that could go wrong and all the potential worries I would have once I landed. My mind was more or less on autopilot. I could see myself going through the motions in a very detached sort of way. My father drove me to Dulles International Airport where, after I had said goodbye, I wouldn't see him again for seven months. Despite the fact that I had been living at the University Residence Halls since I was a freshman, I was never more than a one hour drive away from my parents. This trip would be separation in a much truer sense than college ever had been.

My flight had three legs. I took a plane from DC to Newark. I then flew from Newark to London. Then from London to Hyeres-Toulon. Although I later tolerated the flight changes and layovers relatively well, the true appeal of this flight was that I would be sharing the final plane with another assistant who would be working in the same area as me. We had previously decided that it would be a good idea to try to arrive a week earlier than the scheduled orientation in Nice to try to get a head-start on finding an apartment.

I can remember the excitement that I felt as I flew over the airport. I had an excellent view of the city below. The beaches looked beautiful, and the town looked exactly like I had expected. I left the plane with adrenaline pumping through my veins. Despite the fact that multiple layovers eventually resulted in a voyage equaling almost twenty hours, I felt excited. The first order of business once we were off the plane was to buy international phone cards and call our parents to let them know that we had arrived safely. Once that was done, we clumsily navigated the airport (something I attribute more to extreme fatigue than anything else) and finally found our way outside. A solitary taxi immediately came into view we were able to secure its services with a minimum of fuss.

I knew that I had been placed in town called Toulon, but wasn't exactly sure where it was in relation to the airport. Also the name of the airport, Toulon-Hyères, seemed to indicate that it serviced two areas. When I asked our driver how far away our apartment was, he said that it shouldn't take longer than twenty minutes.

The area around the airport was gorgeous. Palm trees, ocean, sand, and beautiful warm colors were everywhere. But as we moved further and further away from the airport, things started to change. The colors of the buildings began to change from the bright oranges and reds that I had seen leaving the airport. Dusty browns and faded grays took their place. As this transition of color continued, my lofty expectations followed suit. I felt my heart sinking lower and lower in my chest. It was one of the most disappointing moments in my life. I came to France with dreams of living on the Riviera and experiencing the beau paysages . But looking out the window as we approached Toulon, it was all I could do to keep from suffocating from the dirty claustrophobic streets and filthy sidewalks. My intense fatigue cushioned my spirit from the impact of it all, and it would take several hours before it actually hit home.

The First Week

My first night in the apartment was a god-awful nightmare. I was grateful for the intense manual labor of lugging suitcases through cobbled streets. At least it took my mind off the fact that I was utterly devastated by the appearance of Toulon. I passed out immediately after signing the apartment agreement, and woke up seven hours later in the worst panic attack of my life.

Jet lag had not been kind to me, and when I woke up at 12:00 AM in a strange smelly city where I didn't speak the language, I no longer had the sweet promise of sleep to dream away my troubles. As I sat up in the pitch-blackness of my room, I did a complete one-hundred-eighty degree switch from mindless detached awe to physically incapacitating terror. I had made a huge mistake, and I wanted my mommy. Luckily I held strong to my last remaining shred of dignity and maturity. I realized the worst thing I could do was to worry the people who loved me and whose inability to help would only frustrate and upset. I ultimately did nothing but stare at bad French television for five hours.

The next day my roommates and I decided to look for housing. The real estate agent that collected our leases the day before suggested a studio not far from the apartment. This was an incredible relief. Purposeful activities helped keep me distracted from my fear and guilt. Plus, I felt more comfortable when I was in a group where I didn't have to make decisions by myself. My decision making skills were so handicapped I couldn't even decide what I wanted to eat and I just bought the same thing as the person in front of me. This turned out to be rather foolish as my stomach was turning so hard and fast that even half a French pastry was reminder enough that my appetite was practically non-existent. I didn't eat anything for the rest of the day. This is not an exaggeration.

The rest of the week, I was unable to accomplish anything on my own. Everything was done with or at the suggestion of others. Even something as simple as buying a cell phone turned out to be an enormous hurdle. I feel rather sheepish now, looking back, on the enormous feeling of accomplishment that I had after I bought my cell phone. Just a little side-note here: the phone that I bought was priced at sixty euros. Although there were cheaper models, the phone I chose was the cheapest that also had the capability of calling the United States. Instead of buying a monthly contract (which would have been complicated anyway because a proof of residence and bank account were necessary), I opted for the pay-as-you-go option where you buy phone credit and simply add to it as it runs out.

The First Visit to the School

Even with the very proud accomplishment of buying a cell phone under my belt, I was still felt unprepared to make the next step. When I received my information packet in the mail, they included information on how to contact both my school and the previous assistant. While I sent emails to both of their addresses I failed to get into contact with either of them. The information packet did list the phone number of the school, but I was far too timid and unsure of my ability in French to take that kind of action. Needless to say, when I arrived in France, I had absolutely no prior contact with either the school or anyone who had worked there before.

After the couple days in the apartment, my roommates started getting the idea that it would be a good idea to go and visit our schools. I was absolutely terrified of this. The idea of walking into a place, completely unsure of where I was going or what I was supposed to do was very scary to me. As Americans, I knew we would stand out in a French high-school, and I just couldn't bear the thought of thousands of pairs of eyes silently judging me and wondering what I was doing. Luckily, with the moral support of my cohorts, I decided to make my first visit to the school completely unannounced.

After looking at a bus map, we discovered (much to my relief) that there was a bus line that went directly to my school. After taking some time to try to figure out the buses, we eventually found the correct bus stop and how to buy bus tickets. Secretly dreading actually walking into the school, I took great pleasure in the actual trip, knowing full well that time spent in the bus was time I wasn't spending confused in front of hundreds of French teenagers. Regrettably, the bus did manage to find its way to the school and as I exited, I did my best to look like I knew where I was going.

Directly across from the bus stop was a short road that led into the schools parking lot. Aside from that tiny roadway, the entire parking lot was surrounded by fences. The side that bordered the school was a concrete wall covered with a lot of graffiti. Someone would later tell me that it was artwork done by students. I gained entrance by passing through a narrow doorway that opened up into the school's courtyard. I was once again felt that familiar twinge of disappointment. Although the greenery in the middle of the courtyard was attractive, all the buildings had a depressing prison-grey color. Any possible surviving aesthetic value was ruined with the bars and grills that covered all the windows. After visiting several of the other assistants' schools, I quickly confirmed that mine was easily the ugliest.

I tried to muster some semblance of confidence and bravery, but even with my two assistant friends accompanying me, I still felt like I was six years old on my first day of school. Maybe it was our clothes, maybe it was the fact that we had no idea where we were going, but just as I expected, we got a lot of funny looks. I looked around and tried to pick out a building that looked administrative. We ultimately decided on one of two smaller buildings that were tucked away to the right as we entered the courtyard.

As we entered the building, I felt pretty confident about my choice. I saw secretaries behind desks, so I assumed that I was in the right place. I looked around, casually trying to find the most unobtrusive way to make my presence known. Just then, an important looking man came out of his office and saw the three of us standing there shuffling about uncomfortably. Asking if he could help us in a polite but direct manner, I began stammering in French about how I was an assistant and that I didn't have anyway to get into contact with my school. I handed him the sheet of paper with all the contact info listed. He seemed confused as to why I had randomly shown up without calling ahead and that usually people made a point to schedule visits in advance. Eventually he took a look at my paper and recognized the teacher's name that had been listed as my coordinator. But because we had shown up during that black hole between 12:00 and 2:00 where all French people disappear and stop working, he was no where to be found. One phone call later, I found out that I had been assigned the wrong person at the school. I was actually assigned to a teacher called Suzanne Buda. That cleared up some of the confusion and we were told that she was expected back here in one hour and I could meet her when she arrived.

We decided that to kill time, we would check out the two supermarkets that we had seen on our way to the school. I had never been inside a French supermarket before, and I thought this would be a great distraction from the nervous embarrassment I felt only moments before. The first store was called the Aldi Marché and it looked like a beaten down version of Wal-Mart's second cousin. The store's interior did nothing to change my first impression. Shelves didn't seem to exist. Everything was still in large plastic wrapped cubes. If I wanted to buy a bottle of soda, I would first have to tear it from its tight plastic shell. What I saw next absolutely horrified me and completely changed the way I thought about French food. Stacked as tall as a person, were cartons and cartons of milk - far from the cool embrace of modern refrigeration. Milk was actually sold at room temperature. I was baffled. My world had been turned completely on its head. I decided that we need to leave as soon as possible. This was not a problem as only one of the two employees was actually working, leaving us an empty check-out lane to walk through.

I left the store emotionally shattered. This , I thought, is what all French supermarkets are going to be like. I didn't know how I was going to deal with this, but I was almost certainly sure it meant I was going to starve to death. But as soon as I saw the second supermarket, my fears were instantly abated. The second store that we went into was called the Intermarché, and immediately reminded me of the civilized world to which I was accustomed. There were lights and shelves, fresh produce and cold milk! Suddenly, going to the supermarket didn't seem like it would be so bad. I learned an important lesson that day. I learned that although first impressions have lasting impressions, making generalizations on a whole culture and people based on those impressions is a very dangerous thing to do.

After we had finished exploring the super markets, we realized that we still had about twenty minutes left. I decided that I should head back early just in case Suzanne arrived sooner than expected. When I returned to the school I assumed that she would just be waiting for me in the same office building as before. When this turned out not to be the case, I looked at my watch and made sure that I wasn't late. Eventually, the same man caught me aimlessly wandering around the building and asked why I was so late. This confused me. It eventually dawned on me that he told us she was returning at 1:00 and not in one hour like we had thought. In my nervousness, I had apparently forgotten the difference between dans une heure and à une heure . She was in class and that if I wanted to meet with her, I'd have to interrupt her class.

My first meeting with Suzanne was on the second floor of Building C. She was in the middle of English class. She asked me why I hadn't met her earlier and I tried to explain the confusion surrounding the meeting date. She handed me a card with her number on it and the number of a real-estate agent who might be able to help me find a place to live. I thanked her and apologized for interrupting her class. I left hoping that I didn't seem as scared and nervous as I actually was.

The Housing Dilemma

After I had made progress by contacting my school, I turned my attention towards a far more alarming matter: finding a place to live. The entire reason we decided to rent an apartment a week before the orientation was so that we'd have a head start on our housing search. The orientation in Nice was only days away, and returning to Toulon without a place to stay was something that weighed very heavily on my mind. I also had two enormous suitcases that would be very inconvenient to take with me.

We finished out the week without finding anything. Any number that we called had already rented out an apartment. I was getting very nervous and I still didn't know what I was going to do with my bags when we left for Nice. Then one of my roommates got the bright idea to call and ask her coordinator if the school could hold her bags for two days. I thought this was a great idea and I immediately went down into the street to find a telephone to call Suzanne. Twice in a row I called someone who wasn't Suzanne. I was either making a mistake with my calling card or Suzanne had given me a wrong number. After puzzling over this for at least five solid minutes, I learned another important lesson. The French don't write numbers the same way Americans do. Ones look suspiciously like sevens and sixes can sometimes resemble fours. After I realized I had been dialing 06 6 instead of 04 4, I finally got in contact with Suzanne and arranged for her to come pick up my bags. As an added bonus, she invited me to lunch. Score!

The Orientation in Nice

With the weight of my bags off my back and into Suzanne's garage, I felt much better about my trip to Nice. It's amazing how the thought of not schlepping around sixty pounds of gear can brighten the prospects of a future trip. To get to Nice, we decided to take the train. I would come to love the train during my time in France. I found it to be incredibly convenient and allowed me to travel wherever I wanted for relatively cheap. In fact, before we bought our tickets, we all decided to purchase the 12-25 Reduction Card. Basically, being between the ages of 12 and 25 allows the carrier of a 12-25 card reduced train fare from anywhere between 25-50%, depending on the time and season. The 12-25 Card cost about forty euros and paid for itself very quickly.

Once we arrived in Nice, we relied on directions provided by our information packet to get to the youth hostel where everyone would be staying. I didn't find the directions particularly useful, so I was very glad my roommates took control of navigation. We arrived without much difficulty and we also caught up with a few other assistants who were searching for the same thing. Once we checked in, the girls were led to their section of the building, and I was led to mine.

The room was not very large and had five beds crammed inside. Each bed had already been taken save one. I dropped off my bag and went to explore. On my way out the room I ran into an English assistant from the UK who was staying in the same room. Meeting people from across the globe was easily the best part of the orientation. I then proceeded outside where I found that most assistants had congregated around a pool and were sitting in groups talking and introducing themselves.

Dinner followed the poolside introductions where I subsequently met people that hadn't joined the other assistants by the pool. During dinner, a couple representatives from the program stopped by to tell us about the schedule for the orientation the following day. All of us were having too much fun getting to know each other to pay much attention. After dinner, most people retreated to a patio area outside the hostel bar. The rest of the night was spent drinking and making fun of Italians. I realized that twenty is a very young age to become an assistant. Most of my colleagues were at least four years my senior, some as many as ten. It was a welcome distraction from the housing worries that waited for me in Toulon.

The next day we all woke early to enjoy our hostel breakfast of coffee, toast, and jelly before heading over to the Rectorat for the orientation. For the walk over, the assistants were divided into two groups: the Italians and everyone else. I later learned that this was because in the past, the Italian girls had a tendency to wear treacherously pointy heeled shoes that, although very fashionable, often made walking even short distances very difficult. Therefore, they were always "permitted" to leave first so that both groups would eventually arrive at the Rectorat at about the same time.

The actual details of the Orientation are nearly completely lost on me. This is either because I've blocked out the experience, or because nothing that important actually happened. This is when my frustration with the administrative end of this program began building. Although the program application recommends only a three semester French background, almost the entire orientation was given in French. This didn't present an enormous problem for me personally, but I talked to several assistants after the orientation who were completely lost and had a very difficult time understanding what was happening. I didn't find the orientation very helpful or comforting at all. The only purpose it served was to explain exactly how much we as assistants were responsible for completing on our own, and how little they were willing to help us. I didn't find it particularly well organized either. We were given timelines as to when things needed to be completed, when and where future orientations would tack place, etc. These dates and times would change several times over the next two weeks. To be fair, not everyone involved was completely useless. There were several very patient people who would answer questions and deal with problems one-on-one and try to explain things in English or whatever. For the most part, however, it seemed as if people were just going through the motions - completing their requisite duties and then leaving.

To summarize, I didn't not find the orientation in Nice to be helpful at all. They did cover some important information about being paid and getting social security, but for the most part just made it seem painfully obvious that our future and livelihood was completely in our own hands. By far, the brightest aspect of the orientation was meeting the other assistants and trying to network: sharing numbers, e-mail addresses, etc. But most importantly, I didn't return to Toulon feeling any better than when I left.

Finding the Villa

When I returned to Toulon, I already had a place set up with Suzanne. She had offered a room at her house while I searched for my own place. My companions from the first week, however, were stuck in a hotel for their first night back. The next day, I managed to meet them downtown so that we could continue our search together. I tried to make it sound like I was going to contribute to their quest, but honestly, I only wanted to look with them because I wouldn't have the guts to do anything on my own. I was basically just leaching off of their efforts. Doing nothing in the presence of pro-active people makes me feel much less guilty than doing nothing just by myself.

By late afternoon that same day, we became reacquainted with the rate of success we had in the week prior to the orientation. Every place we called had already been rented. It should also be worth noting that because of the assistants' relatively late arrival, almost all available housing had already been taken by the local French students who had started nearly a month before. So imagine our surprise when, during our last attempt of the day, a landlord told us that his house was still available - and he was willing to show it to us in an hour!

The six of us piled in a bus and we followed his directions to the house. We followed bus route number five for fifteen minutes away from the city center where we found ourselves in a beautiful residential area. Gone were the noisy cars, the ugly buildings, and the lack of vegetation. Located on the other side of the local mountain were a beautiful view, fresh air, and our house which we found without any great difficulty. The landlord was a laid-back middle-aged Frenchman named Yann. The first thing he showed us about the house was that it had a pool. This was a definite plus. Long story short, we accepted to the house that same day and agreed to return the following morning and sign the lease.

I returned to Suzanne's which coincidentally was within walking distance of the house, feeling both relieved and a little bummed out. Although I only spent one day and night in Suzanne house, I loved it. Although it was small, it had a modern feel and was very beautiful. I had my own room with an excellent view, and most importantly, Suzanne was a very good cook. I decided to wait to tell everyone about the house until after dinner. After all the anxiety that she knew it caused me in the week leading up to the orientation, I think everyone was a little surprised that we had found something so quickly.

The next morning Suzanne and her boyfriend helped me load everything into her car and we made the short trip down to my new house. Regardless of how I would later feel about the house and my new roommates, the day that I moved in was one of the most comforting days of my life. With all that worry about of my way, I could actually feel comfortable about putting down my bags and knowing that I wouldn't have to repack them again in a couple days. This would know be the permanent resting place for my junk until my departure in April the following year. Everything after that day was easy. Any meetings I had to attend or paper I had to fill out seemed like a walk in the park.

Wrapping Up Administrative Details

The next week was spent unpacking and settling into my new home. During this week I would also open up a French bank account with the help of Suzanne. This never provided me with any problems and my personal contact at the bank was extremely nice and helpful and even though I only knew her for a short period of time, I was sad to say goodbye to her. I also obtained my titre de séjour from the local Préfecture. This posed minimal inconvenience for me and the rest of the assistants and again was completed easily without incident. Shortly, thereafter I began working at the school. For the first few couple weeks this amounted to no more than introductions and answering questions. There was also another small orientation organized just for the Toulon assistants working at high-schools to discuss social security, the CAF, and pedagogical techniques. I personally thought it was boring and a waste of my time since I had already begun working, and even though the information they shared about the CAF was actually useful, I chose to ignore anyway.

Teaching

After I had all those pesky administrative details out of the way I could concentrate on teaching. Like all assistants, my contract was to work for twelve hours a week. Wishing to take full advantage of their assistant, my establishment spread those twelve hours over twelve different groups of students. This meant I would never see the same group of students twice in one week. I also only worked at one high-school. I knew many assistants whose time was divided across two or even three different schools, not all necessarily in the same city. My coordinator Suzanne developed my schedule for me. I worked two hours on Monday, four hours on Wednesday, and three hours on Thursday and Friday. I was given Mondays off. I initially felt guilty about working so little, but then I found out that full-time teachers work an average of eighteen hours a week.

I worked differently with each teacher, but for the most part, classes were divided into two halves. I would take one half of the class while the regular teacher would take the other. Every week we would switch groups. That meant that for eight out of my twelve classes, I only saw the same students once every two weeks. For one particular teacher, I stayed with her during class and thus saw those students once every week. For yet another teacher, classes were again divided, but we would switch students after a half hour. I would give class for thirty minutes and then the groups would switch, meaning I also saw those students once a week.

For my first week, I saw all of my students in entire classes. I outlined a mini-biography that I would present and then allow them to ask me questions. I always ended up getting the same questions:

• Do you own a gun?
• Is everyone in America fat?
• Do all Americans hate French people?
• Do you eat at McDonalds?
• Do you like President Bush / Are you Democrat or Republican?
• Do you ever eat with your family around a table?

I also fielded the more universal questions about my hobbies, age, music preference, etc. Because I had twelve different classes, this permitted me to repeat the same lesson plan twelve times. When I taught divided classes, I could repeat lesson plans up to twenty times if I wanted.

The students level of English varied greatly. The older groups of students didn't always fare better than their younger counterparts. Generally, I always preferred students who frequently participated and put an effort into their studies. Later in the year, when I would check their grades, I was always surprised. Often, the kids that I enjoyed in class, the same kids that put an effort into conversation, would be doing poorly academically, whereas the students with the best grades, almost never spoke.

Discipline issues were sometimes a problem. I myself was never entirely sure what authority I had over students. Their standards were far less strict than I was used to, and I was often surprised at the audacity of students and their teachers' tolerance. I once caught a student walking out of school, performing tricks with a butterfly knife. After the school shooting scare, some students from my high-school were suspended for having nail-clippers. I told Suzanne who shared my concern, but no serious action was ever taken by the administration.

Overall, I loved working with the kids, but I wonder if I made an impression. I felt on several occasions that my time with them was spread too thin to ever make a difference. It may be very possible that I only saw some students ten or fifteen times in seven months. After I saw how varied teachers were in using their assistants, it's hard to judge how effective the program is on a whole. In general I think the idea and principle is great, and I wish that I could have had a French assistant when I was in high-school.

Epilogue and Impressions

After that initial hectic month, things began to slow down and become quite normal. Time passed quickly when I was working and that routine continued until I left. My experience is littered with many tiny events and stories, but from November until April, working at Rouviere High School was rhythmic and unchanging.

My level of French improved greatly over the course of seven months. I always felt my comprehension level increasing at a much higher rate than my speaking level. I was very hard on myself and never liked to admit that I was making progress, but I'm sure that I did. I initially opted to live with five other English speaking assistants because it was the easiest and most comfortable thing to do. With respect to how that effected my own personal education, that was the worst decision I could have made. Several of my roommates attempted to speak only in French, and it never lasted long. After everyone would return exhausted from work, it was simply too easy to slip back into English. I am confident that, had I lived with a French family, my French would have approached fluency levels.

I may have been hard on the French Administrative end of things, but I think it's important that I mention a couple things. Of the five people that I was living with, two quit their posts and moved back home. Both cited unhappiness, dissatisfaction with their schools, and in one case, possible discrimination. I stayed the entire time and I enjoyed almost all of it. My enjoyment had nothing to do with the city in which I was living. It had nothing to do with the location of my house and it certainly had nothing to do with the people that I lived with. My overall good impression of France was left by the incredible people that I worked with. I can definitively say that the teachers at the Lycee Rouviere are the reason that I left France with good memories. They are all amazing people that I had a very difficult time leaving. Suzanne, above all, shared so much of herself and her family with me that I debate whether or not I could have survived without her.

My experience taught me everybody's experience is going to be different. It depends on too many variables to be able to make a blanket statement about the overall quality of the program. I can say, for example, that my impressions are going to be completely different from even someone who lived in the same house as I did. For me personally, the most important factor is the people you spend your time with. I worked at a crummy school in the ugliest city of the region. (I've been told numerous times that the Var region is considered the most beautiful in France. The city of Toulon is the only exception.) But Toulon is the first place I will visit when I return to France, if only to see those people I met during those seven crazy months.