My Students Hate the Environment!! ;)

This is the classroom situation every language teacher dreams of, I thought, as I corrected the occasional “Ze people is…” and “Everybody are…” It was a class of eight sixteen-year-old girls, led by a very young, much loved English teacher. The students were meant to talk about a Vegetarian Society ad, which portrayed a puppy sitting on a plate with the caption “Why not? You eat other animals, don’t you?” Originally, the students expressed their opinions about the ad. All of them thought it was different levels of ridiculous. (This doesn’t surprise me one bit, based on the fact that they’re French, and the French love their meat!) The wonderful part was when the girls started to dig deeper into the context of vegetarianism, and this simple exercise spun into a spontaneous debate about the environmental movement, in English.

One very outspoken student claimed that the Environmental movement is just a fad. She thinks recycling is overrated and that life before all of this talk about sustainable living was much easier. At first, the teacher was miffed. She brought up global warming and pointed out that, living in Martinique, we are more susceptible to global climate change than anyone else! The weather has already become erratic here. (As I write this, it is pouring rain, in what should be the hot, dry season on the island!) And the rising sea levels are already encroaching upon the beaches. The girls sat back in their chairs, arms crossed, lips pursed to the side. Then another student tried to support the first. She brought up the idea that companies just say their products are eco-friendly in order to charge higher prices. Now even the teacher was sympathetic. She explained to me that it’s true that the government has started adding “environmental taxes” to product after product, like refrigerators, gas, etc. Now it was the teacher who began to back down. She sat back in her chair, crossed her own arms, and admitted that she can see where her students are coming from. She, too, feels like she is being taken advantage of by both the public and private sector in the name of “the environment”.

Now I am beginning to see where a lot of this Martiniquan conservativism comes from. It is true that religion plays a part. (It always plays a part.) But in the end, it comes down to the fact that life in France is expensive. And life in Martinique is even more expensive. Martiniquans pay French taxes, which go toward taking care of the French people to an astounding extent. Even the most conservative party in France believes in the value of universal health care. To the French, it’s the equivalent of the state providing free public education, or any other basic service. However, the French are taxed for much more than that! I know state employees for whom the state pays half of their rent and also gives them books full of certificates worth 6 Euros each to spend at grocery stores and the like. The state pays higher salaries to unemployed people than these unemployed people can sometimes get at entry-level jobs. And the state pays me. French tax payers pay for language assistants like me to come supplement the foreign language teaching efforts of teachers in their public schools. Could you imagine the US tax payers paying French and Spanish people full salaries to help language teachers do their jobs all over America? I mean, it's a good set-up for me! (Thank you, France!) I can see how the paying forty percent more for everything, and the extra environmental taxes, and the recycling (which requires the French to sort their recyclables into three separate bins) would add up. It causes people to be frustrated. And when people are frustrated with the state, a conservative dialogue holds sway. (::cough::Tea Party::cough::)

Shockingly Conservative

Martinique – land of palm trees and wild beaches, of swaying sugarcane fields, of rolling hills blanketed in banana trees, and of winding hiking trails through luscious jungles. Martinique – born from a rich history of cultural mélange, struggle, freedom, and, after all is said and done, neocolonialism. One would think that this island paradise, with its mix of cultures, its history of slavery, and its gorgeous natural environment, would produce progressive, environmentally conscious citizens. One would think.

My living arrangements have given me an intimate look at the full range of Martiniquan attitudes about life, the universe, and everything. (Martiniquans have no idea that the simple solution to all of their problems is 42.) Sylvie, or Madame Bécrit, is basically like my host mother. She lives upstairs with her 15-year-old son, Corentin. Corentin is extremely involved in and knowledgeable about politics, and has recently started meeting representatives of the socialist party and organizing events. It’s not surprising that he is so left wing. His mother, who lived in France until about 15 years ago, raised him. Sylvie doesn’t speak with a Martiniquan accent, or share hardly any of their conservative, religious values. On the other hand, downstairs I live with Laureen, and for the last few months, her ex, Jean-Marc as well (it’s complicated… I don’t fully understand it either). Laureen is 28 and Jean-Marc is 29. They are my windows into the world of young Martiniquan life. Both of them are very articulate and are able to back up their opinions with appropriate, well-informed arguments. So, aside from helping me get quickly accustomed to the accent here, and teaching me the basics of Creole, Laureen and Jean-Marc have taught me an incredible amount about how many young Martiniquan people view the economy, partying, ethnic relations, France, religion, sports, relationships, and politics.

[For those of you who aren’t up to date on French politics, here’s a quick run-down:

François Hollande = Socialist Party candidate attempting to take on current President de la République, Nicolas Sarkozy. (Socialism in France is not the extreme left. The Communist Party represents the extreme left. Commies!?! Gasp!!)

Nicolas Sarkozy = conservative president, equivalent to President Bush in that he polarized the country and opened the way for mockery of the person holding the office of the presidency.

 

Marine Le Pen = ultra-conservative candidate, daughter of Marie Le Pen who is known for his outspoken bigoted views. Represents the Front National (FN) Party, which would be the equivalent to our Tea Party if our Tea Party were openly racist.]

 

Last night, as I was mopping up the kitchen floor (some silly américaine may or may not have let an enormous quantity of mushy rice run down the drain, clogging the pipe and requiring handyman Jean-Marc to take apart the “plumbing” under the sink, flooding the place with oily, mushy-rice water… I’m not going to name names), I asked Jean-Marc whom he and Laureen supported in the upcoming French election. “Marine Le Pen.” QUOI ?!? WHAT?!? I knew that they were conservative. Laureen had expressed to me that it irks her to see female athletes limping around with ice packs on their legs because their muscles are sore from playing sports. She tells me, “I leave the sports to the men. I think that’s how it should be.” She’s also argued that the French state is unfair in giving aid to abused women and children because, “Men have problems, too.” OK, she’s traditional. But LE PEN? I didn’t think it was even possible for Martiniquans to support the FN. “But, isn’t she racist?” I asked, innocently, as if I’d only heard rumors. “Non, she’s not racist. Her father was racist, but she’s not. Her political discourse makes the most sense,” he says. That’s the first time I’ve heard the words “Le Pen” and “makes sense” in the same sentence. I was speechless. OK. To each her own! ;)

(More to come about my students and their views on the environmental movement...)

Home, Sweet Home & My First Creole Phrase!

My house in Martinique is much like many of the other houses here – double level with the bottom floor very open and airy. This allows for flooding to dry up without difficulty. The night that I arrived here though, I didn’t notice or understand any of that. Darkness falls quickly in Martinique. It starts to get dark at around 5:15 or 6:15, depending on the season, and ten to fifteen minutes later, it is pitch black. By the time we pulled up to Sylvie’s house – my new residence – I couldn’t really make out much. Nor did I try, in my state! Sylvie showed me the room upstairs where I would be sleeping for the next week or two until she could get my downstairs quarters all sorted out, and I hit the hay! I lay in bed on that warm first night, nice and securely protected under my mosquito net from my lovely roommates (swarms upon swarms of those insatiable, gluttonous, bloodsuckers! …Not that I’m bitter…), as enchanting music wafted in through the wide-open windows. A choir somewhere was singing traditional French songs. How surreal. I let the sweet harmonies lull me to sleep...

In the morning, Sylvie explained to me that her neighbor hosts choir practice at her house every once in a while. I’ve only heard them practicing that one night, so I’m just going to imagine they were singing to welcome me! She also let me know that there are not normally this many mosquitoes. My homies were rollin’ deep because of all the grass in the yard. (Shout out to anyone who actually uses the word homies, or who knows what “rollin’ deep” means.) The gardener hadn’t come in two months because, well, basically he’s lazy! This is when I learned my first Creole phrase, “Wi pani poutchi.” Basically, “If you say yes, you have no problems.” It essentially means that if you say yes, people stop hassling you. This is a very prevalent mentality here in Martinique! If you say, “Come mow my lawn!” and the other person responds, “Oh, you see, I can’t really because I have this thing with my daughter’s teacher’s cousin’s garden thing thing and then I have to go bake a watermelon and water my cactus…” etc, etc… then you don’t give up. You continue, “No! That’s two months since you last came and my house is swarming with mosquitos and na na na!!” And it escalates so on and so forth. According to Sylvie, Martiniquans are very nonconfrontational. Thus, they have a very practical way of avoiding this entire downward spiral of chastising, finger-pointing, puffed-chest, hands-on-hips shouting matches. They simply say “Oui” – “Yes, OK, I’ll come!” – And then they don’t. Smart, no?

Sylvie's/My house !

The back yard, complete with a BBQ and clotheslines

My itty-bitty bathroom!

About 1/3 of the big common room on the bottom floor where I live

The front yard!

More of the front yard, and the neighbor's goats!

The view from the balcony upstairs. That's the Atlantic! What a perfect place for a hammock...

Laureen making rice in our kitchen (bottom floor)

The regular fixtures in the common room off the kitchen: TV, computer, Jean-Marc on the futon.

My desk with my mosquito raquette, my new camera, and some of the photos of all of you I have up on my wall!

My room now, downstairs

The Green, the Blue, and the Invisible

You know, I actually really like France. The couple hours I spent navigating my way through the French airport bureaucracy inherent in lost luggage claims was quite pleasant. It seems to me that everything that would be at least semi-efficient in the U.S. takes at least twice as long in France, simply because of all the technical loopholes one is obliged to jump through. After living in France for five months in 2009, I was prepared for this. However, Martinique is France on Caribbean time! That means everything is delayed by another 40% of the time, minimum. Living in Martinique has provided me with an incredible opportunity to bring my yoga practice into everyday life. While I might have been frustrated and impatient in 2009, in 2011 I made the conscious decision to breath deeply and appreciate what I could about my experience. In fact, I gained a lot from this little incident! For one, I was able to refresh my airport/luggage vocabulary that I hadn’t used since my bags got lost while moving to Bordeaux. Also, the beautiful ladies who walked me through the process were so warm and welcoming! I couldn’t help feeling like I was going to enjoy living in this convivial French DOM (département d’outre-mer, or overseas department). Why is it that hot weather makes people, well, nicer? They told me I’d have my luggage in two days. Perfect. That would be right before my orientation where I’d meet all the other language assistants. (Six days later, the deliveryman arrived with MOST of my luggage. Precisely as I had calculated…)

A picnic day at the beach

Finally, Sylvie and José led me outside, where I gulped up my first damp breaths of that blazing, blue sky. (Note to self: hair UP immediately and henceforth – jeans absolutely prohibited.) I carted myself through row after row of shiny cars, glinting in the sun (sweaty me, not the cars), to the very back of the parking lot. Sylvie’s little red car was the only run-down, beat-up car in the lot. She told me everyone in Martinique has une jolie voiture, a pretty car, except her. Martiniquans take their cars seriously. And with the humidity here, everything electronic and mechanical breaks after a couple of years, maximum. People repaint their cars every five years. Not Sylvie! She’d rather spend the money on traveling. Now there’s a woman after my own heart. I immediately new we’d get along JUST fine.

The drive home from the airport is as vivid in my mind as if it had happened yesterday. José heaped himself into the back seat – ever the gentleman – I rolled down the windows as fast as my arm could crank the handle, and we were off! We rolled through countless rond-points if you’re French, or roundabouts if you’re British, or traffic circles if you’re American. (English assistants: Do you like how I put your word in italics like it’s a different language? …Because it is.) My sleepy head lolled back and forth on the foamy headrest but my eyes were wide open, soaking in my new country. I listened to Sylvie explaining the basics of the island, and to José asking questions in a French I hardly understood. There was so much green! Everywhere! Sylvie explained that the two main export crops on the island are sugar cane and bananas. However, in Martinique, everything costs 40% more than in France. There is no exception for these crops, which, along with everything else, are shipped to France to be labeled and who knows what else, and then back to Martinique to be sold. FABULOUS for the environment!

I love the silhouettes here. Just like home! ;)

Sylvie explained that we were heading to Le François, a pretty rural town of about 17,000 where I now live. The people who live in the François region are called Franciscans. They have their own Franciscan party in the Martiniquan government, and tend to be fairly conservative. Le François is also where all the Béké tend to live. The Béké are the white Martiniquans. (Disclaimer: Most of my information about the Béké comes from Sylvie, or other third parties. I have never met, and have hardly ever seen a real Béké in person!) According to Sylvie, the Béké are extremely wealthy, extraordinarily exclusive, and rather racist (at least, the older generations are). They own the oil industry in Martinique, and are therefore against any reasonably developed system of public transportation. In Martinique, you MUST have a car to get around. If not, your only real option is the taxico, or collective taxi. The taxicos operate like busses but look like minivans, and they can be quite expensive if you use them every day, especially when you’re paying in Euros! Since everyone has a car, everyone is forced to pay the Béké for their gas. The Béké also own most of the important businesses in Martinique, including all the huge plantations and many of the juice companies. (Fruit juice is very popular in Martinique, and not just for kids!) As we neared our destination, driving on narrow winding roads past hills upon hills of banana trees and sugar cane stalks, Sylvie began to point out the large houses hidden on fenced properties. There are about fifteen Béké families in Martinique, and they stick to themselves. In fact, they have inter-married so much that now they can no longer marry each other or it would cause genetic dysfunctions in their offspring! However, instead of intermixing with black Martiniquans, the Béké prefer to marry white foreigners. However, since the Béké hardly ever leave their properties – they have maids go and do the shopping for them – it’s unlikely that I will every really meet one in person.

Schoelcher, right next to the capital, Fort-de-France

The white French people here from the Hexagon (the European part of France that Americans think of as France) are often referred to as métros, short for metropolitans. Interestingly enough, they are also referred to as Français, French. People here refer to Martinique as their pays, their country. France is somewhere else. Once upon a time, children were indoctrinated in school to feel a strong sense of patriotic love for their “mother country”. Those days are over. Now, Martiniquans feel Martiniquan first, French second, and certainly not European. The French people in Martinique, like French people in general, are definitely more progressive and accepting. However, Martinique is a very transitory place for French people. They are typically only here for one to five years on a job contract before returning home to France. This means that not a lot of them take the time to invest in setting roots here in Martinique, and really developing profound friendships with Martiniquans. There are MANY exceptions to this, but in general, it seems that French people tend to hang out a lot together. Sylvie told me that while there are generally very fine relationships between Martiniquans and French people, there is a bit of a tension over jobs. It is exceedingly difficult for Martiniquans to find good jobs in Martinique, unless they go into politics. If they go into business or medicine, or any other well thought-of field, the jobs are controlled by the Béké and often given to visiting French people for a few years at a time. Therefore, most Martiniquan teenagers who want to climb the socio-economic ladder have to go to college and get jobs in France. The rest are left behind, in a certain respect. This leads to apathy and somehow also to rampant consumerism.

As we pulled up to my new house and started talking about my living situation for the immediate future, I reflected on the profound conversations Sylvie and I had already had about the underlying dynamics of Martiniquan society. As much as I had joked that I had chosen to go to the Caribbean to “get my tan on”, THIS is why I came here. These are the conversations I was craving, the knowledge I was seeking. My first drive home in Martinique encapsulates exactly what I had hoped to experience here – the utter beauty of the vivid green landscape, the bright blue sky and turquoise sea, and the invisible part of Martinique I came here to discover.  Oh, culture!

Airport Madness

The next part was a blur. Thirteen point five hours of plane hopping: L.A. to Miami, Miami to Haiti, Haiti to Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe to Martinique. How could any reasonable human being expect their checked baggage to follow THAT trajectory? The other passengers gathered their belongings and filed out into that scorching beauty I could only just perceive through all those shiny glass doors and through my own mental fog. There I was, standing alone in the one-big-room Fort-de-France airport, watching the empty grey belt circle around and slowly come to a stop. No sign of my luggage. Now what? And that was the first time I saw José. Epic José. An animated, dark-haired, blue-eyed, clearly Spanish boy on the other side of those swooshing glass panels, peering in at me and giving me the first of many stiff-elbow, flexed-finger waves. Sylvie, the Martiniquan woman who would be in charge of me here, was right behind him, waiting with fisted hands on hips for confirmation that I was somewhere in there. When José turned and spoke to her, she too lit up with that genuine, motherly smile that I now know so well. Those two emanated confidence. I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude, knowing I would be in good hands. …And now for speaking French…

José, the Spanish Language Assistant who works at my high school

Sylvie and me at a Christmas party at our house

But, but, but... I don't WANT to go!! (I mean I DO...)

Time to go. Moustache man bustled around us, stacking my bags into the back of his shuttle like a Tetrus master, while I hurriedly absorbed those last precious hugs. I piled myself into the last fold-down seat and smiled out of the over-tinted windows as the sliding door slammed to a conclusive shut next to me. Normally I can handle this part. What got me was the tiny hand of that miniature man waving at me from inside his mommy’s fingers. And the eyes. They have the same big ol’ globes for eyes, letting you see right into their mushy center at any given moment. Kylee and Ryder waved at me together – Mom at their side, blowing kiss after kiss, brimming with tears, and, like always, like me, grinning from ear to ear. And who did I think I was? Some strong-independent-woman type? Some globe-trotter-who-never-misses-home type? Some kind of too-tough-to-cry type? A baby changes that. A year at home living with your mother and your sister as your best friends and closest allies changes that. The shades came down and, without my permission, my own little green globes flooded with 70% water behind them. How was I going to go for so long this time? In baby time, that can be the difference between silent gummy smiles and “Auntie Bug”. I promised myself to Skype them this time. Thank the lordy, lordy, Lord for technology!

One of the pictures that gets me through the day! On my wall in front of my desk.

Pismo Beach! Mom and Tyke! This photo is on my wall right next to the first.