Advice Post

At last, friends, we have come to the end of my TAPIF experience. Though I never saw a lot of the adventures coming - most of all the way I would leave TAPIF - I'm glad that I've taken the time here to reflect on my experiences and record them in a somewhat meaningful way.
While I would be the last person to over-inflate the importance or utility of this little blog, if it could do one thing, I would hope it could inform and advise others who are considering spending a year doing TAPIF themselves. To that end, I have taken notes throughout the year on things I wish I had known or that someone had told my less globetrotting comrades. I've tried to organize and sensibly present them here, so that others can enjoy my rich wisdom.
While I myself didn't enjoy my year in Martinique, I know the experience could be fulfilling and insightful for others. If you're considering TAPIF or study abroad, I think it's generally a great idea. I also think it's generally a great idea to keep the following in mind.

Enjoying your Life Abroad

• Try to think of the things that are different as interesting aspects of a new cultural experience. Things work differently wherever you go, and adjusting to that system takes time and will involve mistakes made, time lost, money wasted. Learn to laugh at yourself and try to take a neutral perspective on the culture / bureaucracy. You'll have time to form your judgments when you get home / go online to whine (like me!)
• Take photos. This isn't New York City, everything is not, in fact, online.
• When (not if) street harassment and generally unwanted gestures from men become a concern, talk to French women about it. Part of the gender warfare of harassment is that it makes you feel ashamed and frustrated and effectively silenced. Learn the culturally appropriate ways of dealing with it from the locals.
• If you see something in person / online that you're interested in doing, do it right then or write it down to do it later. Foreign countries are filled with exciting and wonderful sites, and you think you'll have plenty of time to do everything. You have plenty of time, then you have plenty of time, then you're gone and you never did it in spite of the fact that you lived next to it for months. 
• At least at the beginning, avoid dishing out money for the food you normally eat at home. Pay attention to what locals eat and which local products are affordable. Try to adapt the local diet to your dietary needs. Eventually, you're going to miss home so much that you're willing to dish out 5 € for a tiny jar of peanut butter, or whatever your comfort food is, but at first it's worth making a habit of trying the new stuff. Even if buying a cookbook is not your style, when you look for recipes online, search in French and look out for regional websites or blogs.
• Find your balance between the routine and the adventure. On the one hand, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take advantage of Europe / France / your region / your city, with plenty of free time on your hands to Do All the Things. On the other hand, seven months is a long time to drag yourself along from party to international foray to work unprepared to night at the airport. On the other, it's easy to get sucked into a routine and never get around to all that stuff that seemed so cool the first week once you're neck-deep into work. Everybody's process will be different, but I suggest two simultaneous routes. One, set yourself small, weekly goals. Go check something new out that's easily accessible, be it a party, an attraction, or even a cafe. Two, work your way out. See all the shit in your town while it's new and exciting. Then, once you have your gills, check out the region on day trips. Next, try a weekend in Paris or another big city. This gives you air out of your little town as you get tired of it, and gives you a chance to look forward to and save up for bigger trips.
• Rather than giving your opinion about French / local politics, instigate a local to talk about it. You'll learn a lot more that way.
• Once you've packed your bag, unpack it and throw out everything that you're not 100% positive you need (unless it's paperwork - see below). This applies both coming and going.

Getting Here and Handling the Bureaucracy

• No matter what it is, when you think, Oh, but it'll never come to that, it can't be that complicated: it will be. The bureaucracy is a nightmare. After all, miss, this is France. Check and double check that you have a physical and digital copy of every document you've ever owned concerning your visa, your bank account, your job offer, all that shit.
• Write shit down. When your phone dies or there's no Wi-Fi, you're gonna be fucked.
• This is a carry over from literally my entire undergraduate career: THE SQUEAKY WHEEL GETS OILED. I'm not saying you should be a jackass, but I'm saying a) it doesn't hurt to ask, especially if they're your contact person / there to help, b) remind people about their obligations to you, responding to emails / references phone calls as necessary - obeying the bureaucratic process is taken very seriously here, and c) ask for clarification until you understand. I can't tell you how many opportunities I missed because I didn't want to be a bother. There won't always be an exception for you, but sometimes they'll make one.
• If you apply to the CAF, fill out all the paperwork to the best of your ability, then check your account every day for notifications. They won't email or call. If nothing is moving after a couple weeks, call. If you can't get it sorted out, gather up your paperwork and go to the office. Get this sorted out ASAP. It can be worth hundreds of euros a month, so it's worth getting it settled that first month.

Goodbye Cards: A Cute, but Worrisome, End

I thought there were no victims, only laughs, when I ironically
taught them the worst Valentine's Day poem. Little did I know
it would come back to haunt my last memories of Martinique.

As I mentioned in my last post, my experience in Martinique was cut short due to a family emergency. For my of my classes, my announcement - in French - that I was leaving (as well as the fact that I could speak French) was a surprise. However, one of the teachers in one of my CM2 (11-12 year old) classes told them ahead of time that I was leaving and gave them some time to make me cards. The results are adorable and ... enlightening. In a troubling way. I thought I had been doing a fairly good job of teaching English, but their creative gifts, while adorable, suggest otherwise.

First, I was suddenly made aware of the fact that I never actually wrote down my name for them, but I stubbornly pronounced it in English, rather than how a French person would pronounce it. Apparently my students had widely varying ideas of what my name actually was.

Secondly, only on my last day did I realize that I had taught them all how to say, "I'm in love," but never, "I love you."

Third, while we did go over how to express that one feels ill oneself, we never discussed the right thing to say when someone else is ill. Apparently, their teacher googled it and came up with, "We wish your [relative] a speedy recovery." Some of the students, like the one's whose work is featured just above, got that more or less down. Others struggled a little more and came up with much funnier sentiments.

What I really hadn't expected was that, for many students, the correct way to say goodbye to an American assistant was to draw her homeland's flag.

As in the above case, for many of them, "United States of America" seems like some sort of blessing. Is this the over-estimation of globally-reproduced American culture? A response to perceived homesickness? A middle-schoolers best guess? I don't know, but it's both sweet and funny.

As I mentioned yesterday, most of my students really don't
have it down that the U.S. and the U.K. are separate
countries.

For context, "passe" is the verb one would use in the French
sentence roughly equivalent to "Have a good day."
I think he just wanted to prove he knew a bonus word in
English. Or maybe "lake" has a special place in his heart. 

"Coucou" is a cutesy greeting that isn't really what kids are
supposed to say to their teachers.

"I wish your [grand]ma well / I love
you? you / Rose are red / I love you
with all my heart."

Finally, their artistic exercise reminded me that middle schoolers are really fucking naive. When they made these cards, they didn't know I spoke French. But most of them still used French on there somewhere. Allow me to emphasize, they were all 100% stunned that I knew any French at all. Yet it never occurred to them that if they wrote in French I wouldn't be able to appreciate it. Luckily, I can appreciate it, because it's really fucking cute.

In the end, the only good thing about being in Martinique, besides a few interesting cultural and natural quirks, has been my students. Kids give me the energy to work, and they're honestly the only humans I'll agree to work with for any extended period of time. They're the only thing I think I'll miss about Martinique - shocker, not even the buses make the list. I'm honored to have these little reminders of the fun we had together.

"What is American Culture?"

Following a family emergency, on April 8th, the last day of Easter vacation in Martinique, I bought a ticket on the first flight out, which was two days later. That left two days, one at each of my schools, to try to close out my year of English classes and give my students, especially the older ones, some sense of closure. First, I finally spoke to them in French, and the jaw-dropped look of surprise on every last one of their faces was priceless. Then, I let them lead the class by asking any questions they had about the U.S., other English-speaking countries, or traveling abroad. That hilarious ordeal is the topic of today's post. My oldest classes made me going away cards / hope your grandma gets better cards, which, if things in my family continue to mellow, I'll share soon. While I miss all my students and hate changing my plans / not using my lesson plans, I'm glad to be out of Martinique and where I need to be with my family. They're not nearly as funny, though, as my 5-11 year-old students, the best of whose questions I present here, translated and unfiltered.

What the Heck am I Doing?

Today I'm 23, and, besides learning all kids of neat stuff about Martin Luther King, Jr (whose fest day is on my birthday), I'm spending a lot of time, alone at home, reflecting morbidly on how I'm wasting my youth.
My year here in Martinique has proven to be the loneliest and most boring of my life, though I acknowledge that memory isn't perfect and that my preteens were pretty bad (amiright?). I don't feel like I've grown as a teacher, but, rather, that the quality of my teaching has declined since I left my summer teaching fellowship because my teachers undermine me and haven't cooperated with my English immersion strategy. I really got hardly any training at all, and none of quality. Sure, I speak a little creole now, which is fun, but I doubt I'll ever use it again. I've picked up a little drawing and listened to some podcasts, but that's been to avoid desperation. While the women I've met here have proven exceptionally decent people, the Martinicans I've encountered have been more close-minded than I had anticipated. With the exception of Easter, which I happily spent in the company of a gracious local family, I've hardly socialized with locals. In fact, several of the other Martinique assistants and I commiserate about resisting leaving the house because of all the damn street harassment.  I don't feel that owning a car is conducive to a sustainable lifestyle - or safe, here - but without one I've hardly been able to take advantage of the beaches and hikes, and I can't even go for walks or hang out by the beach without being incessantly harassed.
In short, I'm tempted to say that I've wasted seven months of my youth here. I know that's a little dramatic. Surely I've grown as a person, I've gained soft skills, I've seen natural wonders, etc. But I've also grown really bitter and been really sad.
Luckily, Fairly Nuts Ben and Jerry's ice cream is marketed here, which it is not in the U.S., so I do have one thing to look forward to on my birthday and, hopefully, will have more fun once my friend returns with our car rental for the rest of the Easter vacation.

Caribbean Courtesy: A Sketch

Today I waited nearly an hour for the bus. Next to me, in the canopy's shade, a group of older women chatted and complained about the wait. They were in their fifties or sixties. No more youth, no more attraction, no more fear, at that age.
A younger woman, about thirty or so, approached, her son in tow. She knew one of the older women and approached to share bisoux and pleasantries. The boy, about seven, with a round face and precocious, blooming personality, tilted his head to get bisous, too. "Bonjour bonjou," he said, making the older women laugh. They giggled, how quick, how flirtatious he was already. The mother didn't like that they laughed.
After a polite amount of conversation, she moved over to another canopy to fit into the shade no one had made for them under the first, tugging her son along. He turned back to the older woman he knew to send her a symbol with his hands, with his thumb, pointer finger and pinkie. Some experts maintain that this is a satanic sign for hexing. Others counter it has been co-opted to mean "I (L)ove U". Whatever it meant to the child, it set the older women to laughing again. Whatever it meant to the older women, it set the mother off. She yanked his arm and yelled she'd told him not to do that. The older women settled into scolding and complaining about kids these days.
"It's all gang signs with them."
"They must learn it at school."
"I never tolerated things like that with my children."
"Oh, no, never ... "
They conspicuously turned to look and gesture and the mother-son pair under the next canopy. After a few moments, the boy must have committed anther betise, because a smack and then a slow cry were heard.
"Ah, good, he's spanked him."
"Oh, thank goodness."
"Kids need it, especially these days."
"Oh, I always spanked my kids. I kept my wooden spoon in my purse at all times."
"All the time!"
"Always."
"Can you believe it, one time a woman told me, 'Oh, he's too handsome it spank', about my son! I had a mind to hit her with the spoon, too."
"Oh, unbelievable ... "
They continued on, still turning their disdainful regards towards the younger pair from time to time.
After several minutes, a driver mounted the bus they were all waiting for and began preparations to leave. He struggled for longer than usual with the controls. The older women began to complain. Words like "tébé" and even "milanez" began to be thrown around as they gathered up their shopping bags and Easter flowers and moved closer together.
Two young women, maybe in their teens or early twenties, chins held high, walked around the slowly assembling mass, toeing up to the line where the bus would pull up.
"What's this?"
"That's not how things are done, girls."
"We've been here for an hour, and you just got here ten minutes ago. You have to let us on first!"
The young women arched their brows at each other, but did not look behind them, making it clear they had no intention of allowing anyone to pass in front of them.
Once the bus pulled up and the young women jumped on, the older women resorted to calling them insults. As they each mounted they complained of the youth these days, how rude young people were, how kids had learned no respect. Surely their mothers had not kept their wooden spoons on them enough. All the while, the older women pressed each other so that, as each one stepped up into the bus, the one right behind was clipped on the chin by the first's bag. They scurried on to grab the handicapped seats, not hesitating to chide any youth that seemed hurried to get on.
Just before the bus pulled out, an old woman, a real granmoun, got onto the bus, her back bowed by her flowers, her little grocery bag, or perhaps just her age. No one spoke to her or got up. She stumbled into the back seat just as the bus pulled out of the depot.

French Bureaucracy X Caribbean Pacing: A Sketch

Early on a Monday afternoon, shortly after the 1 p.m. opening of Bibliothèque Schoelcher, the only public library in the capital of Martinique. I finish my current library book and return it to the Nice Librarian at the front desk. Then I go to a standing computer and, using the library's online catalogue, find another book off my list. The listing in the catalogue indicates that one of the three copies of the book book is in the magasin, the stacks of the library accessible only to librarians. Having played this game before, I meticulously note the books exact title, author, and code, knowing that an error will result in a refusal of the book. Then I get a magasin request form and copy all this info, in addition to my name, library card number, and profession - yeah, I have to tell them my profession as a part of a potential interrogation as to why I want the book.

I then proceed to the magasin desk, where the Mean Librarian is stationed. I say, "Bonjour*", because in French culture you can't ask for anything without saying hello first. She does not respond, only glaring at me. "I would like to borrow this book, please," I continue after a moment, handing her the form. She glances at it for a second then tosses it back at me, saying, "Fonds antillais, first floor", without smiling. Though I know that there is, in addition to the copy in the fonds antillais, a copy in the magasin, and that the fonds antillais are more likely to refuse to lend me the book than the magasin, I smile and thank her before walking up to the fonds antillais.
When I get to that desk, I smile and say, "Bonjour", because in French culture you can't ask for anything without saying hello first. The librarian behind the desk does not respond, only glaring at me. After a moment, I continue, "I would like to borrow this book, please. Should I get the copy in the magasin or in the fonds antillais?" The librarian snatches the form at me, rolls his eyes, and, without answering my question, gets up and walks to the publicly-accessible shelves of the fonds antillais. Of course, I could've found the book on the shelf if he would have answered my question, but he seemed to prefer the opportunity to render an unnecessary service to a library patron so he could sulk about it to my face and complain about it to his colleagues later.
After quickly doing a tour of the wrong shelf, he comes back and announces that the book isn't there, speaking in a voice so low and so muddled that I can hardly understand him. "The catalogue says there are three copies," I insist. He mutters something to the effect that the only copy must be in reserve, so I can consult it at the desk but I can't borrow it. I specify that the library catalogue said there was one in the fonds antillais, one in the magasin, and one in reserve, using a tone to indicate that I wasn't going away just because he was no longer looking at me but at his computer screen.
"The book isn't here," he tries again.
"None of the three copies?" I doubt.
Angrily jumping up, he mumbles as he goes through the door to the magasin that it isn't here but he'll look anyway
Using my original copy of the books details, I turn and, in less than five seconds, find the book on the shelf of the fonds antillais, exactly where it's supposed to be.
A few seconds later (in no universe enough time to have looked for the book), the librarian returns, announcing matter-of-factly that the book isn't there. I hold it out in front of him.
"The book isn't here," he repeats.
"Here it is. It was on the shelf," I answer.
He responds by muttering something about the book having not been shelved correctly.
"No," I counter, "it was right where it was supposed to be."
"It was mal-classé," he insists, "and since it wasn't in the right place, it's in the computer as checked out and so I can't give it to you."
"The computer said there were three copies available," I remind him, causing him to turn and bury his face in his computer again.
I keep standing there until he barks at his younger (woman) colleague that he can't check it out, she has to do it. She completes this task calmly, though with a surprised look on her face. As she tells me what day the book is due, he loudly rips my magasin request form into many pieces.

Listening to My Leaving Playlist

One of my students' beautiful decorations for the school.

What do crabs have to do with Eater? I don't know*, but it's almost Easter!

Not only does that mean that Lent is almost over (not that I would ever complain about the fast I took on voluntarily, or anything), but it also means that my stay in Martinique is almost over.

And I can't wait.

I'm doing my best to make the most of my time here, but I doubt any regular reader (not that I have any) is surprised to know I'm pretty ready to pack my bags.

I don't really have a normative negative judgement of Martinique. The street harassment I experience here is on par with what I endured in Paris before the street harassment law. The public transit is far better than in many cities of equal size, and at least exists, which is more than I can say about where I'm from. While France may be greedily snatching up resources and treating the department like a colony, the people I've met have a sense of humor about it. I feel like as a teacher I'm not learning a lot, but plenty of people with different prior experiences might get a lot out of TAPIF. Sure, I'm bored and hot, but some people consider under-stimulation on a Caribbean island to be, you know, paradise.

But I don't. And I'm ready to leave. 

As such, it's getting harder for me to come up with insightful things to say about my time here. As such, I've decided to re-work my posting schedule. Instead of aiming to post twice a week, I have a few benchmarks set based on events that should be of interest. That way, I don't waste your time with dumb shit to read that's just more whining.

Don't worry, there's still plenty of whining to come. But I'll be ensuring that it's insightful whining.

Look forward to what I've got in drafts for you, and be well. Seriously, go walk or something, eat a coconut. I have, and look at all this weight I've lost ... **

*That's a lie. I was informed upon asking that Martinicans traditionally eats crabs at Easter, not unlike the way many Europeans / Americans cook an Easter ham.
**That's a bad joke, about how people, especially women, reared in this fat-hating, patriarchical world always assume losing weight is a good in and of itself. I'm losing weight, and I shouldn't be. I think I've walked home too many times.
***Yes, I really do have a Leaving Playlist. I've been playing it since November.

The Kids are Chloridconé: What the Hell is Wrong with the Place, According to Locals

Over the course of my time here in Martinique, I've had the opportunity to bavarder with a pretty wide variety of locals, from young teachers and students to quite elderly students of creole. All of them had one thing in common: they know something is fucked up here. However, they differ quite dramatically in terms of their opinons of the source du mal in Martinique. Today, I present a list of my favorite explanations for all of the problems on this island.

• People don't understand that the country isn't as rich as it used to be (?)
• Parents don't hit their kids anymore*
• Teachers don't hit their students anymore*
• Parents expect the teachers to hit their kids for them*
• Teachers expect parents to hit their students for them*
• There are too many outsiders
• Too many Martinicans have lived for a time in the mainland
• Martinicans are too closed-minded
• People don't respect boundaries and distance between each other anymore
• People don't treat each other like family and neighbors anymore
• There are too many people
• The island is too rural
• Too many people believe in local fairies and myths
• Too many people disrespect the local fairies and powers
• The mainland doesn't invest enough in Martinique
• Martinicans expect too much from the Mainland
• Martinicans didn't run of the békés with machetes when they had the chance
• People use online dictionaries
• Too many artist types are running around inadequately clothed
• Too few young people speak creole
• People don't speak French correctly
• Young people make up their own mix of French and English and use that instead of just one language
• The algae blooming because of fertilizer runoff from Brazil are giving off a gas that's going to people's heads
• Unemployment benefits are too generous
• Unemployment benefits are too sparse
• When feminism hit the Caribbean, French Caribbean men murdered their wives and / or became homeless
• Men here are generally too unemployed
• Young people here have access to higher education too easily (?)

And today's addition:

• The kids act wild because they've been chloridconés**

*Corporal punishment for children has been illegal here for some time. Everyone still proudly claims they do it, though
**The runoff of chlodicone into non-banana fields and into the food and soil is a serious problem which you can read about in English here. While the pesticide does appear to have very serious deleterious health effects, I wouldn't go so far as to pin every instance of primary schoolboys misbehaving to it.

A Break from Whining

While I pride myself on the objective accomplishment of writing a blog composed of purely insightful, top-quality cultural insight that never descends into self-pitying complaints, I have been feeling pretty down lately, mostly because of some gros problèmes that the community is currently experiencing with the bus system. (Apparently one government agency has just decided to not pay its share of the cost of running the buses, so now there's no money to run them at all ... ) Still, I think that my constantly negative consistently critical mind has been contributing to my unhappiness.
So, today, rather than providing you with totally concise and provocatively penetrating social analysis, today's post is a list of things I like about being here.

1. My Job

The administration? No. The red tape? No. The teachers? Not 100% of them. But my students are the cutest creatures on the planet, and I have the best job on the island. They all have a natural curiosity verging on obsession about English / the U.S.A. (for both good and bad reasons), and when the older students try to play the blasé know-it-all, I see right through it and it makes them even cuter. I don't grade, discipline (besides occasionally yell), or spend enough time with my little angels for them to grow to dislike me. I basically show up, sing songs, dance and play, correct pronunciation, teach them fun things about culture, and leave, dragging myself out of hug attacks to get out the gate. Does it get better?

2. I'm Getting Super Fit

On days that I work, I walk a minimum of 5km. Since I have so much free time, I work out nearly religiously (though tonight might be an exception, uuugh). I sweat out anything I eat in the constantly 80 degree F-weather. Any food I buy at the store I have to carry home, so I buy less and am getting ripped triceps. When I am on vacation and don't have a car, my primary way of getting out is walking somewhere really far or taking the bus to the mall and walking around. When I'm on vacation and I do have a car, I swim, hike, or both every day.

3. I'm Working on a Several No-Consequences Projects

Especially when compared to my past academic life (since I was literally fifteen), I commit a huge proportion of my time to loisirs, in the deepest sense. If I do shit in creole, don't work on my cross-stitch project for two months (my present situation), if I don't read that chapter I intended to get to or watch a TedTalk today, what's going to happen? If I mess up that calligraphy I'm working on turns out ugly, who's gonna bring it up? I don't fail anything. I don't lose any money. Nothing hurts. It has allowed me to be spontaneous when the opportunity has arisen and has given me the mental space to re-evaluate my priorities.

4. What is it like to Live Completely Alone? To be Able to Walk around in My Underwear? Now I Know.

Technically I do still have one flatmate during the week. But during the week I typically act like a normal, if unlikeable, human being. Then he leaves mid-afternoon on Friday and there is no one to witness me promenading nude, eating at 2 a.m., screeching along to Pure Prairie League, or wasting my life on Tumblr. I can take as long as I want in the bathroom, I can use every dish in the kitchen at once, I can talk on Skype until sunup. There are no consequences. Given that when I repatriate I'll almost certainly have a full-time flatmate and re-commence my search for a romantic partner, who knows if I'll ever be this free again? Now I'll never have to regret not knowing what it means to eat cereal on the kitchen counter in your undies.

5. I am SO INFORMED RIGHT NOW

Which, I'm willing to admit, can be stressful. But I never have to worry that I'm an uninformed global citizen or not reading enough, because I spend 2-3 hours a day reading news and commentary, which my poor Tumblr followers probably wish I wouldn't do, or at least not share so much.

6. I have Eaten More Avocados and Bananas than Any Wretched Human Deserves and I'm Not Stopping Any Time Soon (by FOB)

7. GUAVA JUICE

8. The Nice Old Ladies from my Creole Class

I've learned more about Martinican culture from them than from anybody else. They're hilarious and sweet. Two of them drive me home on Mondays now. #GodBless

9. (*Knock on Wood*) I Think I'm Actually Making Money

Despite my financial worries at the beginning of this adventure, it appears that I'm actually putting back a significant amount of cash right now. As it turns out, when you can't go anywhere, you're far away from your favorite shops, and you effectively can't get anything delivered, you don't spend a lot of money. Coupled with my tutoring gigs, the ink has turned green, unbelievable as that would have seemed a few short months ago.

10. I've Learned to Appreciate Little Things

By living a far less stimulating life, I've come to get really excited about the small things in life, including my friends' blog updates, mail (more than ever), Spotify Discover Weekly, perfectly ripe fruit, good ice cream, leisure reading, the feeling of line-dried laundry, good health, and sales on food you regularly buy.

11. Getting to the Bus Stop Just as the Bus Rolls Up and Feeling Like a Genius for the Next Hour

12. Online Shopping

I did it some before, but right now my sanity hinges on looking at black cutoff overalls online and picking out gifts for my friends' upcoming birthdays.

13. Seeing the Ocean Everywhere

It's cliché, but seeing the vast ocean enveloping your tiny island home every day on your walk work puts things into perspective.

14. Honestly? Things are Fucked Up Here, but When You Come From the U.S....

Macron married his teacher, but he doesn't have a dozen accounts of sexual assault against him. Any violence or homelessness (/social violence) is unacceptable, but those are bothers here compared to the epidemics in American cities. The unemployed, the under-paid, and the elderly have relatively consistent access to public assistance. I've witnessed a grand total of one public xenophobic insult here, rather than hearing them everyday back home. Each person I've met has hobbies, because they're not nearly so worked to death. Other than assistants still awaiting their social security cards, I don't know anyone who doesn't have health insurance. I could go on, but I think you get the idea.

On that somewhat conciliatory note, I still hate it here and can't wait to leave. But I think being grateful is good for you, and I appreciate your wading through this therapeutic exercise with me. 

Please enjoy this photo of a cat playing in a graveyard that I took this morning.

You deserve it.

 

Happy Women's History Month!

Yesterday was International Women's Day, yet, outside of the sacred halls of the Internet, I hardly knew it. I saw exactly two references to the blessed observance, both of which were billboards.

"March 8th?!? Women's rights are everyday. #Queen of everyday" declares this add for a nearby shopping center.

 Obviously shopping centers are wholly invested in promoting only empowering, non-stereotypical, not hyper-sexualized, consumerist images of women.

(in creole) "Woman. McDonald's of Martinique" (in French) "[manager's name], manager of Fort-de-France Location

 Though worker's rights are in a better state in France generally than they are in the U.S., seeing this billboard still made me think of this tweet, because it's an appealing image of a woman that will bring down the patriarchy, not ensuring their equal rights in the workplace, right?
Meanwhile, all of the other billboards in Martinique are totally working on presenting women as equal agents, not at all mere symbols of what money can buy ...

They're supposed to be selling bathroom sinks, here, but I'm not so sure.

If you want to read about the state of feminism in the Caribbean, I would recommend this open letter to Caribbean men by Patrice M. Daniel. 

Fare Frights

This photo has nothing to do with
this post, I just liked the art
commissioned by the board game
store too much to not share.

A word to the wise: when it comes to flights, you get what you pay for.
Don't get me wrong, I fly as cheaply as possible. I am a member of countless airline rewards programs, but I never receive any rewards, because I'm completely un-loyal. Money is a tool, not a good in and of itself., but I just don't think that paying for access to a lounge or to three more inches of legroom for three hours is a sensible way to spend it.
As I have recounted here before, my flight from NYC to Martinique was a nightmare. Fortunately, since the cheapest flight in this case was serviced by Norwegian Air, it fell under European consumer protection law. Unfortunately, even Norwegians have the gall to argue that snow at JFK in January constitutes an "unpredictable" disaster, meaning that, despite my hours-long trials, I did not get a refund. The airline did nevertheless agree to pay me back for my travel costs to the airport and even for my $163 phone bill that I racked up when I called the Norway-based helpline they texted to me at my U.S. number.
Here's the thing though: my mysterious hair loss has responded faster to my complaints.
I finalized my complaint on February 11th for both costs. They responded to my complaint about the travel costs on February 2nd, twenty-two days after, and to my complaint about the phone bill (which I understand is probably stranger) on February 21st, 41 days after. Both emails assured me that my money would be wired to me "in a reasonable amount of time". But the money has yet to appear in my account.
Then, this morning, I received an email saying the travel costs will be reimbursed in fourteen days, 68 days after I filed the complaint. No word yet on the phone bill costs.
Is this normal for corporate business? Does everything European work at a French escargot's pace? Does all of being grown up require this much patience?

The Dangers of Misreading Dates (and Dairy)

What can I say, I'm a living white-American stereotype, and in more than one way. Currently, I'm living in the intersection of three of those ways.
First of all, I drink a lot of milk. A lot of milk. On days that I stay home (which are often on this damn island), I can easily down a liter a day. One good think about living in Martinique is boxed milk, U.H.T. pasteurized milk that's shelf-stable for a long-ass time. One bad thing about it (among a litany) is that I have to carry any milk I buy with my own arms out of the store, onto the bus, along the bus ride if the bus is as full as it usually is, and the short trek into the house from the bus stop. When you drink as much milk as I do, that can lead to a non-negligible strain on your shoulders.
Second of all, I LOVE buying shit in bulk. Entering a thrift store with used clothes in my size, cowboy outlet stores that sell jeans in my size, and discount groceries stores gives me a pure high. So, naturally, when a couple other assistants and I rented a car during the Carnaval break, I took advantage of the horsepower to buy milk. A lot of milk. Enough milk to last me until my departure in May. Fort-eight liters of milk.

Third of all, no matter how long I live an work outside of the U.S., I still instinctively read dates as month/day/year. It's caused a few problems in my life previously, to say the least. Most recently, I read the expiration date on all that boxed milk, which usually lasts several months, as December 3, 2018, when, in fact, it is 12 March 2018. So, all 48 liters of my milk are set to expire over a month before I leave, less than two months after I bought all of it.
Luckily, according to the internet, boxed milk is good for up to a month after the expiration date as long as it is cool and dry, which will buy me nearly enough time to be ready to leave. Otherwise, I'm currently filling the refrigerator and freezer with liter bricks of milk and trying to maximize my calcium-rich consumption.
Wish me luck. And that my flatmate doesn't actually intend on keeping food in the fridge for the next couple weeks.

A Few Miles, A Few Years, or Some Intangible Separation

Excuse the dramatic title. I've been feeling a little gloomy. There are many reasons for this, but one of the main ones revolves around the latest school mass shooting in the U.S. You may be thinking, that has nothing to do with Martinique. However, I really feel it does. As a young person, I left home at a to go to public boarding school, which, while it was still small and in Alabama, was much more diverse in a lot of ways and was where I first started to confront ways of thinking substantially different from those of my parents. From there I moved to New York City, which may very well be the single place on Earth with the most variety of origins, without even mentioning my time at Columbia, which was basically spent learning stuff, forming ideas about it, having those ideas ripped to shreds by my liberal arts-savvy colleagues, being bombarded with their own ideas, and then repeating. More or less immediately I found a way to study abroad, which I did twice before graduating and coming to Martinique. These experiences have given me a chance to learn from a lot of different people's perspectives, but also to see that another way of life is possible. There are many people in the world who do not fear getting shot, neither at home, nor in the street, nor at school. There are many people who never fear that a property line argument will result in a violent death. There are many places on Earth where violent death is a widely-condemned anomaly, universally considered unacceptable and the job of the government to prevent. I have studied and, now, worked in school in such places, and I think those people have gotten something right that we in the U.S. have by and large gotten wrong.
But when I call home, my parents just drum on about loading bullets, buying and trading guns without background checks, and about neighbors getting shot. It's the way they live, and they, like so many others in the U.S., have been fooled into disbelieving that another way of life is possible. That all talk of change is just liberal nonsense.
I don't know how to make them understand that's not true. I don't know how, in the stagnation that is U.S. politics, a change in gun policies might happen.
Realizing that I can't make them understand what I've learned really makes me worry that I'm not fit to help anybody learn.

Punishing Puns: English in France, Presented without Comment

Obama saying, "Yes, We Can"? Which is ironic because the TCSP buses aren't running yet -?

Another Day, Another Grève

Look, I'm a lefty. I get strikes. I believe in the power of strikes. Strikes are essential in this no-good, capitalist world in which we live to retain our humanity.
But I'm so over it.
After walking to work (as I do every day, since the buses are to slow in the mornings for me to get to work on time) and then back up the hill to my house, having mulled over this the whole way, I still don't get it. The ENTIRE bus line is on strike not because of wages, hours, benefits, vehicle quality control, or any other reason that I can reckon is the result of a failure of policy. They're on strike because a bus driver was assaulted - which is AWFUL. That's a terrible thing, and I hope the person is okay. But why are they on strike? Is there something that the bus company or a public office like the police could have done to stop that? I mean, I'm sure we could analyze the underlying reasons why racism and the alienation under capitalism might cause someone to rash out at an innocent bus driver, but that doesn't seem like sensible cause for a strike. Are they demanding better barriers between the passengers and themselves? (They already ride behind a locked door with a little window for change that can only be opened from the inside.) Are they demanding risk pay? If they're making any concrete demands, the public, via Facebook groups, news stands, and word of mouth doesn't seem to know it. It honestly just feels like they are, as always, the fickle gods of this island lashing out upon all of the humans present for the impiety of some single Odysseus among us. (Full disclosure: I think Odysseus was a jackass and the source of 98 of his 99 own problems.)
Other things I don't understand: why this iguana was out in the open as I was walking today from my school to the library.

Carnaval: The Cynical, The Crusty, The Curious

After a few naps and a nice, brutal sugar detox, I am proud to report that I have survived my first ever Caribbean Carnival season, unscathed enough to tell the tale.

If you have experienced Carnival where you live, or maybe have just watched The Hunchback of Notre Dame, you probably know that the Mardi Gras season is traditionally a time to not only cut loose, but to reverse social hierarchies, mock those in power, and defy cultural taboos. I looked forward to witnessing the myriad of ways Martinicans would protest their conditions, which, in case you are a new reader, I complain about a lot.

This year's biggest theme, both in songs at private soirées and on bradjacks, junker cars with special permits to be painted for parades, was the TCSP, the long-promised but still not existent bus line. (Seriously, the roads and bus stops are built, they just can't settle on financial questions long enough to actually get the thing going.)

Point of Obama reference unclear

Paper-maché minister who won't
fund bus line completion

The political is always my favorite.

A Purge-themed bradjack, featured a castrated Trump.

However, plenty of appearances were simply dedicated to doing what is normally taboo, be it dressing sluttily, in the case of almost everyone of any age there, or doing drag, was were the majority of the men there each day (not just Monday, Mariage burlesque).

While I absolutely encourage defying social standards and questioning oppressive social constraints, by all means festively, I will say that some of the demonstrations were a little lost on me. I get it, dressing up skinny women like the fake "traditional" creole woman on the label of the rum brand who sponsored your float is a part of the deal, and maybe even dancing in skirts made of McDonald's cups, if that's who sponsored you. But some of it was just ... gross. If this were a society where men had to walk about in suits all day, I'd get why men would want to come to Carnival half-naked with nasty, sexual jokes written on their bodies. But they don't. They walk around half naked here all the time, sexual harassing women every day of the year, then show up at Carnival to make us look at junk we don't want to see. If this was a Puritanical society that repressed all sex, I'd get wanting to be gaudy with representations of it. Instead, the media is drenched in hyper-sexualized images of women, and people just painted more of them on their bradjacks. And made a Peppa Pig-themed bradjack with a pig eating out a blond sex doll. I don't know, I just don't get it.

A final intriguing thought: this experience really made me appreciate how U.S.-centric the idea of cultural appropriation is. When some of my students came to the school carnival party dressed as Indian and Egyptian princesses, I cringed. And plenty of paraders wore what I would call Native-American-esque headresses. But this is a creole society, where almost everyone lays claim, both biologically and culturally, to both Indian and indigenous roots, inside of a larger anti-black global culture in which in the past black people have hailed back to African Egyptian history as a way of reclaiming their identity. For them, all of those symbols are a part of who they are, regardless of how indigenous peoples, Indians in diaspora, and present-day Egyptians and other Arabs may face discrimination, inside and outside of Martinique.

Tricky, hairy, uncomfortable, but true. Just like most of the Carnival get-ups I saw.

Crime and Fessing Up: A Small-Town Saga

A few short days out, my recent post about how much more rare and scandalous murder is here compared to in the U.S. has taken on a new, naive light. This Wednesday, while waiting at a bus stop on the main street in town, with plenty of people around, at around 4 pm (full sun, here), my text to a tutee saying I'd be late was cut short. A skinny kid, maybe about 14 or 16 years old, snatched my cell phone out of my two hands while I was texting, there in front of God and everybody. I ran after him, yelling, but, lagging behind in my sandals and watching him disappear up a tall staircase to an unfamiliar, sprawling housing project, I decided I should go back and pick up my grocery bags that had been between my feet before another teenager decided to pilfer through those.
Though I figured the phone was gone for good, the day was saved by a nearby (and nearly crazy) good Samaritan. A local woman witnessed the whole thing and told me she wasn't going to stand for it. She called her cousins who lived in that housing project to tell them what had happened and that she was coming to investigate. After politely dropping me off at the police station to file a report, she drove up to the complex and basically yelled at every teenager she saw until one of them, too large to have been the thief, sheepishly handed her my phone, saying he'd found it somewhere. I was thrilled, obviously, to have my phone back before I could even get through the line to file a report. However, the innocence of the whole affair - a teenager stupidly snatching a worthless, old Android phone in broad daylight only to hand it over freely once he had been yelled at - is almost annoying. Even in cases of criminal activity, this place operates on a completely small-town basis. So-and-so's cousin saw you do it and she's coming up here to chew you out so you better fess up or she'll tell your mom. It could be in a sitcom, if U.S. television didn't equate black, teenage boys with unsympathetic violence.
After thanking the almost stupidly brave, nice lady who recovered my phone for me (I think I might have even gotten a new tutoring student out of the ordeal), I had to preoccupy myself with the thousand little worries of getting my phone-tethered life back to normal. Of course the kid had the sense to dump the SIM card, so I had to get a new one. He'd also locked the screen, so I had to pay (39 € !) to get it unlocked. Then I've had the fun of wading through the app store and phone settings to return to normal usage. Worst of all, I had to tell my parents what had happened.
Of course, most parents are lovingly protective of their children and would be worried if something like this happened to their kid. My parents hold the particular distinction of being classic, middle-American conservatives who think that every place outside the U.S. - especially commie countries like France and places where black people live - is too dangerous and too unfree to be worth seeing. As I am their only daughter and youngest child, they also just generally oppose me going anywhere away from them, but we've been working through that since I headed off to boarding school at age 15. For them, this incident was just the icing on the cake, and if I had any reason at all, I'd book the next flight back to Alabama (where I have, by the way, no job prospects, no health insurance, and no mode of transportation). When I dismissed the proposition of an immediate return, they became quite cross, to say the least. But we'll work through that.
Though such conversations with my parents are both painful and annoying, this one did inspire me to do a little bit of fact-checking. Other than learning that just about every website has a different method of reporting crime rates, and that the CIA World Factbook, unlike many other sites, does not consider Martinique to be a country, I actually did not learn much. For someone who came of age in the age of the Internet, this is quite frustrating.
But that, like accidentally winding up marooned in a small-town society and Martinican teenagers acting out during Carnaval, is life.

Weekends are for Adventures

On Saturday I drug myself out of bed early and defeated a sequence of bus-related inconveniences with one goal in mind: see the Église de Balata, which is a 1/5 replica of the Sacré Coeur of Paris.
It is, indeed, quite small.

Í didn't even meet any ghosts.

I was quite afraid that I was going to have to mentally blow-up the accomplishment of visiting the very last place of cultural or touristic interest in Fort-de-France into a more exciting adventure than it really was for the sake of my sanity.

Fortunately, my tutrice called me the next day to invite me somewhere much more interesting, the Habitation Clément.

A Habitation is a plantation, most of which here are either still operating as banana farms or have been converted into banana museums / rum museums / slavery museums / tourist traps. Habitation Clément holds the distinction of gaining significance post-slavery, when M. Clément bought it and developed a top-notch distillery. The rum he produced went on to win an absurd number of French awards and become relatively world-renown, considering how tiny and generally insignificant this island is to the world. More important to me, at least, the descendants of M. Clément are, unlike most of the békés, quite engaged on a local level. One of them founded Tous créoles, an organization for connecting, preserving, and unifying creole communities (in all their racial aspects). The grounds themselves are still used as a distillery, a garden, a rum museum, and, of all things, an excellent art gallery.
The title of the current exhibition is just Africa, and, to be honest, since I first saw the posters, I was really afraid it would be another Musée Quai-Branly-esque amalgamation of a show conflating all African eras, regions, and cultures. I am pleased to report that my apprehensions did not unfold into reality. The exhibition divides the works into three rooms. The first two present art from cultures from roughly east and western pre-colonial Africa. The pieces are well supported with informational plaques, comparative descriptions, and downright gorgeous lighting. Visitors leave with an appreciation for the differences and exchanges between pre-colonial cultures, rather than a confusing mish-mash of masks and artifacts in their head. Finally, the third room showcases pieces by artists of African descent that reflect on their interpretations of Africa and colonial representations of Africa.  There's a healthy mix of arts, and no boundaries between the political, the sentimental, and the tongue-in-cheek.

Diaspora by Omar Victor Diop (note the anachronistic soccer gear)

Of course, no place is perfect. The history of rum video is rosy and clearly designed to lull tourists from reflecting on why all the farmers are black or Indian and all the owners are white. It even features a clip from a music video, filmed on the premises, with two pre-1848 clad white people singing about how they're "free to live their lives" with LITERAL SLAVES WORKING IN THE BACKGROUND. The historical plaques in the barn refer to a contract between the former slave master and the former slaves "to maintain the plantation operations and ensure the next harvest", without reference to assuring protections for workers or the atrocities of slavery in general. And of course  I don't think anything should be absolved or forgotten because of one nice art gallery.
That being said, Habitation Clément was a pleasant surprise, both because the owners are working to re-integrate into Martinican society, and because it exhibits the kind of quality I have been missing since I got here.