Memoir of a Multi-Passionate Entrepreneur, OR How Time Traveler Tours Came to Be, Ch 11

Identity Crises

Returning Loo to her former happy-go-lucky self became my main preoccupation that first fall in Paris. As a linguist, I was dedicated to her – to us both – becoming bilingual. So I started close to home with our local French primary school. But it was more of what we’d found at the bilingual school (the "bilingue") – rote learning and memorization, motivating students through humiliation, tests and marks and public ranking – though without the extra English tuition thrown in, and with even fewer classroom books and cheery decorations.

So, I went further afield, much further in fact, out of Paris and up the hill to the American School. Located far above the city sprawl on several acres of playing fields bathed in fresh, clean air, it was gorgeous. The facilities bar none. The teachers were lovely. Light streamed through the expansive classroom windows and walls proudly displayed the students’ work. They sat in groups. A rug in the corner welcomed them for daily “circle time”. Shelves and shelves of books beckoned to be opened by inquiring hands. It was just like back in the States. And that was the problem, really. It was too close to “home”, yet too far to make an easy commute with an eight-year-old.

That led me to the International School, which I’d somehow missed in our initial search. An inner-city school, it was much smaller than its counterpart up the hill. It lacked in certain basics, like a cafeteria; children ate packed lunch at their desks. It had no playing fields; children played in the public park down the street. It had no fancy auditorium, no dance studio, no instrument-filled music room. Hell, it wasn’t even housed in a single building; it was cobbled together from a series of neighboring former homes and office spaces. But it was nurturing and kind and boasted a cutting-edge educational program. What's more, the faculty and staff understood the needs of kids made global nomads by virtue of their parents’ life-style choices; of bilingual-bicultural kids living in multi-cultural situations; of kids living away from extended families and familiar vistas and mores. De plus: it was three metro stops away from our apartment building, or a lovely 20 minute walk.

I knew it was the right place for Loo, and our family, the minute I walked in the door.

But there was no room. Classrooms were packed to the seams. We’d have to wait for an opening, which meant waiting for the departure of a current pupil. And there was small hope of that as the school year had just begun.

So we continued to muddle through. Jim and I didn’t dare speak of the new possibility with Loo. We didn’t want to raise hopes until we knew she could be accommodated. The wait was arduous. More tears and daily stomachaches and stories from the front lines that tore at my values as a parent and teacher and cultural being and kept me up all night, tossing and turning.

As the dark months approached, and the days grew shorter, and the damp cold of Paris winter began its relentless crawl into our unaccustomed bones, Loo and I traded the tedium of unnecessarily long school days at the “bilingue” (9:00-4:30, comment c'est possible!) for art classes at the Louvre, shopping expeditions to open-air farmers’ markets, and nature walks in the Bois de Boulogne. She was going to school less and less, and having more fun learning French outside school and in.

Then the call came. And just in time, too. Fees for the next trimester at the bilingual school would be due in a matter of days. We were faced with the decision of keeping Loo in this untenable situation or schooling her at home. And while I was not opposed to the latter in theory, I knew that my very sociable Loo needed friends her own age. And so did I.

At the 11^th hour, literally, the place we’d been hoping for at the International School opened up. “We’ll take it,” I said.

But Loo didn’t understand. She’d just been through a huge transition and though it was far from perfect, she was learning to cope. She hadn’t had the time to process the idea of going through yet another new beginning. She was gun-shy, weary of further change.

“How ‘bout we try it for just one day," I suggested, "just to see."

I called the headmistress back, apologized, told her of Loo’s reticence and asked if she might be granted a trial day. I was wary of having institutional doors shut in my face again. But I was told that of course Loo could visit, that without question Loo should be part of the decision. The headmistress even offered to let me sit in on the class for a little while first thing in the morning.

This was the kind of reaction I would have expected from a primary school principal. Not closing doors in parents' faces, but opening doors and ushering them through first.

Loo loved her visit. Indeed, I watched her grow six inches that day. She left her trial lighter than air and with two new best friends to boot. She was herself again, just like that.

When Jim and I informed our few Paris acquaintances that we were moving Loo from the “bilingue” to the International School, we were shocked at their responses.

“She’ll never make French friends,” was one. But there were French kids at the International School and Loo was thriving and making friends in her francophone extracurricular activities: youth orchestra, drama and horseback riding.

“She’ll never learn French,” was another. But this was clearly not the case. There are many ways to learn a language other than in a school setting. “She’ll learn French just fine,” I countered, “organically, through play, doing things she loves to do – like riding and making music and performing in plays. She’ll learn French as one learns a mother tongue.”

“She’ll never be French,” was a third. And that’s the one that stunned me most. Because of course she would never be French, even if she stayed in a French bilingual school. Because she was not French.

Loo was, and is, an “international”: made in China, born in Hong Kong of American expatriate parents, with a few years in Brooklyn, now growing up in Paris. She was neither American nor French, but part of a growing culture of global citizens who live straddling several cultures and languages at once while never belonging fully to any one of them. She was, and is, an "international", third-culture, or trans-cultural kid (TCK). 

We had found the perfect place for her. Jim was happy and content with his workplace and community. Now it was time for me to carve out my "place" in our brave new world.

Image courtesy of Project Gutenberg Australia.