January 30, Saint-Ismier.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Saturday, January 08, 2011
The first week.
January 7, Saint-Ismier.
A week of school now and I tip my hat off to my kids.
Dylan went back the second day after being bullied the first and went every day after that ("Mom, you'd be a pilot and come and rescue me if they bother me;" I was there near the school yard to watch over him that day and that's all it took;) Nicolas came out at lunch-time all smiles, proclaiming that school was great, after I'd left him in tears the second morning, and has been doing just fine since. For kids who had never left me since they were born, no baby-sitter, no day-care, just our circus routine, it is a monumental achievement.
And the way they always skip our predictions, surprising us with who they are.
A week of school now and I tip my hat off to my kids.
Dylan went back the second day after being bullied the first and went every day after that ("Mom, you'd be a pilot and come and rescue me if they bother me;" I was there near the school yard to watch over him that day and that's all it took;) Nicolas came out at lunch-time all smiles, proclaiming that school was great, after I'd left him in tears the second morning, and has been doing just fine since. For kids who had never left me since they were born, no baby-sitter, no day-care, just our circus routine, it is a monumental achievement.
And the way they always skip our predictions, surprising us with who they are.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
The mountains of Belledonne.
January 5, Saint-Ismier.
My mother's house sits in a deep valley between the Belledonne mountains, slow to rise and majestic in size, and the Chartreuse chain, which on this side look like a fortress wall and not much the tumultuous green desert where the Chartreux monks have been taking refuge since the eleventh century.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Report.
January 4, Saint-Ismier.
Round two. The good thing is that you can try again, and no answer is written.
True to nature, Nicolas cried and would not be soothed, Dylan told him to have fun and walked away with his teacher.
Round two. The good thing is that you can try again, and no answer is written.
True to nature, Nicolas cried and would not be soothed, Dylan told him to have fun and walked away with his teacher.
Monday, January 03, 2011
Shadows.
January 3, Saint-Ismier.
You are revealed to yourself in your kids - I not I. I am left wide open and hurt again.
Today for the first time I brought Dylan and Nicolas to the elementary school near my mother's home, the first day of their "community life," la vie en communauté, the French like to say, life with others. Here school starts at three, so Nicolas went too.
This morning was getting up early and getting ready for the day many times announced, this morning it went so fine, Dylan disappeared into the classroom as I'd thought, and even Nicolas, clingy Nicolas stayed behind without a look at me.
And then.
L'enfer c'est les autres, Sartre said.
Being bullied, I want to go home, being afraid, feeling like you want to be miles away and hide, being a kid again, I can't stand seeing my kids cry, I feel so awkward, the cruelty of childhood, left unsaid, the wounds, left buried, here to be touched, a life/time to find my voice, ha! still trying, and I can't stand seeing my kids cry, crying, the cruelty of childhood, why did I leave him there, why is it still there, the wounds, trying to find my voice, but this is no about me it's about him isn't it?, why didn't I come back and get him, crying, learn to live with others, learn to defend yourself or shut up, what's the use it's only the beginning.
This afternoon after lunch recess I witnessed Dylan being bullied in the school yard. He started crying but after going to the teachers I left him there with them, crying for me. Then I turned around and went back and got him.
Nicolas was home, no afternoon school till later, don't want to be too hard on the little one; in the morning he was fine until he saw his brother in the school yard and then he started crying and all they could do was carry him into the classroom and leave him to cry. Crying.
I am left wide open and hurt again.
I want to go home, to the fragile haven of life in the circus, to face my open wounds the only way I know.
It is never enough but it'll have to do.
Tomorrow we try again to face our fears.
Photo by Dylan.
Friday, December 31, 2010
In a whisper, up the mountain.
December 31, Saint-Ismier.
A friend for life came by in a whisper but long enough to go visit another, immutable, incisive, impertinent and inquisitive, a friend since high school too, he the teacher, we not yet quite on our way into the world. Bernard now retired; he's never ceased to be a friend.
We watched DVDs of live music and the kids fell asleep on the couch long before we stopped watching.
We went walking above the village with his mare, and Dylan and Nicolas went bare-back riding on Lady and I went sliding in the snow.
We bought pizza on the street from a guy who looked like Santa and we ate it on the train.
We arrived on Wednesday and left on Thursday.
The year is almost over and the smell of the horse after she rolled in the snow stays with me, and the flashing joy of friendship too I want to keep.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Camera, Christmas.
December 25, Saint-Ismier.
Finally a camera.
I was like a fish without water, without a camera (Fridman took my little pocket one with him when he left.) Last minute shopping before Christmas so that there will be memories to look at, too, and so I can see.
White Christmas.
December 25, Saint-Ismier.
It was a white Christmas here, in this surprising white winter, snow storm after snow storm in this country where I don't remember even one in forty years, climate change is wrecking havoc many say, and whatever it is holiday travelers hate it and the kids love it. It was a white Christmas, and probably the first they'll truly remember. Last week we built a snowman, it melted since but tomorrow we might build another one. Today was all toys and books and new movies, running around in pajamas, and I too.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Friends and saviors.
November 28, Paris.
But there was a birthday party with home-made brioche and cake, and a thirty-year-old friendship still.
At Anne and Edgar's Fred and I celebrated our birthday, which is on the same day although she is one year older, so we've been celebrating since she was sixteen and I fifteen, and Flo was there too, and my family united, for a joyful ending to a whirlwind visit home.
But there was a birthday party with home-made brioche and cake, and a thirty-year-old friendship still.
At Anne and Edgar's Fred and I celebrated our birthday, which is on the same day although she is one year older, so we've been celebrating since she was sixteen and I fifteen, and Flo was there too, and my family united, for a joyful ending to a whirlwind visit home.
Paris blues.
November 27, Paris, France.
It should have been so wonderful, the cream of the trip, after the South of France, where I grew up, full of memories finally shared, Bordeaux and our circus friends, and the Loire chateaux all drafts and stones in a fitting shroud of cold gloomy weather, it should have been the coronation of the first trip to France for Fridman, his first step outside the United States since finally gaining his green card.
Our Paris stay was all that and then a bitter disappointment. It was an illusion shattered, and I was left with a bitter feeling of shame and treachery. The free country where I grew up, the country that bills itself, still, "France, land of asylum," looking down on my husband as one more intruder to be suspicious of, his skin being of the wrong - still! here! - color.
Following: conversations with Edgar, my friend Anne's husband, born and raised in Colombia, living in France for sixteen years now and still reeling under daily nags and inconveniences, from police to waiters, and the rest of my illusions disappearing like my breath in the cold cold Paris air of this winter of my comforts.
Paris blues, my French shame.
Where to now?
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