Sisterly Solidarity

Strasbourg is doing its fair bit to champion female empowerment in March. Beyond just acknowledging the international day of women on the 8th, there have been a number of commemorative events around town throughout the month. A few of those have been done in collaboration with THRO.

One evening, straight after work, I attend a panel discussion with six dynamic female academics. Each speaker gives an historical overview of the struggle for women to obtain the vote in their respective European countries of origin or domicile. Just as I arrive, an enthusiastic bespectacled woman approaches me, gabbling in French.

Are you Cecile Kyenge?

She is referring to the sole brown face on the panel. Kyenge is a Congolese MEP who became the first minister of African descent in her adopted Italy. I am surprisingly irate. Aside from a similarity in complexion, Kyenge and I look nothing alike. She has at least 15 years on me. She wears a cropped black afro. I have long-ish kinky twists with burgundy highlights. Nothing would link us besides our shared ethnicity.

There are other black women in Strasbourg, you know. I retort. I’m surprised I have the presence of mind. In French for that matter.

Oh no. That’s not what I meant. It’s just we’re expecting her…

Micro-aggressive cretin. I silently fume whilst locating a seat in the auditorium.

Inadvertent racism notwithstanding, it’s something of an honour to be associated with Cecile, even if unintentionally. She is an amazingly resilient and intelligent woman. Unlike the rest of the panel, her 10 minutes + is dedicated to her own experience with (dis)enfranchisement and entry into politics. An ophthalmologist by training, Kyenge’s political journey started rather late. She didn’t vote until the age of 30, having arrived in Italy from DRC at 18 years old and having to wait several years to obtain citizenship and the right to join the electorate. Much like her trailblazing British counterpart Diane Abbott, Kyenge has been subjected to eye-watering levels of abuse because of her gender and ethnicity. She has spent several years in and out of court bringing high profile offenders to justice and won a significant victory last year.

I’m duly inspired by the event (and grateful for the language practice). 

On a roll, I head to another feminism-related lunchtime book launch held at The Organisation the following day featuring one of the speakers from the previous night’s conference.

I’ve been impressed by the breadth of topics covered thus far. The conversations have been nuanced and not as polarising as I’d expected. I wear the feminist label with more boldness than I did in my younger years. However, I don’t subscribe unreservedly to what some feminists might call red line ideologies. I am wholly aware my views on certain issues would be considered too conservative for them.

Meanwhile, back in the office relations with Claudia have vastly improved. We’re conversing a lot more. Our confrontation a few weeks back looks increasingly like a blessing in disguise. I admit to having misjudged how to handle the stalemate beforehand. I should have tried earlier to extend the olive branch.

We speak about the politically unstable situation in her native Italy. I tell her of my admiration Cecile. Cosmopolitan Claudia is all too aware of -and embarrassed by-the treatment to which Kyenge was subjected.

Cecile Kyenge (courtesy of Libération)

The following week, one of my managers Lucia, calls me aside for a one-to-one. Another department big wig, Marie-Anne, will also be in attendance. This doesn’t sound good. I have very little to do with Marie-Anne in my day-to-day operations. At first, I try unsuccessfully not to fret. I go through the possibilities in my mind. I have tried to be the consummate professional. Will I be told off for using the photocopier for personal reasons? Sometimes listening to music whilst I work? I email mum and sis. I pray throughout the morning. By the time the mid-afternoon appointment rolls around, by the grace of God, I’ve attained some level of serenity.

Marie-Anne does most of the talking. There’s a somewhat formal preamble before she gets down to business. A customer service rep from the travel agency used by THRO has made unflattering comments about me. It proceeds a conversation the afternoon before when I called to discuss a flight related cock-up that has occurred involving two consultants only recently hired by the department. We speak for a few moments in French but I decide to switch to English to avoid any misunderstanding of content or tone. At some point the rep, Sebastien, becomes aggressive and unprofessional. I tell him in as collected but firm manner as I can muster that this behaviour is not acceptable. I acknowledge he’s under a lot of pressure, what with various travel-related industrial action making his life harder, but I also have a job to do. I confirm the details of the conversation by email, to which Sebastien responds in terse grammatically imperfect English. My supervisor Sophie is in copy. She later comments on his abrasiveness.

After Marie-Anne’s long introduction I have an opportunity to give my side of events. I do so dutifully and calmly, all the while shocked at the irony that Sebastien should complain about me.

Marie-Anne and Lucia ask some tendentious questions about my overall job satisfaction.

It’s just we noticed a few weeks ago you and Claudia closed the office door. You were talking for an awfully long time. Your body language suggested it was heated. We’ve never had someone in our team so fiery...’

Here we go.

That’s patently untrue. I’ve seen and heard enough to the contrary.

My efforts to self-efface as much as possible have not worked. My subtle attempts to avoid perpetuating any stereotypes regarding my gender and ethnicity have apparently been for naught. People are going to draw their conclusions regardless. Perhaps my paranoia about being too visible on the radar is justified.

I try to remain equanimous. I dodge leading questions about my relationship with Claudia.

We’re just very expressive people, I parry, We had some misunderstandings to clear up…

I’m not about to incriminate my colleague nor dredge up what is now ancient history.

The half an hour intervention feels almost twice as long. Marie-Anne concludes with yet another imprecation that we all get along. Sebastian was just stressed. We can’t afford to have bad relations with the Travel Agency since we depend on their services…

The department is comprised of nice people, she insists. I must feel at ease. I shouldn’t hesitate to ask questions.

I’m a little shell-shocked. On the plus side, it’s been great French practice.

Shortly afterwards, I discreetly tell Claudia about what has just transpired. She’s very surprised that Sebastien complained (as is Sophie, I'm later to discover). She’s heard far worse exchanges between THRO employees and the Travel Agency. I ask Claudia what she thought of my interaction with Sebastien. She was present at the time.

I’ve lived in the UK. She tactfully replies, I understand the British sense of "firm but fair". But it’s not always taken that way here.

She proffers a few more personal examples of culturally-related misunderstandings. I make a mental note of how to side-step them.

I become more and more convinced Sebastien took particular umbrage with my assertiveness because of my gender. If I were a man, he either wouldn’t have spoken to me in that manner or wouldn’t have thought it worthy of note that I objected.

Social attitudes will evidently take longer to change than a-month-per-year of awareness-raising can achieve.

A [Wander]lust for Life

The Streets of Selestat, Alsace

I figure I might as well take advantage of Strasbourg’s strategic location. Whilst I’m here. It’s often called the Capital of Europe, sandwiched between the rest of France, Germany, Switzerland and Luxembourg. There’s also the vast region of Alsace on my doorstep to discover.

Having acquainted myself with the charms of Colmar over the Christmas period, the even closer Selestat is next on my list. It’s barely a town. More like a sizeable village. I avoid doing these daytime excursions on the weekend for obvious reasons. However, I appear to have chosen an especially uneventful Monday to become familiarised with Strasbourg’s neighbour. I comment to a local cafe proprietor on how deserted it is. She agrees. It’s never very busy but even then...today is particularly slow.

One of Selestat’s main claims to fame, the Humanist library, is closed for renovation. I walk around the ghostly quiet streets. Thanks to the quaint (as always) layout and the surrounding Vosges mountains, there’s enough pretty scenery to hold my attention. I’m tickled by the sight of more toy-town style houses from centuries passed. I have overestimated how long it would take to 'discover' Selestat. I have a lot of time to kill before my return train. As is my custom, I while away some of the afternoon in orthodox church buildings. Heavenly voices beckon me into St George’s, singing multi-part harmony cantons, acappella . Unable to locate from whence this celestial chorus emanates, I like to believe they are practising in the vestry. Alas, it’s a mere recording. The serene atmosphere is inviting, nonetheless. I find a corner to focus my overly-occupied mind. Suddenly, a burst of sunlight streams through a parallel stain glass window. I’m caught in its path. After an afternoon of almost solidly grey skies, it’s the first let-up.

My first trip to Luxembourg isn’t so propitious on the weather front. I’d have thought an early Spring foray would ensure at least a couple of days of sunlight. But much of Europe is still recovering from the so-called Beast from the East. Having rushed to the station with 10 minutes to spare before departure, I’m greeted with the news of a 40 minute delay to my journey. Adverse weather of course. I text my AirBnb hostess. I’ve rented a room in the suburbs, half an hour from Luxembourg City. She warns me of the slippery conditions. Thank God, I had the presence of mind to pack my wellies.

Arsenal Sainte-Barbe, Selestat

The non-committal metallic sky brings with it a malaise. I’ve booked a long weekend to see a country that could probably be visited in a day. When my supervisor, Sophie asks my weekend plans and I mention Lux she replies, with her ever-cheerful diplomacy. Cool. It’s small…

My unofficial French tutor, Bernard is visibly less enthusiastic. He falls silent at the mention of Luxembourg, pulling a face before he can stop himself. C'est petit... I venture; almost apologetic.

Oui, c'est ca, he replies in his austere baritone, with a firm nod.

Well, I’m here now. Cold weather or not. It’s not all bad. In the light of day, from the train window, the Luxembourgeois landscape looks like it’s covered in frosted icing. That will have all but vanished by the next day, when arctic-lite temperatures give way to milder climes.

A friend back in London recommends I check out the cliffs (and the night life but it’s not going to happen when it's Baltic outside). I suppose he means the precipices on which much of the main City is built. The bocks are stunning, in a morbid sort of way. Breathtaking even, quite literally. My mild vertigo kicks in at the sight of the sheer drop, particularly where the barriers are (to my mind) not high enough to protect my precious, soft body from the rocky surfaces below. The hazardous weather conditions make me more nervous still. I notice other tourists descending the steep steps built into the rock faces or walking across exposed bridges. It gives me the shivers.

I find tranquillity once again, in sacred spaces; this time in the capacious crypt of the Notre Dame Cathedral. It's enchanting, in a surprisingly modern way. The unsettlingly aged depiction of Christ on a stained glass window is out of place, however.

A View from the Bridge: Overlooking the Luxembourg bocks ,
one snowy weekend

I cover much of what I wanted to see within a few hours. I catch my train back to Rodange with less than two minutes to spare. It’s early evening when I arrive back at the AirBnb. My ever-smiling Greek host Delphina will soon retire, alongside her beautiful young son Jonas.

I’m a little undecided about the rest of my itinerary for the next couple of days. I could go to neighbouring village Echternach but being a Sunday, the trains are so infrequent. I’m hoping to make it back to Luxembourg that afternoon to see a film. In the end, I dilly-dally during the morning, chatting to sis on Skype which throws any half-baked plans into complete disarray.

Echternach it is then. A few tourists dot the deserted Sunday streets. I amble towards the Benedictine Abbey, stopping off at a cafe frequented by Portuguese customers and with Lusophone staff. It’s my second of many a Portuguese encounter on the trip. (The first was an unwanted overture by a Guinean (Bissau) in the impressively cosmopolitan Luxembourg City). I’ve been so busy worrying about French, I’ve almost completely neglected my rudimentary Portuguese. The few sentences I’d practically memorised to perfection come out more falteringly.

The Abbey’s devotion to St Willibrord is a little too idolatrous for me. On exiting, I take a moment to admire the arborous hills that flank the village. It must be quite a sight in the summer or during the copper-golden autumns.

At some point, Bernard’s cryptic admonition comes back to haunt me. It makes sense in hindsight. I didn’t need a long weekend to explore Luxembourg. It takes less time by train from Strasbourg than Paris. I could have done it on a day off; an overnight stay at most. I would have saved the accommodation fees.

You live and learn.

Travel soundtracks:

• Justin Timberlake (Various)
• Little Dragon: Sway Daisy/Best Friends (Double A-Side)
• Chris Dave & the Drumhedz: Self-titled LP

Last Night A Language Blog Saved My Life

“…I feel like people who haven’t tried to live somewhere else and learn a language just don’t get it. To them, it seems logical that if you live somewhere and interact that you’ll just magically become fluent. It’s crazy how NOT true that is. And then when I explain this to people I get mad at myself for not being magically bilingual like people assume; like I’ve failed...It’s not a fun conversation to have…” (from the comments section of the post ‘Will You Be Fluent in French after Living in France for a Year?’ on ouifrance.com.)

Il fait un froid de canard.

Or brass-monkey weather. In other words, the last couple of weeks have been bloody freezing. Strasbourg, like most of Europe, has not been exempt from the cold snap blowing in from Siberia.  Each morning, the canal that runs parallel to my office is covered in sheets of ice. On the other hand, it’s been mostly gloriously sunny and dry. I can just about tolerate the freeze if there’s a lot of light around.

Speaking about a deep freeze, the atmosphere between my colleague Claudia and I has been decisively frosty of late. True, there has been an unofficial entente cordiale over the past few weeks but the overall outlook has not been good. Things come to a head one Tuesday morning when Claudia asks if we can talk. She shuts the office door. She means business.

I’ve been expecting it. I welcome it. Just that morning I’d been praying for an opportunity to clear the air. The previous week, I open up to Sophie about it after she calls me aside for an informal 1-2-1. She’s already picked up on my aversion to ask for help. It’s not that I relish the idea of snitching but it’s no longer tenable to keep it to myself. I try to be fair to Claudia. She has been of great help in getting me acclimatised to the role but I spill my heart out to Sophie about other issues. Her snappiness. Her perennially jaded outlook. Her increasingly condescending way of instructing me. Her over-reaction and you-might-be-sacked scaremongering when I make honest rookie mistakes. 

On the plus side, I'm becoming more self-sufficient. Sophie is both sympathetic and mildly appalled. It’s important that I feel free to ask questions, she explains. Rather than looking like I’m using initiative, it would be seen as suspicious. Sophie offers to arrange a friendly intervention after she returns from leave the following week. She can relate. She tells me an anecdote of a blazing row she had with a colleague after a year of simmering tensions. Now they're like peas in a pod. I agree to the mediation idea; reluctantly at first but more convinced by the end of our long heart-to-heart.

Claudia beats us both to it. She says she senses discomfort. I concur, as tactfully as I can manage. I thank her for her help thus far. I venture to constructively point out my concerns, stressing that I am aware of the subjectivity of my claims. She asks for examples. I have a number to cite both recent and otherwise. She responds defensively. I am not surprised. She calls me arrogant, strange, judgmental, inexperienced… I tell her that she is being immature and that I knew she would take it too personally. She thought I liked her directness. I do. I just think it's possible to be frank and still use tact. She asks why I didn’t speak up before. Because I’m new. Because I’m confrontational by nature so sometimes go to the other extreme. I didn’t want to fly off the deep end so early into a new job. She’s chagrined. It would have been better to say something than let resentment fester. True. It’s just difficult to get the timing right.

We verbally thrash it out for at least an hour. During that time we are able to contextualise our grievances. Claudia’s manner of mentoring me is harsh because that’s how she was trained for the role. I explain that I stand out whether I want to or not. We both feel like outsiders. I might not fraternise with colleagues as much as the others would like because I'm recovering from the unpleasant working environment at my previous job. Claudia has been at The Organisation long enough to have heard and seen so many things to leave her disillusioned. Matters aren’t so smooth between us yet that I can directly ask her why she doesn’t return to her adopted home, London but I politely (I hope) insinuate. It is a cathartic experience. It will be a lot easier for us to be frank with each other now. I’ll feel freer to ask questions. Claudia said it shouldn’t matter what mood she’s in. A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.

She falls ill not long after our discussion and doesn’t return for the rest of week. I'm glad she brought it up when she did.

One of her salvos lingers more than the rest though. You know, some colleagues find is so annoying when you take a long time to express yourself in French. I demand to know why she’d say that. I’m already paranoid as it is.

I have to face it. The wall I hit with French in the UK way back when hasn’t automatically crumbled on moving to Strasbourg as I’d anticipated. I start having lunchtime meetings with a gifted multi-linguist colleague who works in the Chateau. Bernard is half-Swiss, half-Guadeloupean. With straight, sandy-blond hair and misty-grey eyes, he could pass for an olive-skinned European. He speaks English like a dream, despite never having lived in an Anglophone country long term. He puts it down to knowing German thanks to his dad. He’s very encouraging about my efforts in French. To a fault. I have to beg him to correct me. He doesn’t think it’s always necessary. The important thing is to practise by speaking, he insists, the rest will come. After I push him he admits,

Sometimes, in searching for the right way to express yourself, you tend to speak French in an English way.

Why didn’t you tell me before?

I don’t mind being corrected. I just don’t like the idea of speaking wonky French for extensive periods without realising. Better to stop me mid-flow and iron out the kinks straight away before the mistakes fossilise.

A few days later I meet up with another Francophone with a German connection, my new acquaintance Murielle. It’s a Tuesday evening. The same day I have had that conversation with Claudia. My post-meridian brain has kicked in. My conversation is laboured, like I have a mouth -and brain- full of toffee. Murielle is patient but it is harder work for her than it should be. She suggests I speak in English sometimes just to feel more at ease. That’s exactly what I don’t need. I concede, briefly switching to English to explain some of my frustration.

Wow, it’s like there are two different versions of you; the one who speaks English and the one who speaks French, she exclaims.

My linguistic impasse reduces me to tears several times that week. it triggers another overblown existential crisis... Mid-30s and nothing to show for it, blah, blah, blah...  I make alternately angry and forlorn imprecations to heaven. I pray for a breakthrough. Any would do.

It comes in an unexpected form. One afternoon, during a lull in activities, I research ‘Language frustration plateau’ online. God bless the internet. I discover a few blogs that speak to my pain. My personality disappears when speaking another language. Check. Everyone back ‘home’ expects me to be fluent by now. Check. How the heck do I move past this plateau? Check. I’m worried I come across as thick. Check!

It’s just the psychological fillip that I need. There’s nothing like finding empathy through others willing to be open about their experiences; good, bad, indifferent.

This week's soundtrack: Heavy Rockin' Steady by Beatchild and the Slakadeliqs