La Vie d'une Maîtress d'École

bulletin board in class- French in Acadiana

After marrying and moving to the prairie, I found myself teaching at the parish high school at the mouth of the chemin gravaille. Every morning I drove up the dirt road, over the bayou, across the little highway and into the driveway of the school. It was a rural school. Many of my coworkers spoke French with me, the janitor, to coach, all the ladies in the cafeteria, many teachers, the principal... They spoke a beautiful French and taught me a lot. 

My students came from Creole and Cajun families who still spoke French. Heberts, Quebedeaux, Arnaud, Stelly, Marks, Richards, Gautraux, Babineaux, Angelle, Mistrot, Malveaux, McGee. My first week a girl raised her hand and asked me if I knew of her great grandfather, Dennis McGee, one of Cajun music's most beloved and colorful fiddle players. I taught a bunch of Clifton Chenier, the King of Zydeco's cousins, nieces and nephews. They were all related to the great musicians. Too many to tell here, but they all had stories.

They had words, too. My big loveable football players once came into class, hand over their hearts singing "Madame! Quelle éspoir..."(what are my chances/hope?) I made these same boys translate "La Porte en Arierre"(The Back Door) by D.L. Menard as their senior final and they did it without error. That was too easy.

When I taught the verb laisser (to leave, let) they waited for me to explain the conjugation before Paul Broussard raised his hand. "Madame," he said, "what's "laisse-les" mean?...because when me and my brother fight, my mom says, "Stop! stop!" and my dad says "laisse-les!!!"(let them!) That conjugation business was a waste of time, it seemed.

That class was memorable; full of good kids who were close to French at home. When they'd get fired up they'd start saying, "va la merde! va la merde!"(go to h***) or when Olivia got mad at Paul she'd hiss, "'bec mon tchu, Paul!"(kiss my a**!) I fussed at them a lot, but my rule was that they had to speak French in class, and they were using the French they knew. Plus, their pronunciation and accents were flawless. On a costume day of homecoming week, a shy creole girl who pretty much spoke French because she was raised with her grandmother (there were many like this) told me "Madame, ton linge semble drôle."(Madame, your clothes look funny.) Another time she managed to stammer out, "On est contents de l'auoir toi pour notre maitress" (We are happy that you are our teacher.)

They taught me about the insect called the "t-doigt"(little finger). They said that when a little tiny black and yellow striped fly (hover fly) started flying around your head, raise and wiggle your little finger and say "t-doigt, t-doigt, t-doigt" and it'll land on your finger. It's true. I have since seen the t-doigt, called the t-doigt, and it has landed on my t-doigt.

They brought me things. One morning Amy Martin was waiting at my door with an electric blue crawfish her daddy found in his traps. They brought cartons of homegrown muscadines, boxes of yams, limbs off shrubs like the manglier that had medicinal properties. They brought me handwritten french song lyrics, cookbooks,  CDs of all kinds of French music, family stories and pictures.

In the halls when they changed classes they'd  show off their French, even the students who did not take French with me. They'd ask me politely, "Comment ça va, Madame?" like pros, but more often I would hear all the Cajun curse words strung together in every combination possible echoing off the cinder block walls.

"May the Force be with you"