Progess Report

Progress Report from Collège Rouston.

The boys were integrated into the mainstream troisième class in early December, initially on a trial basis. We have survived the trial and are preparing to take the brevet examination in the last week of June. The brevet marks the end of middle school in France. Many of their classmates will not be going on to academic lycée: a few lads of Turkish and Romanian origin will take some vocational and licensing courses before joining their fathers to work in construction, one boy will start an apprenticeship at a bakery, a girl will start learning to cut hair. At the age of 16, the future is decided.  My boys cannot explain to their classmates why they aren’t looking for apprenticeships. A gap which has everything to do with privilege and nothing to do with language.

Meanwhile, we plod on. The math is easy, mainly a repetition of what they covered in seventh grade but with a French twist. The teacher, described by Mohan as “a nice guy who doesn’t like kids” yells at the class, “You are all nice people but you do nothing, and never try.” My first-born thinks this teacher is a jerk.

In the US, the grade A stands for average. The French average for writing  is an ambitious 10/20. The teacher would grade herself with 16/20, Victor Hugo would probably get 17, with a comment “Bon travail,” for encouragement. My boys could use a little of that encouragement. Wouter had “Dommage!” on his essay, which could be loosely translated as “Bummer.” It put him in a bad mood for a day. But he is not disheartened. The teacher told the boys privately that she wishes she could give them better marks because they work hard and turn in their homework and are improving every day. The kids in their class don’t do homework, don’t try. One boy, 15 years old and French born, doesn’t know why j’ai finit  is wrong or why it matters, not after 9 years of school. He doesn’t care.

The English class is taught in French. Wouter helps other kids with their work. The teacher thanked him once in public, and he said an American “aha.” A classmate raised a hand and said, “Pourquoi tu ne dis pas you are welcome?”

Some teachers don’t show up to class. No explanations. The kids are dismissed early. The Spanish and Science teachers are notorious for leaving school early. I can’t blame them. Who’d want to hang around in school all day to teach a class at the end of the day? Some of the kids don’t show up everyday. Some go home for lunch and don’t return for the second half of the day. A boy I’ve seen in a dark leather jacket shows up at school once a week for twice, never for more than a half day: he already runs a successful drug dealership with many satisfied customers. Many kids smoke outside the school gates, tobacco.


The boys have remained friends with their classmates from CLA, the original class they attended, French for foreigners. After a year of this instruction which focuses entirely on language, the students will have to repeat a grade to learn science and math, which will put them further behind their peers. Many of the kids from CLA get together to shoot hoops after school. Nobody here seems to have heard of AnnArbor which Mohan describes as near Detroit which does not shed light. Wouter says it’s between Chicago and New York. Most of the kids have heard of the Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan. For some reason, a leap of miscommunication, it is thought that my boys play club basketball with the Bulls. Disillusioning the believers requires more vocabulary than we have.

Wouter and Mohan have been playing ping-pong at lunch time at school. At the annual Roustan tennis de table competition, les Amercains did very well: Wouter is the champion, Mohan the runner up. They came home with a frisbee and a wall calendar from the local fire department, modest spoils of victory.