National Novel Writing Month

Well, after one long month of novel writing, I've finally done it. I've written a 50,000 word novel (mine is about 150 pages...)
The month was definitely full of blood, sweat, and tears, but it was worth it.
Long live November.

Just My Novel and Me

It's been a while since I've updated, and I think it might be quite a while more before I'm back in full force. This change is not permanent by any means...
By way of explanation, November is National Novel Writing Month, and so, because of this, during these 30 days of November, I'm frantically trying to write a novel. There's actually a whole online movement devoted to this common goal (see nanowrimo.org), and people all over the world are taking the month of November to write complete 50,000 word novels.
I'll let you know how it goes, but for the meantime...
Wish me the best, and see you in December!

...and then there were 7

On Wednesdays, we've started a literacy class in the middle of Paris. Every other day, we're in the banlieue with groups of 20 or 30 women flooding in. In Paris, it's more of a trickle. Usually, we have 1 or 2, on a big day, 4 women, who attend these Paris classes. I always say to the woman I work with, "Well, we're only just starting out..." implying that I want more women to come, and I want the classes to grow. In fact, I think even yesterday I wanted more women to come, and I wanted the classes to grow. I was thinking 20-30 women would be nice. A few more people to form relationships with. Today, well...
But then, that's jumping ahead. Let's start at the beginning.
I have a Moroccan woman and an Algerian woman in my class. Both are on the verge of being fluent in French. Neither can read or write very well, so I've been having a grand old time doing reading comprehension exercises with them. Today, I had a great lesson. We would study the letter L, study a few verbs, but then, I had this cute story of a cat that walks into a cafe to order lunch. It was a joke written in the form of a dialogue with true and false questions at the end.
But at 2:00, I had only one student ("Grace"). She explained that the other student ("Hope) would be over in 15 minutes--she was still in her apartment finishing her ablutions. Grace explained that Hope was really strict in her faith--when Grace had left their apartment buildling, Hope had the arms of her robe rolled up and was rubbing the water all over. "Give her a few more minutes," Grace said.
So, I did, and finally, Hope wandered in, and we got started.
But then, at 2:30, we had what I can only term as an invasion.
The three of us were reading the dialogue, and then, noise. Footsteps, shouting, whining, screaming--noise.
5 women marched in, each one with an infant tied in colorful cloth on her back. The last woman walked in, steering 3 children in front of her.
"We don't know a thing," the one, whose name is Baby, said. "Start from scratch."
I was standing there with my mouth hanging wide open, and my fingers still clutching that cat story that suddenly seemed completely irrelevant.
I gathered up 5 more chairs and squeezed them around the table, telling them, "Well, let's keep working on what we've started, and if it's too hard, just tell me."
We got through one line of the story when Baby said, "Too hard."
So, I attempted to have two groups. One with Grace and Hope, and one with Baby and Company.
I started Baby and Company on an exercise where they'd practice copying the letter L. Meanwhile, I went to check on Grace and Hope who were working on something else. When I was with Grace and Hope, Baby and Company started chatting and laughing and altogether forgetting to work.
So, I hurried back over to them, checked their progress, and discovered that one had drawn circles all over the paper where she was supposed to be practicing her Ls.
"Is this good?" she asked. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Well..." I said, and mumbled something that I hoped didn't sound too discouraging. And then, as I was helping her try to hold the pencil (which it seems she hadn't done before), she told me to wait a second, and she proceeded to slip her shirt off to nurse her baby.
I stood there a minute, completely bewildered, got one look at the milk slopping out of the sides of that baby's mouth, got a whif of the sour smell of breastmilk, and started dry heaving.
"Go on," she said. "I'm listening."
I had to walk away and take a sip of water first. And as I was standing there with my water cup, completely frazzled and worn out and speaking some exhausted language that no longer resembled French, I thought, "Maybe 7 is enough. We're only just starting, but I think 7 is enough."
Of course, we'll have to see what happens next Wednesday, but for now, is it so bad to wish that we stay at 7 for a while?
I hope not, because I'm busy wishing.

And they were all colors

I've recently been reading a book by Margaret Atwood called The Blind Assassin. In the book, the narrator, Iris, talks about her sister, Laura, who tints black and white photographs the colors that she sees people. For example, Laura found a picture of Iris and herself at a special dinner, wearing their matching velvet dresses, smiling for the camera. Laura tinted Iris blue. Iris asked why, and Laura replied, "Because you were asleep."
I thought this was a really interesting concept--this coloring people idea.
Tonight, I went to dinner at a friend's house, and she mentioned that she has a friend who claims that everyone has a color: green, yellow, blue, that kind of thing.
Again, I felt intrigued. I label people, but never by colors.
For example, of the 6 women who come to class regularly, 4 are called Fatima. So, since they often don't know enough French to be able to provide me with their last names, I always write a little description next to their names. Fatima--small head. Fatima--two moles on the bridge of her nose. Fatima--single. Fatima--glasses.
I was sitting around tonight, getting ready for bed, thinking about what colors my students would be. Fatima--the red one. Fatima--the green one. Fatima--the yellow.
How to determine that?
But then I thought of one student, and I knew immediately her color. She's orange. I'm completely sure of that. First off (and most obviously), her hands are tinged in henna 100% of the time. Furthermore, when she gives me the bise, her cheeks are always a little balmy, hot and sticky like little boiled raisins. And you can tell she's a riot. She barely speaks a word of French, although she's lived in France 18 years, so I can never understand her jokes, but during tea time, she'll utter just a few words in Tachlhit, and immediately, all the other women will burst into giggles. And while she's always covered head to toe in long skirts and robes, there's something different about her dress--red lining on her coat, sparkles on her shoes, a ring that looks so shiny, it had to have dropped out of a restaurant toy ring machine.
She's orange. So very orange. J'en suis sure.
As for the others, I'm not sure. I'll watch them and smell them and figure it out. Afterall, it seems nicer to write Fatima -- purple than Fatima--small head.
So, you see? There are perks to everything.

Atonement

There's this woman in one of my classes...
She looks just like all the other women--head scarf, ankle length robe, dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. She acts like all the other in class (Me: the word is "Boite". Does that start with "B" or "P"? The woman: Yes! Me: "B" or "P"? The Woman: Yes!) She even has the most popular name--shares it with probably 2/3 of the class.
But here's something new: she's in her 40s and is single. That's very, very uncommon among our women.
I've noticed that she doesn't ever really socialize with the others. She sits on the the edges, only talks when I call on her, and usually is one of the first to leave as soon as we've had our after-class tea. I assumed that she doesn't associate much with the others because they talk about husbands and kids and issues that don't really concern her--obviously, she doesn't have much to contribute to that type of a conversation--, but today, I found out otherwise.
When she left this afternoon, two other women in the class started talking to one another in Tachlhit. Eventually one of the women said in French, "I don't like her." Jan, another teacher, tried to break that train of thought and said something to the effect of, "You really shouldn't say mean things about other people," but the women kept talking and gossiping anyway. They said, "I wouldn't want to be seen anywhere with that woman. She has a bad reputation." And from what they were saying, it seems she's sort of a "slut" in their community.
As a side note, comments like this never cease to amaze me. The woman is bound up head to toe in clothes, clothes, clothes. Not quite the image of slut I have in my head. But anyway...
It turns out, the woman from my class maybe or maybe not had an affair with a married man from Morocco, expecting him to leave his wife for her. He didn't. She's alone. And now, she's in a horrible situation that she can never live down.
If she did what they say she did, it's wrong. I don't condone it. But I hurt for her, and I keep thinking about what they've said and how they looked at her and how they whispered about her after she left. And it breaks my heart, because she's brave enough to keep coming to class even though she doesn't fit in. And every day when she leaves, she leans in to give me the bise, and she says, "You're so very nice."
And in any other culture, I think you'd eventually be able to atone for this type of fault. Maybe you'd have a bit of a stigma, but you'd get past it. And people would eventually get caught up in other gossip and other issues, and you'd become yesterday's news.
But she's stuck. She'll never live this down, and she'll continue to sit in those corners and play with them hem of her skirt and stare at her hands in her lap.
I don't know what words to offer her. Are there any? But I just keep thinking about her.

Glamour in the Garbage

Last week, I was walking to the train after church, and I passed a trash can where something out of the ordinary happened. The trash can was stacked full of magazines, so, of course, I weaved closer to see what was there.
And guess what?
There were probably close to 300 Glamour magazines (the new October 2009 edition) still stacked and bound up in twine.
I worked one magazine out, and took it home with me. I showed it to my housemate, Dominique, whose response was: "How many did you take?"
Later, I showed it to a friend, Madeleine, whose response was also: "How many did you take?"
Our town was having a city-wide garage sale that day, and Dominique and Madeleine were really disappointed that I hadn't taken all of those still twined together magazines so we could sell them at a reduced price.
As Dominique said, "Even if we only made a euro, it's one euro that we didn't have before!"

Well, now I've learned my lesson.

The Tiny Triumph, My New Calling in Life, and A Fun Monday

As I've promised in this long, drawn out title, I'll tell you about all three of these exciting things that have happened so far this week (...and we haven't even gotten to Friday! --DISCLAIMER: I'm really oddly excited with life right now, so I think there will probably be tons of exclamation marks here, so I apologize in advance!)
However, to start out with, I thought I'd post a picture of my computer screen as it looked this morning.





It's not too easy to read--what with a photograph of the computer screen and all--but essentially, it's an announcement that I won a contest! One of my favorite writers, Gayle Roper, posted an online contest where she asked participants to describe the interior of a cafe that would appear in her next novel. If you won, she would use the design you'd described in your submission, would mention you in the acknowledgements, and would get you a copy of her new book. And what do you know? She chose my design! As I'm sure you can imagine, I was pretty much jumping for joy when I saw that I'd won this. I told everyone I ran into about it. So, watch for Gayle Roper's book Death by the Numbers.

Secondly, I wanted to tell you about a sudden burst of inspiration I've had this week.

An American team came to help us with our literacy classes for a while. They don't really speak much French, but they decided to do a craft with the women instead of having typical classes. (That's always fine with me...) So, the ladies brought along plain canvas bags, ribbons, buttons, tassles, etc., and in place of our literacy classes, we decorated these bags. I had the most fun gluing buttons and ribbons on the canvas (above, you'll see three of the bags I made), and have decided that designing bags is my calling in life. I was strutting around my room, in front of the mirror, saying, "Yes! This is a Katie Fleetwood bag!" and it felt so nice that I thought I'd like to do it forever. Maybe one day, I'll branch out into leather bags or something, but for now, I'm pretty pleased with the new Katie Fleetwood Collection.

And lastly, A Fun Monday.

This Monday, another teacher asked me if I'd like to join her when she went over to one of our students houses for tea. I was quick to agree, because I've heard rumors of this woman's good cooking, and plus, it's so fun visiting other people's houses. You can see their decorating style and meet their families and see their baby pictures and be all-around nosey without seeming out of the ordinary.

Anyway, so I went along...

When we walked in, the woman clapped her henna covered hands together and said to the my friend (who'd just spent the past year in Morocco, learning the language), "Praise Allah! You've gotten fat!" My friend looked at me, and said, "I'm going to believe she's saying that as a compliment."

We all sat down in the sitting room, which really didn't seem like it was in Paris at all. There were these benches lining three walls, all covered in red and gold fabrics. The walls were papered in ivory and red peeling wall-paper that looked like it came straight from Morocco. There were bright red and black rugs on the floor, and one enormous picture of the family's oldest son on the wall above a wooden cupboard.

The woman made Arabic crepes flavored with honey and butter. She placed little bowls of nuts all around the table that she'd set up in her sitting room. We had Moroccan tea and bits of chicken scewered on sticks, loaves of bread and cookies dipped in chocolate. All for a tea! She barely sat, though. She had on her long, brown house dress and her hair tied up in a scarf and was scuttling back and forth between the kitchen and sitting room.

Her daughter-in-law came over to visit after a bit, and I was so impressed with her. First of all, she had really great taste in clothes. She wore these classy black pants underneath a silk knee-length dress covered in lime green, orange, and red flowers. And she spoke three languages, which I find really impressive when I'm still struggling through my second language. Although, humble as she was, she complained that barely anyone nowdays speaks Arabic, so she's forgetting it despite the face that she speaks it daily with her six-year old daughter (whom she'll soon send to Arabic Saturday school), so that the little girl will learn the language too. And besides all this, she's starting up a computer company, all while mothering her two little girls.

So, we sat around and talked for over three hours before we realized how late it was and hurried off to catch our respective metros home. But as I was riding back to Ponto, I just couldn't help smiling, because sometimes I really love the immigrant community in France. Where else could you consecutively be in Paris, France and then Rabat, Morocco?

Well, anyway, this was kind of a rambling, not quite connected hodpodge of thoughts here, but here it is. And I'll leave you with that.

Good night, world.