See, from the beginning, we’ve been kinda told that there might be the possibility to extend the assistants’ seven-month contract to nine months, but the government and therefore the program were thinking of eliminating that option. Some sources said that last year (2010-2011) was the last year; some said this year (2011-2012). In any case, I thought I’d try for it. I love this little town, I love my new teacher friends, and there are at least a handful of students whom I’d like to see through to their bac. Also, if nothing else, it would give me more time to look for a job, either in the States or in France. I asked the secretariat, and she had no idea what I was talking about; no assistant had ever asked for an extension before. She was on the phone as she finished her sentence, and as no one answered, she told me to stop back in the afternoon, and we’d go from there.
Fabienne, the secretariat, practically flagged me down as I passed her office after lunch—I always forget which door to use—and told me that today, the day I’d asked, was the last day to apply for an extension, and there was a good chance than anyone else who applied would be approved, as there weren’t many applicants this year. Well then. She basically threw me into a chair in front of her desk and started writing my application for me, talking to herself as she tried to figure out the best wording. After five minutes of my awkward waiting, she printed it, I signed it, and she assured me it would be in the mail the next day. She asked if I really liked La Flèche that much that I wanted to stay longer. I replied in the affirmative but was honest: a little money here was almost better than no money at home.
“So nothing’s waiting for you in the States? Family?” she asked, hands clasped together on her desk.
“Well yes, I miss my family, but I don’t have a job there, and I have a job here, so—”
“No boyfriend?” she pressed.
“Uh, no.” Should I really be discussing this with her?
“Well then you need to find un petit français! You get a boyfriend, and then you have an excuse to stay here longer! Then you get married, and you don’t have to worry about finding a way to legally stay here!” Exclamation points and all.
I could tell she was halfway joking, so I continued, laughing. “I’ve been trying! There aren’t exactly a lot of people my age in La Flèche.”
She lifted her lips in a particularly French half grimace, half smile. “True, true. But that means you have to go to Le Mans or Angers. Angers is better: the universities there means there are lots of young people to choose from.”
At this point, I was just trying not to guffaw. “I do have a friend in Angers—”
“Don’t you go to the pub?” I nodded, but she barreled on, “Aren’t there any single young teachers in the salle des profs?”
A snort escaped despite myself. “I can’t exactly ask the teachers if they’re single!”
“True, true.” She sighed, brow furrowed in thought. “Well, then you have to get a job. If you ask some of the English teachers to help you with your CV and cover letters, I can send them out to some of the schools in the area. That way, you have an automatic reference.”
Full stop. “Wait, huh?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Or you could talk to Nathalie about being a contractual teacher: she has all that information.”
“But I don’t have my teaching certificate, even in the States.”
“You have your university degree, n’est-ce pas? Then even if you can’t get into the Education Nationale, private schools can hire you because they can pretty much hire whomever they want: they’re private. Lycée Notre Dame isn’t far from here, and I think they’d love a native English speaker. You could also go to Angers: I’m sure the universities there could hire you as a tutor.”
Wow. Uh, that was a lot to take in. Considering I hadn’t thought about completely moving to France beyond joking or dreaming, I was thrown off-balance. These possibilities seemed a lot more attainable that blindly applying for jobs online, and it scared me. I froze.
“You don’t have to answer right now, but it is a possibility. Keep it in mind. I wouldn’t mind doing it, pas du tout.”
“Okay. Merci.”
So Fabienne sent off my demande de prolongation the next day, and the day after that — Wednesday, for those playing along at home — Nathalie told me she had spoken with Fiona (shrug), who had spoken with Fabienne, and she said that she said that I’d gotten it.
Dance party!
I made absolutely sure that this Fiona said I’d gotten the contract extension, and not that Fabienne had merely sent in the paperwork, and Nathalie answered in the affirmative.
No really. Dance party!
I shouted it from the rooftops/Facebook; I called my mom to warn her not to try to smuggle me home when she visits me in April; I let all of my teachers know I could stay until after the bac in May, and everyone was beyond happy.
And then I saw Fabienne at the marché on Sunday. She noticed me first, we bisous-ed, and she said that she’d keep me updated about my demande de prolongation. Turns out that Nathalie had misheard or misunderstood, and Fabienne had only sent out my paperwork and had not heard back as of yet.
And then started the work of re-advising everyone that, no, I hadn’t been approved yet, so let’s not make plans after April 30th. Thank God I hadn’t bought my tickets home yet. But I’m still holding out hope; this could be just another turn of French bureaucracy.
Oh, and I started reapplying for next year just in case I can't find a Big Kid Job before then. I asked to stay at my same post in the same town, simply because I'm worried that Amy's French Karma is going to run out if I try for a post in a different town. And, y'know, I'm kinda attached to this place. All that's left in the application process is to get M. Briand, the equivalent of an American principal, to say (bad) things about me and send it to the government by the end of the month. I hope that's not too much to ask. In the meantime, cross your fingers! Whether it's for me being able to stay another couple months, a Big Kid Job, or me to come home as quickly as possible. Well, if it's that last one, don't tell me, 'kay?
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