No classes today. I can tell something’s wrong before I even step off the bus in front of my school, when the bus driver curses under his breath at the unmarked police car that’d hastily, crookedly parked in front of the stop.
“Les flics” line the sidewalk leading up to the school’s entrance. I’ve called it prison-like before, but never has it felt quite so appropriate as today. As I walk through the gate, past the police officers’ silent scowls, I see the fractured remains of the glass doors leading into the school’s lobby, behind which a swarm of adolescents races through the hallways. It is 8:30am; on a normal day the halls would be empty and quiet, and I’d make my way up to the Salle des profs, make a few photocopies, and get ready for my 9am class. My intended lesson was based on a New Year’s resolutions piece I found in the Globe’s kid section, which might have been a bit too advanced for this particular class, but we’d have made something work. Earlier groups this week had come up with one or two “promises to be a better person or make the world a better place,” so perhaps these kids could have exceeded my expectations. As I push my way through the crowd, trying to figure out what was going on, such resolutions are the last thing on my mind, and I feel legitimately scared to be an American in Vénissieux.
From the window in the salle des profs, you can see the hillside behind the school — the one that leads up to the dilapidated concrete “HLMs,” or housing projects, in which some of my students likely live. The hill might once have been grassy; a crumbling stairway connects to the asphalt next to the school, and now an eerily large group of students stands atop this hill, collecting the rocks from the slope and throwing them towards the school. Their trashcan fires have mostly gone out, but as the Principal tries to gather all of the faculty in our refuge, I can’t help but stare out the window as final a firecracker shoots off, followed by a puff of smoke. The teachers put forth a variety of theories from the safety of the salle des profs, ranging from the geopolitical “when things are astir in the Moyen-Orient, ca bouge a Vénissieux” to the peer-pressure-based (blame les grands, les lyceens, etc, for inciting the younger ones without any rational reason), but the one thing that everyone can agree on is that no classes will be taught today.
The police make their way up the hill, bring the instigators back down, and then they disappear from view. I don’t stay long enough to figure out what happens to the perpetrators, or even why they’re so upset. My teacher sees a golden opportunity to sneak me out the back door, and offers to drive me back to the metro, avoiding the turbulent bus ride altogether and bringing an end to a confusing, frightening and dissatisfying morning.
