sweet potatoes
The winter rain had settled into Toulouse. At the market, vendors tugged their hoods over their eyes and hugged themselves while surveying their green beans and pre-cut pumpkin slices. Bent against the wind and rain, I stopped at a booth to ask, “Excusez-moi, avez-vous des patates douces?” I was on sweet potato duty for our American Thanksgiving feast later that evening, and my friends doubted I would accomplish the mission. On the left, one vendor had laid out pink and purple potatoes, russet spuds and Yukon golds. Thinking he might have his yams protected in a secret sac, I asked the tuber trader if he might also have the sweets. “No,” he furrowed his bushy brows and was sorry he couldn’t help me. He shifted on his feet, looked towards his competitors, clearly concerned that he was lacking a key potato representative. He was.
My eyes flashed left and right, dizzy from the oranges, greens and purples, which were exceptionally vibrant on this dreary day. I watched the vendors, most of them men in blue aprons, weighing, bagging, taking money, winking and thanking their customers, “C’est moi qui vous remerci.” No, they say, it is me who thanks you. It is a used line, but it still turns me into a million bucks, even when I’ve just spent it all on their butternut squash and aubergines.
Finally I found the unattractive vegetable, “Oh I am so happy,” I said relieved, “I’ve asked every salesperson here and you are the only one selling patates douces.” He beamed and euro signs glinted in his eyes. “It is Thanksgiving, well it was Thanksgiving on Thursday. I am hosting a feast at my house tonight. It would not be complete without these.” I bowed my head slightly, lifted the bag—a toast to his health—and squished home.
Our celebration had to wait until Saturday. Of course France does not honor this American day, so I spent my day at school. Some conscientious teachers wished me a happy holiday, but the early winter clouds hung low and pupils’ energy level dropped accordingly. In honor of the day, my lectures had never before been so diligently edited and timed. I had a turkey cartoon, a poem, and black, green, red and blue whiteboard markers, essential for mapping the Pilgrim’s arrival in the New World.
We happily sailed across the ocean, met Native Americans, grew crops, had a celebration, and ate a feast together. I transformed Thanksgiving into giving thanks and asked them what they were thankful for. This is when the winter clouds rolled over us and settled in. I called on Romain, “What are you thankful for?” He just shook his head. By three in the afternoon, the students’ cheeks sagged, their jaws slacked, and their gaze strayed towards the windows and the linoleum floor. I am no longer shocked by this classroom phenomenon, as I am slowly learning how to entertain prepubescent children.
My class should be called English featuring Allie Taylor, and a man with a million-dollar-voice should bellow, “Come one come all! Listen to obsolete Woodstock songs and their bygone lyrics, pretend to fill in the blanks, count the leaves on the trees outside, and talk endlessly with your neighbor because the real-life American assistant reprimands no one!” But I am still not convinced that would attract an audience.
Today was supposed to be different, a turn-around in my approach and in the students’ interest. I do not know how to measure my success, other than to flash a rogue wink at the attentive kids and greedily count the responding smiles. If English lectures about the United States elicit an aggregate happiness, I consider my job well-done.
Trying to fend off the mounting dreariness on this particular day, I made jokes about being thankful for pain au chocolat and my hair. “What are you thankful for?” I asked Arielle. “I don’t know.” The fun exercise—an opportunity to practice sentence construction and pronunciation—devolved into ten minutes of elusive eye contact and daydreams. I thought they understood the question and I thought they were eager enough to participate. This standard American activity apparently had no place in the French classroom. Fork loads of sage stuffing and steaming mashed potatoes faded from my memory, and I said to myself, “Man these guys are really missing out.”
I opened my apartment door, wet from my trip to the market, and my mind became an eddy of roasting turkeys, apple pies and garlicky mashed potatoes. My new friends were already busy setting the table and counting the chairs. We could barely host our eighteen guests because our apartment was still sparsely furnished, but we creatively combined every waist-high surface and lined up every sit-upon we had. Many agreed they would be happy eating on the floor. Nevertheless, the magic only grew as we dimmed the lights while Camille, a French guest, lit the votive candles scattered throughout the room.
Midway through the meal, I remembered my students who were so reluctant to talk about their thanks. Nervously interrupting the convivial story telling and chewing, I suggested that abide by tradition, and each give thanks for one thing. Camille was thankful for the Americans for daring to host an international version of this precious holiday, and then she thanked the French people in attendance for being open enough to attend. The French were thankful for the opportunity to taste our food; the Americans were also thankful to find the nostalgic sensory experience in the South of France.
“And Allie, what are you thankful for?” Michel asked. “The man who sold me sweet potatoes, bien sur.”
