I learned perseverence from my parents. Both worked in the inner city schools of Chicago. They loved their professions. They saw the grit and fear of grinding poverty, experienced thievery, witnessed hunger and child abuse, violence, and out of it all, they found what mattered most was that they show up each day for the children. If they didn’t, the children would miss their teacher, their principal - a crushing insecurity. Their sanctuary, the classroom, would be shut down with a strange substitute. Learning would be lost until their teacher came back.
There will always be challenges in life, and the challenges are getting tougher, more complex. The difference is how to handle them. First of all, don’t panic. Find an inner calm. Don’t succumb to fear of the unknown, the insecurity that negative imagination breeds. Use imagination to solve problems. Be rational.
At the Sorbonne School for Foreigners or “L’École des Étrangers” one big challenge was the end of the year exam given to students of French literature and history. I loved the lectures because I could hear the passion in the teachers’ voices. During the year students attend lectures, take notes. try to remember everything, go to the library, and then travel a lot. Well, we were on the other side of The Pond. What were students supposed to do? I took a trip to Czechoslovakia, but that is another story.
It was the big test that loomed large. If the student from a European country passed and got the “moyen,” the middle grade, “10” out of “20,” they were on their way to a Certificate, a certificate that guaranteed them teaching jobs in their country. Students rarely, if ever, got a “20.” But a “19” was possible. But in the U.S. the American students received letter grades. Things got complicated when the French scores were translated to letter grades.
At the time and place of the exam we were given a piece of literature and an author and had to analyze the piece and present the analysis to the evaluators. The hardest piece of literature for me was the play Le Jeu de l’Amour du Hasard, by Marivaux. With its mistaken identities, changes in names, events that pass, and to me, the implausible reason for the mistaken identities, I struggled to understand the reason for the play. Why did the identities of the female characters have to be hidden so that the lady could get her man? What was his problem? The Midwesterner in me screamed “Subterfuge!” “Fake!” I was on a quest during the grand year abroad to find myself, and this play stunk of falsehood. But the story with its lightness, somehow tugged at my heart. Don’t we all engage in creating illusions to get on in life? Frightening.
A litte slip of paper showed up in my dorm mailbox - the date, the time, location for the oral exam. They told us not to be late. We would not be given another slot. We would get a “0.” It was so French, so Napoleon. I arrived early and saw other students waiting silently. I wouldn’t get Marivaux. I got Marivaux. OK. Time to be flexible and conquer the worst. My brain went into overdrive. The examiners gave us 15 minutes to gather our thoughts. I sifted through the story, picked a reference character I could relate to, and worked the best explanation I could create. Nervously, I approached the table where the evaluators sat, then I sat in the “the chair.” “Stay calm,” I screamed inside my head. Then, I thought about my parents and the kids they taught in Chicago. We met them at picnics at the end of the year. They played ball hard. I suddenly felt free to pursue what I wanted, to play ball hard. Unchained from fear, I no longer felt fear of failing. My mom told me to take risks to gain something. Well, here I was swimming in it. I will not drown. I will persevere I will kick and stay afloat. I started easy, explaining the play, Marivaux’s sense of humor. I described the characters, made a few mistakes on the identities. But the then the big question came to express my opinion. I railed as a Midwesterner would about honesty, fairness, the stupid need for the woman to trick the guy she was after, how wasteful of human energy it was. The examiners arched their eyebrows. I knew. Labeled a feminist. “Oh great,” I thought. I failed. I was too forceful. No apologies. I jumped off the plane. Parachute opened. I will land with a thud, but I will land and live. Then the examiners told me to go. Time was up. No evidence of passing. I looked puzzled, but they signaled and a person came to politely escort me out of the room. What just happened there? A week later, I received a little slip of paper in my dorm mailbox - “11” pass. it was a squeaker, but I succeeded. I persevered.
Il faut persévérer dans son travail. It is necessary to persevere in one’s work.
Il ne faut pas avoir peur d’échouer. One must not have have fear of failing.