Guess what? More strike!

The strike is not merely the main topic of conversation, it is the dominant one. It serves as introduction, as disclaimer, as theatrical source of complaint, as a joke, and as a way to curse those outside forces which conspire to shape our lives.

****

Speaking of cursing those outside forces shaping our lives, I was involved in a strange incident today on the train that changed the course of the events that were to follow. The line ten was suffering under the dual plagues of being crowded and being underserved. Only one car in ten, the disembodied authoritative voice proclaimed. So obviously I eagerly attempted to get on, after standing politely to the side waiting for people to descend. Nevertheless, despite the people getting off, the car seemed to be still quite full—it was not at anthill proportions, but it was close. But it could quite easily accommodate one more; in fact, at my earlier connection, I had boarded a train that was even more full, holding my backpack aloft over my head to minimize the amount of horizontal space I occupied.

As I got on, my momentum in the process of dissipating, a small middle-aged woman with huge black wire glasses leaned into me, softly yet deliberately, pushing me off the train, sending me onto the platform rearranging my feet rapidly as the simultaneous click and rushing train announced the sweeping away of my plans, to see a TV show for my internship.

I found myself on the quai and I went over to sit on a bench. I knew that a train would likely not come in time, yet I waited anyway. The platform quickly filled. As it did, I thought—had I done something wrong? I do not think so; if anything, on the earlier, more crowded car, people had applauded my ingenuity—one guy nodded at me, approvingly, which is a big deal on the metro (in ordinary circumstances—people have become far more aggressive towards one another, especially on getting off, because getting off is often an individual act; one must swim against the tide, whereas when one gets on, one is the tide) So I do not know what occurred and it shocked me.

But the strike is wearing on people. Our French teacher told a story about a woman who, on the full platform, was unable to get on. She took a picture, so that her boss would know that it was impossible to get on. Cameras have become increasingly common—a guy with a Nikon, a professional’s camera with a big lens, snapped a picture of the menagerie pressed against the glass window. If the people are taking pictures, then it is notable, in a country where the strike is accepted and normalized and so something about this go-around is a bit different, a bit notable.

As I sat, pondering the question of whether I had done something wrong, in a bit of shock—the fact kept returning to me that but for a rare self-possession of dexterity, I could have ended up sprawled to great pain—a father and a toddler came up. The seats were full, and in a gesture meant to appease the Fates with my good manners, I offered my seat to the father, a man with tattoos crawling up his neck and around his arms, who rejected the seat genially.

His daughter, a small blond presence, with the whiny helium cute of toddlers, was holding a branch from bamboo. She was quite proud of it; she began waving it. At some point—I had decided to start reading—she began waving it at me. This annoyed the father, and he told her to stop, and she didn’t, so he took the branch from her and threw it away, and with that, she began wailing at him to bring it back “s’il te plait!” (she constantly shifted between the familiar “tu” and the formal “vous” in an odd move—on the other hand, she is a toddler—on the third, you’d think if there’s anything you’d learn about language as a child, it’s how your parents would like to address. I could keep on adding to my anatomy, but it is more than a bit fruitless to speculate.) The father took it well and adopted the “I’m-reasoning-with-you” tone and eventually she began silent and, still, later, ebullient, using her father’s knees as a swing.

While all this happened, I adopted the fixed gaze of someone determined to avoid acknowledging another’s embarrassment, even though it had been precipitated on my behalf.

****

I ended up seeing a French sports show on TV. American pro basketball occupied the first block of times, with Joakim Noah and Tony Parker commanding the vast bulk of the highlights. The rest of the time was devoted to round-tables, showing that whatever the activity, the French love mostly to talk about it.

****

France’s Constitutional Council has passed judgment on Sarkozy’s immigration policy, concerning his adopting of DNA tests (fine) and ethnic statistics (not fine). I find the latter more interesting than the former, because it is more peculiarly French (in all senses of the word ‘peculiar.’)

Essentially, the Constitution of France has been interpreted to disallow asking citizens about their racial or religious backgrounds, on the basis that this is divisive to the French Republic. In the US, it is e pluribus unum; in France, there is officially just the unum, the French people.

But that strikes me as little more than a polite fiction. People are devoted to it, no doubt about it, especially the left. The government knowing about you strikes them as classifying them as different, as perhaps classifying as ‘lesser’ and ‘greater’ with attendant prejudices and discriminations. But those classifications are already in the public domain. Just look at Le Pen’s success with his dark fulminations against the immigrant menace. People know what he means by those arguments and many respond.

As with many instances, their positive response is based on prejudice and ignorance. There are some who worry that investigating statistics will only provide kindling for prejudice’s fires, but this is a misplaced fear. If counter that perception, or correcting problems is the goal, then don’t you need an honest picture of what you’re talking about? How can you know if immigrants, for example, are discriminated against without knowing…how many immigrants there are, and from where? The important big question cannot be answered before the small ones.

The problem is out there, and ignoring it by saying we’re all one nation is foolish—the answer needs to be found out.

The more I read and hear about Europe, and its Catalonians, Flemish and Walloons, Serbs, Croats and Bosnians all wanting desperately to be apart from one another, the more incredible and wonderful the United States’ unification is. Obviously there are still problems, but people are still African-Americans, Italian-Americans, etc., without the entire nation rending apart, fissures appearing everywhere.