elle est trop marrante.

This is a sentence that I heard three times this week, spoken about me, in front of me, as if I couldn't hear it or perhaps it was merely that the people who said it didn't know me well enough to believe that they could just tell me directly. But I heard it anyways.

"Elle est trop marrante," a student of mine said, as I stood up at the front of the classroom, wildly gesturing. I was explaining the word "cheerleader" and how, even though in French they are known more casually as "pom-pom girls," that in fact in English we call them "cheerleaders" and they are a reality of (some) American high schools. "Not all," I said, explaining that some schools don't have cheerleaders, and some schools don't have footballs teams, and some schools certainly don't have students singing and dancing in the halls like "High School Musical." It is amazing how much Disney has created the image of the American public and the American dream. The lessons this week were on stereotypes. Using my fantastic (read: terrible) drawing skills, I crafted pictures on the board of the stereotypical American family, based on the students' ideas. Then we collected ideas on stereotypes of the French and compared what we found. The students were offended that Americans believe that the French are baguette-toting, smelly/dirty intellectuals with a hatred for tourists. The students were surprised that I was offended that they thought that all Americans were gun-toting, geographically inept dolts with a love of patriotism. But at the front of the classroom, gesturing wildly, showing them that the ideas we might have of each other are completely absurd, a student said it again, "Elle est trop marrante." And the thing was that I was trying to be funny. Because if they got that I was trying to be silly with them, I'd know they were listening.

Andy was the second one to say it, at dinner, to his mother, as he made me tell a new round of scary stories. "Maman, ecoute! Elle est trop marrante," he said as I told the new versions of the same story. Scary/mysterious noise + lots of build up + turns out to be a family member = successful not-too-scary story for Andy. The problem for me now is that I've told the story five different times and I've run out of family members. I'm going to have to start repeating family members with new scary noises or we're going to have to pick a new genre.

The third time was in the writing workshop that I've started to attend at Shakespeare Book Company. This was the second time that I have gone and I am hoping to attend regularly. The group meets on the second floor of the bookstore, in a small reading room that is packed floor-to-ceiling with old books and the smells of aging pages. At the beginning of the workshop, the teacher asked us to say our names and whether or not we had brought anything to share with the group this week. "Hello, my name is Kate and I did not bring any pages with me this week." The teacher quickly replied, "That was generous of you," despite the fact that only 5 of the 15 people in the room had brought work. Slightly miffed but knowing it was in good fun, I waited to hear the rest of the introductions and when we arrived at the teacher, he said, "Hello, my name is David and I did not bring any work with me this week." "That was generous of you," I replied immediately and the group laughed. "Elle est trop marrante" one of the women said and I smiled.

But the thing is that I have never felt terribly funny. I believe that any funny comments that come out of me are a product of the people that I have grown closest to over the years. In high school, I learned that among my friends I had to keep up with quick comments of my own or I'd never get a word in at all. When I think of funny in my family, I try to channel my sister, who is so funny and so quick that it has only been from spending time with her that I think I've found my sense of humor. Walking through Paris, I get passing glances of things that remind me of my family, my friends, and I feel better about being so far away. On a walk yesterday, I saw a West-highland terrier and thought of my stepfamily, who raised the sweetest one there ever was and who remains to this day annoyed that he has gone. In the past week, I've seen two cocker spaniels. How could I not think of home? When I tell stories at the dinner table, I think of the way that my father tells stories and I try to channel him. When I talk to my fellow assistants about art that I've seen, I think of how my father might look at it and how I never know with him if he's going to think it's absolutely brilliant or total crap (it could easily be either). And when I hear music anywhere, ever, I think of my mother.

All of this seems to add up to very little, but what I mean is that not a day goes by when I don't think of how I am living this life in Paris only because of all of the people who have helped me to become who I am. From my sassy friends to my wonderful family, I feel that here I notice how I am a little bit of each of you. I catch myself thinking, "This is something my mother would say" or "This is a movie that Nora would love" but I am thinking these things and saying these things in another language, another place, because these people have helped me get here. I suppose I am simply grateful this week for the wonderful people I have back home. This process of living and learning and becoming a teacher is only getting better by the day. And, what's more, I'm getting used to appreciating solitude, those moments at the end of the day where I am not a babysitter or a teacher or a college student or a camp counselor, but I am just myself, in my tiny apartment, with my big Parisian thoughts and my little coffee cup. Because when I'm experiencing this new independence (I'm not in a dorm, a cabin, etc. for the first time in years), the last thing that I feel is alone. I feel that I am quite funny (and wonderful) company, thinking of all of you.