My first strike
VILLEGLY — As France grinds to a halt for yet another general strike to stop government budget cuts, I remember my baptism at the barricades.
At the end of my daughter’s first day of school in the south of France, I stand with the other parents, waiting for our little angels to come out.
Meeting for parents of all students, today at 5:30, says a paper taped to the door.
I ask what it is about, but nobody seems to know. So I go.
The principal announces that there are too many children in most classes, and that we need to ask for another teacher. But this is an era of budget cuts. A mere request would be met with derision, the principal warns. We need to get attention. And in France, that means one thing: a strike.
When we bought our house, before having our daughter, Celia, the village had been in an uproar over the cutback of one teacher — for the 2-year-old class. Here is one of the things the French take for granted, but an American interloper can marvel at. U.S. parents have to shell out a pretty penny to put their child in a preschool. It’s quite typical that both parents work, and their child needs something to do during those hours.
France has one of the world’s highest work rates for mothers, in no small part thanks to its system of free public preschools. But the French government’s budget is being crushed by generous benefits, not just for preschool, but also for health care, unemployment and other programs. In France and elsewhere, people are happy to benefit from government programs but not so happy to pay taxes.
The next morning, parents kiss their children goodbye at the classroom, then duck into the cafeteria to create our protest paraphernalia. One mother arrives clad in a protest T-shirt (“école surchargée!” or, overcrowded school), carrying a box of spray paints and old sheets for banners.
“On veut un cinquième poste,” one poster says. “We want a fifth teacher.” I suggest changing “we want” to “we need": “il faut.” “You can’t always get what you want,” I explain, “but to say something is necessary is beyond debate.”
“C’est ‘on veut,’” another mother says, explaining that “we want” is the outer boundary of politeness, whereas “we need,” being a statement of a condition rather than of emotion, is less politically charged. And what we want is to push all the emotional and political buttons available.
Strike day. We gather at the school early to distribute placards. The local newspaper and radio stations send reporters. I hold my daughter’s hand nervously. I ask another mother, Annie, whether a strike is really the way to go.
“Oh, yes,” she declares. “It is how things get done here. It is cultural. The bureaucrats move only when there are people in the streets. And, anyway, I think we all have a little bit of the revolution — the barricades, ’68 — in our hearts.”
We get some chants going: “We want a teacher!” “Parents are angry!” “Children are angry!”
They sound better in French.
We regroup at noon, to stop cars on the busy road through the village and ask people to sign a petition calling for an additional teacher.
Traffic at noon doesn’t last long. In France, lunch is sacred, and in this part of France it’s followed by an equally hallowed nap. Everything closes from noon to 2 p.m., if not later. We plan to return for the evening rush hour.
This time, more people show up. The police are there — not to supervise us but to make sure none of the drivers, infuriated at the delay, tries to throw punches or drive into the crowd.
I question whether angering people is the best way to win support.
“It’s only when they get mad that they remember something is going on,” a father tells me sternly. “If you let them just pass, they will forget before they get out of the village. If they’re really mad, they are going to call the local government to complain when they get home, and that will get us more notice.”
The rush-hour barricades continue through the week, until the day the education bureaucrats finally return from their own summer break. We take our demonstration to their doorstep. Residents in a dozen other villages also are protesting, whether to get another teacher or to keep one that is to be taken away. Again, the police keep order. Again we chant, this time adding the name of our village. It feels like a friendly sports tournament, with all of us yelling and waving posters in the crisp sunshine.
The bureaucrats stay in their offices, and after a couple of hours, we pack up to leave. A couple of schools get word immediately of a teacher added or a class saved. We wait. The next day, we hear: A part-time teacher would be added. A partial victory.
The next year, we lose the part-time post, and now, there is worry that the four teachers will be reduced to three, each teaching three grades in one room. As they say in the U.S. and in France, "the more things change … ."