type, and mimeograph the articles. After six weeks of intense labor, my classmates and I brought out the first—and, it turned out, the only—newspaper in the ninety-year history of the school.
We also took on the rampant problem of cheating. Because of the emphasis on memorization and grades, students tried every trick they could think of to give themselves an advantage. They wrote notes on their hands or on tiny pieces of paper that they concealed in their jewelry. They sat next to each other and copied each other’s exam papers. In many cases the teachers simply turned a blind eye; students often brought their textbooks into the testing room and secretly balanced them on their knees just below the level of the tabletop, so they could copy directly from them.
When I brought it up, everyone agreed that this was aserious problem. I quickly realized that their concern was not enough. The students did not want to stop doing it, and the teachers did not want to admit that it was taking place, and so nothing happened. My efforts at organizing foundered. From this I learned a lesson about the special challenge of trying to create change when there is no constituency to support it.
The longer I was in France, the more I came to admire the United States. Part of it was the longing that comes over every expatriate to return to his or her country. At one point I experienced such longing for America that it influenced a major purchase. I had accumulated a small amount of money from odd jobs and allowance, and I was thinking about purchasing a guitar or a tape recorder. I went to a French music store and noticed a long row of banjos lining the top of the wall.
“What are those?” I asked.
“That one is a six-string banjo, tuned like a guitar,” said the young man. “And that one is a four-string jazz banjo.”
“And what’s that one?” I asked, pointing to the last one in the row.
“That’s the five-string
American
banjo,” he said.
I bought it on the spot.
“How can I learn to play it?” I asked, a little late.
He shrugged his shoulders. Then his eyes lit up and he dashed into a room behind the counter. I heard him tossing papers and books around. A few minutes later he emerged with a mimeographed copy in English of
How to Play the 5-StringBanjo
, by Pete Seeger. I went home happy and locked myself in my room for the better part of a week. I have been playing ever since.
Thus, looking at American culture from a distance, I came to see its good qualities. Though my family and I opposed the Vietnam War, I grew tired of listening to constant criticism of American policy. I became particularly incensed when people thought that the United States was the only country in the world that had a problem with racism. Once, over lunch, an aging woman whose only job was to sit at the top of the stairs and shout at children to slow down came over to speak to me. She launched into a lengthy attack on America’s appalling treatment of its minority citizens. I listened for a while.
“But don’t you believe, Madame, that France has its own problems with race?” I said. “I see Africans sweeping the streets and Algerians working construction, but in no other jobs. Perhaps the French people have their own difficulties with race?”
“Oh no,
pas du tout
!” she exclaimed. “We are not racists in any way! We even let them be policemen!”
Living abroad also brought us into contact with an endless string of fascinating people from all over the world who filed through our home and told their stories. One of the universal themes was the escape from tyranny. Sitting in Europe, barely two decades away from World War II and only a few hundredmiles from the military power of the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact, we became keenly aware of the human dimension of the struggle for human rights.
Our family was deeply involved in Russian history and contemporary Russian life. My father set to work on what turned into a ten-year
We also took on the rampant problem of cheating. Because of the emphasis on memorization and grades, students tried every trick they could think of to give themselves an advantage. They wrote notes on their hands or on tiny pieces of paper that they concealed in their jewelry. They sat next to each other and copied each other’s exam papers. In many cases the teachers simply turned a blind eye; students often brought their textbooks into the testing room and secretly balanced them on their knees just below the level of the tabletop, so they could copy directly from them.
When I brought it up, everyone agreed that this was aserious problem. I quickly realized that their concern was not enough. The students did not want to stop doing it, and the teachers did not want to admit that it was taking place, and so nothing happened. My efforts at organizing foundered. From this I learned a lesson about the special challenge of trying to create change when there is no constituency to support it.
The longer I was in France, the more I came to admire the United States. Part of it was the longing that comes over every expatriate to return to his or her country. At one point I experienced such longing for America that it influenced a major purchase. I had accumulated a small amount of money from odd jobs and allowance, and I was thinking about purchasing a guitar or a tape recorder. I went to a French music store and noticed a long row of banjos lining the top of the wall.
“What are those?” I asked.
“That one is a six-string banjo, tuned like a guitar,” said the young man. “And that one is a four-string jazz banjo.”
“And what’s that one?” I asked, pointing to the last one in the row.
“That’s the five-string
American
banjo,” he said.
I bought it on the spot.
“How can I learn to play it?” I asked, a little late.
He shrugged his shoulders. Then his eyes lit up and he dashed into a room behind the counter. I heard him tossing papers and books around. A few minutes later he emerged with a mimeographed copy in English of
How to Play the 5-StringBanjo
, by Pete Seeger. I went home happy and locked myself in my room for the better part of a week. I have been playing ever since.
Thus, looking at American culture from a distance, I came to see its good qualities. Though my family and I opposed the Vietnam War, I grew tired of listening to constant criticism of American policy. I became particularly incensed when people thought that the United States was the only country in the world that had a problem with racism. Once, over lunch, an aging woman whose only job was to sit at the top of the stairs and shout at children to slow down came over to speak to me. She launched into a lengthy attack on America’s appalling treatment of its minority citizens. I listened for a while.
“But don’t you believe, Madame, that France has its own problems with race?” I said. “I see Africans sweeping the streets and Algerians working construction, but in no other jobs. Perhaps the French people have their own difficulties with race?”
“Oh no,
pas du tout
!” she exclaimed. “We are not racists in any way! We even let them be policemen!”
Living abroad also brought us into contact with an endless string of fascinating people from all over the world who filed through our home and told their stories. One of the universal themes was the escape from tyranny. Sitting in Europe, barely two decades away from World War II and only a few hundredmiles from the military power of the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact, we became keenly aware of the human dimension of the struggle for human rights.
Our family was deeply involved in Russian history and contemporary Russian life. My father set to work on what turned into a ten-year
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