They shut down the school Thursday. They shut it down the Thursday before, too, and the Thursday before that. They stack desks and chairs in front of the doors — canary yellow paint and pine, legs rounded like children’s handwriting. They scrawl signs in green and red and blue, in jaunty all-caps of acrylic. They tape a sign that says “Life’s an apple, the labor law’s a worm.” I think, “Life’s an apple,” and nudge the chairs from the handle.
The government’s perplexed: Unemployment’s at 10 percent, and they complain about capping severance pay and negotiating a few hours past 35 a week? Long-term contracts are terrifying, the government says: That’s why you youths are stuck in short-term garbage. They assure me it’s bullshit.
Thursday one: Latin American literature is sliced in half for the protests. The students unwrap tuna sandwiches and croissants in class. They’re breaking at noon; the mood is festive. The professor asks me to go, and I say I don’t think 40-hour weeks are evil: “It’s paradise here.”
“We must defend paradise,” he says, and his lips curl into dimples. He likes it. He repeats it. The most vibrant and vocal student hands me a flier: “I understand that you are American, but we have different realities.” Two different realities: I like how that sounds. In America, we float belly up.
Thursday two: “They blocked the building and shut down the cafeteria, but they got free muffins!” a girl says. We squat on the lawn while the communists debate about canceling classes. She filters the megaphone blur to me and reapplies her lipstick. “It’s bullshit,” she says: “Politics is fashion. But the law’s shit.” There’s a fire behind us. “They’re just barbecuing.”
Thursday three: National strike. The school library’s shut down, the city library’s shut down, so I buy tank tops. I deliberate between pink and peach. I walk to the Franco-American Institute. They smash empty wine bottles on the quai. They wear bandanas and bombers and throw rocks at passing tires. The police look like tortoises.
Ensconced in walnut and leather, I watch the windows blacken and a stampede hurtle down the boulevard. They smash storefronts. The police throw smoke bombs — I hear — and tear gas. They throw tear gas and cobblestones back. The bourgeoisie pull their drapes. Rocks batter the roof.
“It’s disgusting,” the secretary says, her blue eyes glassy and pale in the sun. “I’m against the law, of course. Precariousness. Young people need jobs, but real jobs.” This is what the government is promising.
“But these protestors discredit the movement. We always protest, and the government doesn’t care anymore.” The light catches her glasses and large teeth. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” she says.
High-schoolers race through smoke, pulling tacky sweaters over their mouths, green Adidas slapping the esplanade. “You Americans are more liberal,” she says. “We’re quite conservative here.” She says “groups” pay kids to get violent. When the metro reopens, I hear a toddler shout, “Wow! It’s the police!”
They’re mobilized. They’re vigilant. You never see this in America. In 1968, their signs said, “Make love, not war!” Now they say, “Make love, not extra hours!” And others tell me that there’s no point to voting if the socialists can do this. Others tell me you can’t trust anyone. Others tell me that France is over.
Posters of cartoon eyes warn you of the state of emergency. Red block letters scream, “VIVE LA COMMUNE.” They wave yellow and red and blue and purple flags that no one can tell you the meaning of. They throw chairs on the subway tracks. I don’t know why.
The university’s lunar hellscape of high rises bristles with excitement. It feels political, however that feels. Like a child of the Depression, I want them to suffer as much as us Americans, suffocating six or seven endless days a week, fungible, forgettable.
And yet this feels like the end of something: the end of paradise.
Ann Manov is a UF French, English and Spanish senior. Her column appears on Mondays.
