A bright orange notebook denominated “Clairefontaine”,

96 pages of papier velouté ruled in lilac and pink,

is the last vestige of two years at the Lycée Français

where each subject had its own special cahier,

its glossiness and heft implying the relative weight

and importance of the knowledge transcribed

within its covers.
My own students had flimsy yellow cahiers

indicating the low status of English at that institution

whose mandate was to bring culture to us

in our colonial exile. Recognizing this, they refused to pay

for their textbooks and handed  their homework in late

or not at all. Meanwhile, around the corner,

a foreign language school was being demolished

having collapsed on a class overpaying for the privilege

of wrestling with “there”, “their” and “they’re”:

further proof that the study of English was suspect.
One young man died shielding a classmate

with his body; his actions heroic

in any language.