September 11, 2020
admire the orchestra strategically placed below the Eiffel Tower. Drawing from their audience’s energy, the string players furiously bow out the melodies of “La Marseillaise” as the wind instruments struggle to hold enough oxygen in their lungs to keep up. Seemingly oblivious to both instrument groups, the percussionists in the back of the stage march steadily on top of their drums. To the naked eye, it’s ultimate chaos, a perfect representation of the Reign of Terror that inspired this holiday in the first place. As a music major, I know better.
In an orchestra, even the smallest instruments have an important role to play; every musician is vital to the overall performance. There is no star. Instead, there is only the unified goal of sharing a story composed of interlocking harmonies and melodies that ebb and flow in ways similar to the seasons, the ocean, the human heartbeat, or even France’s many cycles of revolution. In so many ways, every successful performance can be directly attributed to teamwork at its finest. As each member of the ensemble keeps their eyes on the conductor and simultaneously dedicates their performance to their fellow team members, true magic takes place. The individual forgets about his own self and works towards a bigger purpose—the purpose of communicating when words become inadequate.
I think that’s why Bastille Day means so much to the French. For one day, they get to forget themselves and come together, telling the story of their ancestors fighting for something bigger than themselves—liberté, égalité, fraternité. Liberty, equality, brotherhood. I smile as I stand surrounded by thousands of meticulously dressed, tone-deaf Frenchmen and women and join them in belting out the most shamelessly violent national anthem ever written:
« Allons, enfants de la patrie ! Le jour de gloire est arrivé… »
It is an interesting contrast, the perfectly tuned orchestra to the perfectly passionate, albeit totally out of tune, crowd. And yet, out of all of the symphonies I have ever attended, this is by far the most magical performance I have ever participated in.
Maybe some of the magic comes from the giddiness I feel at being back in the country that I served within for eighteen months. Perhaps it comes from the appreciation and love that I gained for the French culture and people during that time. In any case, witnessing the beautiful discord between the crowd in the field and the musicians on the stage reminds me of the reality that I am once again in France and that this time, I get to experience the country—not as a missionary with a shiny black nametag, but as a student, an intern, a regular person.
That being said, the internship that brought me here in the first place didn’t exactly start out as planned. The team I was assigned to was the opposite of the orchestra accompanying the crowd. To the naked eye, it appeared to be perfectly organized. But as a team member, I knew better.
It was ultimate chaos.
My first day consisted of learning how to help the elderly in and out of wheelchairs and beds. Easy enough.
The following day, I met Marie, my manager—a tiny package of pure energy and spunk from the French Isles. While she and I were both fluent in French, the language I had devoted so much time to learning was not the same French that she spoke, and my accent confused her just as much as her accent confused me. We stumbled through a quick meeting in which she introduced me to my one and only teammate, Marc, and proposed that the two of us look after all 56 people in her database.
« C’est raisonnable ? » Is that reasonable?
Unaware of the fact that other students assigned to different teams were only being assigned to eight or nine people total, I stammered out my « oui, » determined to be the best little American intern Les Petits Frères des Pauvres had ever seen.
This proved to be very difficult.
I quickly learned that Marc was the epitome of a Parisian teenager. He constantly had at least one cigarette in his hand, he spent his nights partying with friends, and he religiously held to the ancient French belief that every day spent working during the summer merited at least one extra day off. After a few days of me struggling to understand his work ethic almost as much as he was struggling to understand mine, we found some common ground: French pastries are delicious, eating meals with our assigned elderly friends was a good way to pass the time, and finishing all 56 visits every week was critical to our success as a team. So, we came to a compromise. He and I would visit a handful of our friends together on Mondays and Wednesdays. The rest of the week, I would visit everyone else on my own.
But now, after two weeks of trying—and failing—to visit every person on my list, as well as do my homework, keep up with my practicing, build friendships, and enjoy Paris, I’m starting to realize that maybe I’m a little too confident in my own work ethic, that maybe I need to re-evaluate my own commitments, and that maybe visiting 56 people each week is not, in fact, raisonnable.
I finish sing-shouting with the crowd and look up as fireworks begin to light up the sky in celebration of revolutionary memories that, for a single day, somehow break down political barriers, dissolve strikes, and unify the French public to the point that mere strangers are willing to belt out their national anthem side by side.
Perhaps it takes conflict to bring about harmony—just like the unpolished civilian choir against the French symphony, or even the tuning process that begins every orchestral concert. After all, no progress was made in the Revolution until after the Bastille was stormed.
I return home after the concert and prepare for another week of hard work. Again, I fail to visit all of the people assigned to me despite my efforts to be as efficient as possible, and after a particularly rough night of partying, Marc quits. I become more and more discouraged as the week goes on. I know I need an entirely new game plan.
By Sunday, I have it. Just like the orchestra and the crowd on Bastille day, I am horribly out of tune with Marie’s expectations—or maybe she is out of tune with mine. In any case, I need to do what any musician would when harmonies and tonal frequencies somehow aren’t lining up: I need to re-set and re-tune. In other words, I need to reestablish expectations with Marie, this time with a much stronger commitment to listen and gain clarity.
On Tuesday, I march into my weekly meeting with renewed confidence. I do my best to emphasize Marie’s ideals during our conversation. These people in my stewardship are important, and they deserve time and attention. She agrees.
I then attempt to explain my own goals for this internship. I am willing to work reasonable hours, and I want to ensure that the elderly friends I’m looking after have their needs met. I also express my sincere interest in bettering myself professionally (and therefore becoming a more valuable intern) through project management, embracing the French culture, and participating in team building activities. I then ask which people on my list are highest priority, because I cannot visit all 56 and still accomplish these goals.
Marie frowns for a moment and then pulls out a highlighter. She explains that many of the people on my list are already being visited by other volunteers, and that only 20 or so don’t have anyone assigned to them. She gives me a list of several volunteers’ numbers and encourages me to contact them and organize group outings throughout Paris for the people under our care.
I’m speechless. For a month now I’ve been stretching myself much too thin, trying to accomplish an (unnecessarily) high quota. No wonder Marc had quit, and no wonder I was so overwhelmed! I happily agree to continue visiting the twenty friends Marie highlighted; that number seems much more doable than fifty-six.
The final month of my internship is filled with group outings on the Seine, picking up flowers for the kindest widows, and even organizing a concert. I learn to seize as many professional opportunities as possible. Outside of my internship, I now have time to finish my homework, practice, and explore France with my fellow interns.
Of course, cultural differences between Marie and I still exist. She still sees me as « la petite Américaine » that only cares about working hard, and I often find that her version of “organized” is my version of “chaos.” However, I’ve learned to effectively communicate and find shared purpose. Those two things become the glue that holds our team together.
In so many ways, I used to see teamwork the way I saw that orchestra on Bastille Day: Perfectly in tune, every team member focused on the same goal, the conductor/manager keeping everyone on the same page. But as talented as that orchestra was, the magic of the evening only appeared after the crowd of untrained, non-musical, proudly patriotic French citizens joined the performance. Come to find out, there is so much beauty in the dissonance of mismatched ideals and the conflict that brings about progress.