I face, as they say, a labor market characterized by strong horizontal character. No, I'm not looking for a job platform. It simply means that in my field, there is worldwide a dozen jobs available each year, and a dozen persons qualified to apply. OK, I exaggerate a little, but the principle remains the same: we do not seek employment in the city where you live, one seeking employment in the knowledge that we asked to move. And given the university funding in Quebec (Or lack of it), I am a big kick in the ass: "Outside, Ambassador, no job for you in the land of Hérouxvillains. It makes me want to come back, like.
The situation was not all bad. It gives me a chance to consider my life in places of exoticism as I realized only today that they really exist. And whenever I meet someone from such a place, I want to accumulate a wealth of practical information and anecdotes to prepare myself psychologically.
Saturday, so I met a student in chemistry who has every reason to remain anonymous, especially since it comes from Alabama. Call it Dixie. Tell me, Dixie, the land of one who made you.
Dixie, ultimately, does not seem super impressed by the country of one who did it. I would say even more, she finds a little twits, people with whom she grew up. And so she told me this anecdote crispy.
was a school day a few years ago, whatever some legal reforms suggest that things do not change quickly in the Deep South. Dixie ran merrily toward the French course Ms. O'Hara (real name). But when he arrived at school she found Ms. O'Hara (real name) to tears. "What, uh, happen", asked Dixie, whose French was not very strong, "that you be crying?". And Ms. O'Hara (real name) told him what had catapulted into a state of shock.
Ms. O'Hara (pseudonym) explained just by sniffing it had just emerged from a telephone conversation with the mother of one of his students, who had been absent from his French class in recent weeks. And the toddler's mother does not excuse it. Not. She even had the ultimate argument to justify the absence of her son. The final punch is coming, I want to remind you that I have changed names, but the story is strictly true.
"My son did not need to learn French. Jesus never learned French, he had enough English to be our Lord and Savior."
"...", tell you.
"Ouch," you add.
And suddenly you just the desire to give generously to the SPCA to save me from the horrible fate of a teaching career in Alabama. I appreciate, m'enfin, I still have a little scared they m'euthanasient hastily.
Obviously, we can take the story as a moment typical "process of identifying a gang of fucking morons," as defined by the philosopher Peter Macleod Quebec. I agree and add that takes pleasure (for those who are confused, the mother tongue of Jesus was actually English, but the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas says that after two or three beers he would to jabber Yiddish - the new novel by Dan Brown is this. salivation). Still
that the very possibility that one can be convinced that Jesus spoke only English speaks volumes not only about the existence ignorance, but also on its way to reorganize the information we have anyway. Without wishing to overmix Thomas Kuhn and ti-Coun (if you do not know what I mean, ha ha, fucking stupid!), It remains that we all tend to organize our knowledge in order to minimize the importance of Part of the story we know, to make connections between things that we consider to be made to maximize the internal consistency of our worldview. Never heard of Aramaic, but I read the Bible in English every day (I play the role of bonnefemme of Alabama, I said to keep my anti-Catholic father starts to roll), so Jesus should speak English.
And this kind of recognition there, it is useful to consider how it applies to ourselves. Few people who know absolutely everything (in fact, some say they do not exist but I can tell you that there are exactly two - I know because I am one of them ). We have m'enfin, you have all areas of ignorance, and if it is easy to live without worrying about some of these (record of time spent without mentioning the number of hairs on a squirrel: 122 years 5 months and 14 days), others have paid a little more serious (is there a vengeful God who will punish you for what you were doing before yesterday evening 9:34 p.m. in front of the TV?). And yet we know it or not, we live with. What is interesting in this story is precisely the mechanism that allows us to "live with" the form of ignorance more than its mere existence.
In a sense it has much to teach the ignorant. Unfortunately, I have bad news for you. The other person who knows everything, well, it Andre Drouin, intellectually penetrating and councilor of Hérouxville. * * *
Andre Boisclair is reluctant to return to sit as a backbencher, and it explains a lot about its electoral setback. The problem was not perhaps no communication with the public, but of competence for the job.
OK, I'm hiding behind a pseudonym, but I do not pretend to lead a country to its independence. And I shudder to imagine the terrible consequences of electing a person as Prime Minister so irresponsible that he prefers not to honor a four-year commitment to his constituents (that is not a lifetime, pyx!) To avoid having to meet reporters.
Oh and in case you would see any link, Alabama increased its support for George W. Bush between 2000 and 2004 presidential elections. A Wheel In The Ditch, a wheel on the Tracks, as said another.
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