Helene Combe

Through my journey as an English teacher and a language learner

Month: November 2016

Grab ’em by the pussy… and make them vote for it

I didn’t post anything, or write anything, right away.

Mostly because I am not a media, I am not someone of any kind of influence, and I see more this blog like a journal than anything else.

So, Donald Trump, the most misogynistic person of the whole world is now the new president of the United States. What do we know so far?

(No, orange is not the new black, I saw you coming with that one.)

We now know that the average American is less educated than the world thought. The average American thinks that an orange person without any knowledge of politics so far can handle the country better than anyone else. That same average American thinks that foreigners will take their jobs and believes that French people should be able to carry weapons so they could kill terrorists and burglars.

Donald Trump declared at People, back in 1998, that his numbers would be terrific if he was ever running for President because he would just have to say some key words that the Republicans had already said on Fox News. Which is exactly what happened. He said some key words and prove his point: you just have to press some buttons to win.

He also proved to the whole world that despite its reputation, and its level of high education, America was still behind. Yes, they do have Harvard, Yale, the whole Ivy League, to compete with Paris Sorbonne, Cambridge and Oxford. But their public schools, the whole public system to be fair, is despicable. Don’t believe what you see on TV, only 10% of the applicants are going to an Ivy League. The rest is going to private campuses, business colleges, community college or public universities, when they actually can pay for it, because the prices are just astounding. Don’t you dare searching for a grant too much, despite what you can read. You can know imagine how many young Americans are feeling let down, and why so many voted for Trump.

Knowledge is power and with Trump, ignorance just shows its own.







I think I became a feminist when I was fifteen years old.

My mother and I had an appointment with my German teacher back in my high school, a fifty years old perv who liked to comment every outfit I wore. When my mother asked him why he was so commit to talk about my fashion taste than actually the german language, his response was flawless: “She doesn’t need any education, she is pretty enough to find a wealthy man to marry.”

My mother quickly retorted that I wasn’t for sale.

That scene took place in 2004, not a century ago. I don’t know what part is more shocking, the fact that he actually thought that the main part of my life and aspiration was finding a man to marry, the fact that I was fifteen, or the fact that he told my mother.

I hear everyday people talking about cyber bullying, about teenage girls who killed themselves, about anorexia, about sexual harassment. You can take a poll if you have fine minutes to waste: ask a man around you, any male, why a girl had been raped. 95% will respond that she must have dressed like a slut.

If a boy is sexually assaulted, the offender deserve to be incarcerate during thirty years at least. If it’s a girl, well, first of all it’s her fault because she was too sexy (whatever how old she is -can someone explain to me how a four years old girl can be sexy, please?), and second of all, ten years will be way enough for the offender. He was tempted, you know?

We can’t talk about equality between races when we are not able to talk about equality between genders.






Coming home

There’s no place like home.

On my particular case, “feeling home” used to be an unknown expression until I turned 23 years old. That could seem odd, but when I think about it, I wonder what Gloria Steinem might say, and my thoughts evaporate.

I moved six times between the age of 4 months and 4 years. My mother, who will be a cornerstone of this little blog of mine, was (is, actually, the past tense is not accurate on her case) this kind of person, the strange kind who need to see things by herself, the talkative kind who need to figure it out by herself and who take you with her whatever your age and your will. My mother will be the main topic of another post, but I wanted to introduce myself, and the whole concept of this blog with this particular idea of coming home.

Travelling is learning. Every philosopher, writer, iconic figure, will tell you so. Traveling is what youth is made. You should travel when you can. So, why are we so relieved to come back home?

Once in a while, I think about one of the places I used to stay when I was very little, something between two or three years old. It was a very tiny place, twenty four square meters, on the first floor on a badly insulate building in a little town, close to Paris. My mother had to push the table so I could sit on the couch.

I don’t know why I am thinking about this particular place, especially since I remained only four months there and I have lived since in several other places, way cozier than this one, but every time I think about the very beginning of my journey, I think about this tiny apartment.

Is it what we call home? The first place you remember? I actually think that it was the first time I felt actually home. And there’s no place like it.

This little blog is like this tiny apartment. It’s small, it’s not perfect, it will be sometimes a sensitive matter. Maybe you will hate me for what I am about to write. Maybe you won’t. Either way, you have a choice. You can stay, and figure it out by yourself if I deserve to stand out, or you can leave, and forget this whole story. It’s up to you.


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