Nope. Not talking about the awesome "i'm at a summer camp and am going to initiate a massive food fight where we all jump in the lake afterward."
I'm talking about the fact that Charlotte and Martin fought over the effing SIX LAST FRENCH FRIES I made for dinner last night. With scrambled eggs as a side dish, mind you, because there's no food left in this house and shopping desperately needs to be done.
To make matters more comical, Martin CRIED over this. Not to play into stereotypes or anything, but NO WONDER Frenchmen are seen as effeminate! Good. GRACIOUS.
These kids fight over food like they've never seen it before and they live in the Golden Triangle of the Yvelines, land of the more-than-plenty.
Let's top this all off with the fact their mother's flight was delayed 4 hours, and then it took her 2.5 hours on the road to get from CDG to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, because apparently the French, despite being around snow, still don't know how the hell to drive in it. So instead of arriving around 1 p.m. as expected, she got home at near 6:30. FML.
Somebody bring me some wine. STAT.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
De Ushuaia a la Quiaca
Days before I left the states for France, I spent an evening with two of my best friends, Rob and Ben, and a bottle of red wine. On a balmy California summer's eve, surrounded by tiki torches in the whispering night air, our faces blushed from libation, we reminisced about where we've been, where we're going. I've had the pleasure of knowing these two guys since I was fourteen and consider myself lucky to have them in my life still, even more so given that we spread ourselves thousands of miles apart in college.
One thing that Rob and Ben share that I don't is experience of South America. Ben's spent 13 months abroad in Buenos Aires, so I like to joke that he's the most half-Argentinian white boy I know. He's been to every country on the South American continent but one, and there's something about his restlessness and uprootedness that inspires me to be brave and to leap into whatever life throws my way. Similarly, Rob's a geologist whose study has taken him to Hawaii, many a national park, and South America. On this summer's eve, this naturally led my boys (I'm a little bit protective and possessive of them, you see, because they mean a lot to me), to a discussion of all things Latin American, including music.
It was then that Ben flipped to You Tube and brought up Gustavo Santaolalla's De Ushuaia a la Quiaca. The title of the song, as Ben pointed out, is a phrase used in castellano to mean a "very long trip," as Ushuaia is regarded as the southermost city in Argentina, and even the world, and la Quiaca the northernmost, polar ends of a country stretching thin across the globe. I sat transfixed by the melody as it poured out of the computer and into my memory. In the days leading up to my departure, I played it over and over and over as I packed.
There's something hauntingly lovely about this song and the way it weaves its way into your consciousness. Its opening is unassuming, the image that of a backpacker traipsing down a dirt road, solitary. I hear the steady patter of steps falling one after another, the fluid continuity of journey, a quotidian Odysseus on voygage. Suddenly, the melody blossoms into a stream of charango and flute, flirts with a momentary pause. It pauses, it whispers, it begins again--the flute stronger this time, chirping. The song tells a story of transformation, of renewal, of bringing outward what is buried inward, the catalyst of travel.
I had not heard this song since my departure until yesterday. The children were downstairs watching television, and there was an ad for a tv show called "Passeur d'Enfants" on the television. I recognized the background melody: De Ushuaia, a la Quiaca, I thought. And that moment, in the way Proust describes it, threw me back to the summer's eve with Ben and Rob before I left. In my mind, I was wearing my blue sundress, the sensation of slightly bitter wine on my tongue, the blissful haze of memory sweet.
After that evening of wine and music, I slept fitfully on end. The death of one part of my life held me in its grip, fought me hard not to let it die. I woke up halfway through the night terrified that I was leaving behind people unbelievably special to me. I panicked about parting ways again, worried that if I let go, I might not ever have them again.
But constancy is an illusion in this life, and nothing every truly stays the same, so attempting to hold on to what will only change is fruitless. I have a principal belief in my life, and it's simple: if you love something, you let it go. If it's meant to be yours, it will come back. I hold this to be true of my family and my friendships. So, I let go. And once I let go, I slept.
De Ushuaia a la Quiaca is a bewitching reminder that I let go to begin this journey called the new part of my life. It's a reminder that life is a long journey from Ushuaia to Quiaca, and while I'm walking, I should enjoy the scenery, should embrace the invitation to wander the earth for a while.
One thing that Rob and Ben share that I don't is experience of South America. Ben's spent 13 months abroad in Buenos Aires, so I like to joke that he's the most half-Argentinian white boy I know. He's been to every country on the South American continent but one, and there's something about his restlessness and uprootedness that inspires me to be brave and to leap into whatever life throws my way. Similarly, Rob's a geologist whose study has taken him to Hawaii, many a national park, and South America. On this summer's eve, this naturally led my boys (I'm a little bit protective and possessive of them, you see, because they mean a lot to me), to a discussion of all things Latin American, including music.
It was then that Ben flipped to You Tube and brought up Gustavo Santaolalla's De Ushuaia a la Quiaca. The title of the song, as Ben pointed out, is a phrase used in castellano to mean a "very long trip," as Ushuaia is regarded as the southermost city in Argentina, and even the world, and la Quiaca the northernmost, polar ends of a country stretching thin across the globe. I sat transfixed by the melody as it poured out of the computer and into my memory. In the days leading up to my departure, I played it over and over and over as I packed.
There's something hauntingly lovely about this song and the way it weaves its way into your consciousness. Its opening is unassuming, the image that of a backpacker traipsing down a dirt road, solitary. I hear the steady patter of steps falling one after another, the fluid continuity of journey, a quotidian Odysseus on voygage. Suddenly, the melody blossoms into a stream of charango and flute, flirts with a momentary pause. It pauses, it whispers, it begins again--the flute stronger this time, chirping. The song tells a story of transformation, of renewal, of bringing outward what is buried inward, the catalyst of travel.
I had not heard this song since my departure until yesterday. The children were downstairs watching television, and there was an ad for a tv show called "Passeur d'Enfants" on the television. I recognized the background melody: De Ushuaia, a la Quiaca, I thought. And that moment, in the way Proust describes it, threw me back to the summer's eve with Ben and Rob before I left. In my mind, I was wearing my blue sundress, the sensation of slightly bitter wine on my tongue, the blissful haze of memory sweet.
After that evening of wine and music, I slept fitfully on end. The death of one part of my life held me in its grip, fought me hard not to let it die. I woke up halfway through the night terrified that I was leaving behind people unbelievably special to me. I panicked about parting ways again, worried that if I let go, I might not ever have them again.
But constancy is an illusion in this life, and nothing every truly stays the same, so attempting to hold on to what will only change is fruitless. I have a principal belief in my life, and it's simple: if you love something, you let it go. If it's meant to be yours, it will come back. I hold this to be true of my family and my friendships. So, I let go. And once I let go, I slept.
De Ushuaia a la Quiaca is a bewitching reminder that I let go to begin this journey called the new part of my life. It's a reminder that life is a long journey from Ushuaia to Quiaca, and while I'm walking, I should enjoy the scenery, should embrace the invitation to wander the earth for a while.
Monday, December 20, 2010
LORD SAVE THE NANNIES.
Now I get why parents hate school vacations: they are only fun for the KIDS. It's been a whopping one day of no school for the kiddos I nanny for, and they're already bickering up a storm. Yesterday, kiddos fought over:
1) the rights to one arm chair in the living room, though mind you, there are two arm chairs, one massive couch, and lots of floor space. But no, there had to be a kicking war over THIS exact arm chair.
2) A glass of water. Martin poured Emma water at lunch, nearly to the brim, and then she refused to drink it. Pissed off as all hell because Emma wouldn't drink the damn water, I grabbed the glass and chucked the water into the sink and put it back on the table for her. She then proceeded to tell me I'm mean and horrible and that if I was going to be mean with her, she'd be mean with me. I told her she could do whatever she wanted, I didn't care. Psychological warfare round one, ding-ding: King's going to kick some kiddo ass. Ok, not literally, but you get it.
3) Playing the guitar. My parents skyped me early in the evening yesterday and Emma laid down on my bed because she's sick and had a headache. I moved into the other spare room. Kids followed. Kids followed with every stuffed animal they own and a guitar. Kids then proceeded to obnoxiously cover my webcam and blast their guitar just so I couldn't talk to my own fucking family. Moved out into the loft space. Guitar ensued. Moved into my own room. Kids ensued. Hung up with the family.
Nevertheless, Emma screamed bloody murder because Martin refused to quit playing the guitar. Means of pacification for Emma: put her in the bathtub. Means of pacification for Martin: one very awesome PS3 gaming system in his parent's bedroom. Means of pacification for nanny: to be determined. If you've seen my sanity, please let me know where it's gone.
What this all really means is that a) I don't know if I can do this au pair gig thing for more than one year, because I'm already loosing my mind, and b) I'M LITERALLY COUNTING THE HOURS UNTIL THEIR MOTHER RETURNS FROM MARTINIQUE.
The Au Pair's Prayer
Dear au pairs, who are in nanny hell,
lord please save your souls,
thy adopted children come,
thy will be done,
by children who refuse to listen.
Give us our sanity, our daily peace,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive children who trespass into our rooms,
For thou has the kitchen, no parental authority, and dinner to cook.
Amen.
1) the rights to one arm chair in the living room, though mind you, there are two arm chairs, one massive couch, and lots of floor space. But no, there had to be a kicking war over THIS exact arm chair.
2) A glass of water. Martin poured Emma water at lunch, nearly to the brim, and then she refused to drink it. Pissed off as all hell because Emma wouldn't drink the damn water, I grabbed the glass and chucked the water into the sink and put it back on the table for her. She then proceeded to tell me I'm mean and horrible and that if I was going to be mean with her, she'd be mean with me. I told her she could do whatever she wanted, I didn't care. Psychological warfare round one, ding-ding: King's going to kick some kiddo ass. Ok, not literally, but you get it.
3) Playing the guitar. My parents skyped me early in the evening yesterday and Emma laid down on my bed because she's sick and had a headache. I moved into the other spare room. Kids followed. Kids followed with every stuffed animal they own and a guitar. Kids then proceeded to obnoxiously cover my webcam and blast their guitar just so I couldn't talk to my own fucking family. Moved out into the loft space. Guitar ensued. Moved into my own room. Kids ensued. Hung up with the family.
Nevertheless, Emma screamed bloody murder because Martin refused to quit playing the guitar. Means of pacification for Emma: put her in the bathtub. Means of pacification for Martin: one very awesome PS3 gaming system in his parent's bedroom. Means of pacification for nanny: to be determined. If you've seen my sanity, please let me know where it's gone.
What this all really means is that a) I don't know if I can do this au pair gig thing for more than one year, because I'm already loosing my mind, and b) I'M LITERALLY COUNTING THE HOURS UNTIL THEIR MOTHER RETURNS FROM MARTINIQUE.
The Au Pair's Prayer
Dear au pairs, who are in nanny hell,
lord please save your souls,
thy adopted children come,
thy will be done,
by children who refuse to listen.
Give us our sanity, our daily peace,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive children who trespass into our rooms,
For thou has the kitchen, no parental authority, and dinner to cook.
Amen.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Writer
As I was websurfing last night before I went to bed, I came across a blogpost about an up-an-coming, very young, newly minted M.F.A from Columbia University by the name of Tea Obreht. Her debut novel, an adaptation of her masters thesis, The Tiger's Wife, is set for release in March of next year. While I won't let her credentials alone allow me to form an opinion of her as an artist, I must say that the internal part of me became extremely jealous; I then started to ask myself why the success of someone I do not know would get the better of me. I came to one conclusion: I miss writing.
A precocious middle schooler, writing was my escape in a cruel world. Adjusting to my own self-image, as well as learning to cope with how I thought others saw me, writing was a vent space. When I finished coursework during class time and was bored, I'd whip out a black and white marbled composition notebook and start composing. I've never been scared by the blank page; in fact, inspired by the young Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, I composed two 'novels,' and sought to edit them. I even cajoled an English teacher (thank you Mr. G, if you're reading this!) one summer into helping me edit a novel. At the age of 15, I sent off query letters for what I hoped would get me a literary agent. I had some interest, but no success, though one agent--who worked closely with Random House--encouraged me to keep writing, avowing that if I kept up my craft, "one day, eventually," he said I "would be published."
Today, that agent's rejection letter with handwritten encouragement is nestled somewhere with manuscripts in boxes I've packed away with my childhood, and sometimes I ponder if I've packed away my dreams of writing with my jeunesse. In spite of this, I can't bear to throw out those manuscripts, nor my 'writing binder' with my character notes, my plots, my random musings, and poems I'd scribbled between notes at school.
Every now and then, the dream of writing full time resurfaces wraith-like, and I feel as if I've killed my craft. I feel guilty for not giving the dream everything I have, for not taking, as Anne Lamott says, those 15-20 minutes every day to jot down 300 words. I feel like I've abandoned one of the greatest gifts I have been given, which is to write, to write what I see and think and feel. My last semester at Cal I finally took a creative writing course, and I felt like I'd come home. I hovered momentarily about the possibility of abandoning academia, throwing everything I had into an MFA, and becoming a writer. Then my rational side roared into existence.
Likewise, I was reminded of the precocious pre-teen who knew no fear with her writing by my mother. At the gym, she'd run into my fifth and sixth grade GATE teacher, Peggy, and (re)introduced herself as my mom. Peggy promptly asked, my mom recounted, if I was still writing. "Of course," my mom replied. "Lindsay will always be a writer."
Between reading about Tea Obreht, who is scarcely older than me, and hearing this anecdote from my mom, I am jolted back to this dream. I am jolted back to the fact that before I left the country I knew I wanted to take the year to write my heart out, because it's something I miss too much. It's also something I cannot forget in Paris, because Paris has been, is, and I fear always will be a city of writers. I walk the streets and think about Fitzgerald's expat days, about Sarte and Beauvoir, about the Paris that Emile Zola and Proust knew. And then I ask myself what I'm doing with my time here on this earth, when I feel so plainly and clearly at times that I should be writing.
This blog is a small way of honoring the writer within me, because that writer has been buried beneath papers for too long. This writer needs to once again become a story teller, because good writing and good story telling are far from the same thing, and because writing is something I feel like I was born to do.
To all that is within us, to all that is around us, and to the choices that we make, follow the dream, my friends. Follow the dream.
A precocious middle schooler, writing was my escape in a cruel world. Adjusting to my own self-image, as well as learning to cope with how I thought others saw me, writing was a vent space. When I finished coursework during class time and was bored, I'd whip out a black and white marbled composition notebook and start composing. I've never been scared by the blank page; in fact, inspired by the young Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, I composed two 'novels,' and sought to edit them. I even cajoled an English teacher (thank you Mr. G, if you're reading this!) one summer into helping me edit a novel. At the age of 15, I sent off query letters for what I hoped would get me a literary agent. I had some interest, but no success, though one agent--who worked closely with Random House--encouraged me to keep writing, avowing that if I kept up my craft, "one day, eventually," he said I "would be published."
Today, that agent's rejection letter with handwritten encouragement is nestled somewhere with manuscripts in boxes I've packed away with my childhood, and sometimes I ponder if I've packed away my dreams of writing with my jeunesse. In spite of this, I can't bear to throw out those manuscripts, nor my 'writing binder' with my character notes, my plots, my random musings, and poems I'd scribbled between notes at school.
Every now and then, the dream of writing full time resurfaces wraith-like, and I feel as if I've killed my craft. I feel guilty for not giving the dream everything I have, for not taking, as Anne Lamott says, those 15-20 minutes every day to jot down 300 words. I feel like I've abandoned one of the greatest gifts I have been given, which is to write, to write what I see and think and feel. My last semester at Cal I finally took a creative writing course, and I felt like I'd come home. I hovered momentarily about the possibility of abandoning academia, throwing everything I had into an MFA, and becoming a writer. Then my rational side roared into existence.
Likewise, I was reminded of the precocious pre-teen who knew no fear with her writing by my mother. At the gym, she'd run into my fifth and sixth grade GATE teacher, Peggy, and (re)introduced herself as my mom. Peggy promptly asked, my mom recounted, if I was still writing. "Of course," my mom replied. "Lindsay will always be a writer."
Between reading about Tea Obreht, who is scarcely older than me, and hearing this anecdote from my mom, I am jolted back to this dream. I am jolted back to the fact that before I left the country I knew I wanted to take the year to write my heart out, because it's something I miss too much. It's also something I cannot forget in Paris, because Paris has been, is, and I fear always will be a city of writers. I walk the streets and think about Fitzgerald's expat days, about Sarte and Beauvoir, about the Paris that Emile Zola and Proust knew. And then I ask myself what I'm doing with my time here on this earth, when I feel so plainly and clearly at times that I should be writing.
This blog is a small way of honoring the writer within me, because that writer has been buried beneath papers for too long. This writer needs to once again become a story teller, because good writing and good story telling are far from the same thing, and because writing is something I feel like I was born to do.
To all that is within us, to all that is around us, and to the choices that we make, follow the dream, my friends. Follow the dream.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Christmas Traditions
Sitting here on the sunniest day Saint-Germain-en-Laye has seen in weeks, I've been working on prepping my Christmas lessons for my English classes. I'm so excited to share some of my favorite memories and holiday culture with my little ones, and it's made me think about some of the traditions I cherished from my childhood and continue to cherish now that I'm 'all grown up.'
One of the things I am missing most right now, besides my family itself, is the magic of the holidays. When you're little, everything is amazing and spectacular. There's so much anticipation and wonder come December, and I find that it's that spirit of innocence that's hard to recapture once you grow up. Sometimes I wish I could find it again, but watching how excited my students are reminds me to let loose my inner child.
A few weeks ago I woke up from a dream with this playing in my head, and thought about all the times I watched Home Alone as a kid and laughed, how much I miss my family tradition of watching Christmas Vacation on Christmas Eve (which, no doubts about it, is mandatory...), about the nights my brother and I would then camp out in my room or his room in sleeping bags and attempt to stay up as long as possible watching the TNT marathon of A Christmas Story.
I miss making Mexican Wedding Cake cookies with my mom and sister. I laugh even more about the time when I wrote a letter to Santa on Christmas Eve and my stepdad wrote back, saying that he had slithered down the chimney only to have my cat bite his butt. I was mad at my cat for weeks and wouldn't let her near me!
I miss Christmas Tree Lane out in Ceres, California. I also miss being allowed to open one, and only one present, on Christmas Eve, having it handed to me, and always knowing that it was going to be a new set of pajamas to sleep in that night.
I've learned in the past few years of my life that it's the little rituals, the traditions that bring meaning and purpose, that help us appreciate how much we have and should be grateful for, that make up the fabric of our memories. And now that I'm all grown up, I long for those memories even more.
Joyeux Noël, tout le monde, et bien à vous. Bisous.
One of the things I am missing most right now, besides my family itself, is the magic of the holidays. When you're little, everything is amazing and spectacular. There's so much anticipation and wonder come December, and I find that it's that spirit of innocence that's hard to recapture once you grow up. Sometimes I wish I could find it again, but watching how excited my students are reminds me to let loose my inner child.
A few weeks ago I woke up from a dream with this playing in my head, and thought about all the times I watched Home Alone as a kid and laughed, how much I miss my family tradition of watching Christmas Vacation on Christmas Eve (which, no doubts about it, is mandatory...), about the nights my brother and I would then camp out in my room or his room in sleeping bags and attempt to stay up as long as possible watching the TNT marathon of A Christmas Story.
I miss making Mexican Wedding Cake cookies with my mom and sister. I laugh even more about the time when I wrote a letter to Santa on Christmas Eve and my stepdad wrote back, saying that he had slithered down the chimney only to have my cat bite his butt. I was mad at my cat for weeks and wouldn't let her near me!
I miss Christmas Tree Lane out in Ceres, California. I also miss being allowed to open one, and only one present, on Christmas Eve, having it handed to me, and always knowing that it was going to be a new set of pajamas to sleep in that night.
I've learned in the past few years of my life that it's the little rituals, the traditions that bring meaning and purpose, that help us appreciate how much we have and should be grateful for, that make up the fabric of our memories. And now that I'm all grown up, I long for those memories even more.
Joyeux Noël, tout le monde, et bien à vous. Bisous.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Motherhood.
No, I'm not trying to scare you all. I'm not pregnant. Nor did I immaculately conceive. But by nature of being around children constantly--whether teaching them English at school, or keeping watch over them after school--I find the question of motherhood almost impossible to ignore. This does not mean to say I want kids anytime soon--far from it. Rather, this is about a young woman questioning the possibility of being a mom, a question that she finds intimately tied to the sheer fact of being female, of adult life as a woman, and questions of spouse, career, and whatever may lie on the horizon.
My first taste, so to speak, of motherhood arrived when my sister was born. I was 12. Parents, if you have children on the verge of adolescence, I swear to you all that the best damn birth control ever is to have another kiddo around this time period. The cute little thing waddled in baby clothes known as my sister really proved herself to be nothing more than a human warning siren. When out in public with her, I would get dirty stares from elderly women who thought my sister was my kid. Then and there, I found out that a) changing diapers can really blow and b) there was no way in hell I wanted a kid.
Nevertheless, I know plenty of people my age (or younger) already married with kids, and while I admire them, I know it's not something I could handle at this moment. I'm using my 20's to learn how to take care of me first, and hopefully to see the world, to do the selfish things I want to do before I possibly settle down. I say this because being a parent is a truly selfless endeavor, and the more I question and think about the possibility of being one, the more crucial I believe it is to ' live the dream' now. This doesn't mean to imply that you can't live the dream if you have kids, more that the 'dream' changes, morphs to fit in a family.
Likewise, this summer I found myself questioning the possibility of motherhood. Of marriage, even. I was at a barbecque with longtime friends from high school, and we got to talking with a married couple with young children. It was one of those rare moments where I felt like I could gleam some perspective of "if my 40's self was talking to my 20's self, this is what 40's self would tell 20's self." I spoke a lot about how I've even begun to question if getting married is for me, how it might be easier in some ways to flout conventionality and neither marry nor have kids. Don't get me wrong: I am not some bra burning, hippy, radical feminist. I don't think men are evil. While I stand for equality between the sexes, I do not think it productive to go on a tirade about how men have "oppressed" women for thousands and thousands of years. It's not because of that that I question marriage and kids. I question it on a personal level, because let's be honest: marriage and kids are not for everyone. It's because of that that I wonder if kids are for me, and on the converse, if I'd make a good mom.
Apparently, there are some who think I would be. One of my best friends said to me this summer when we got dinner that "I'd make a good mom," and given the duration of time that I've known him, this is a difficult opinion to ignore. This morning at the breakfast table, host dad told me Martin's birthday surprise has been rescheduled for tomorrow, to which I said "Ok, looks like Martin will need to do his homework today then!" to which host dad explained "Ha. You'd be a good mom!" I then explained that I have no desire to be one right now. I didn't add the parenthetical "if at all" clause at the end.
I mentioned in a post earlier this year that being an au pair is like being in bootcamp for motherhood, and I've never found this to be more true. If I do decide that kids are my thing, let me tell you, I will be beyond prepared. And everyone has told me it's different when its your own kids versus someone else's. I'll take their word for that for now.
Am I crazy for questioning motherhood at the age of nearly 23? I probably am. But it's my hyperactive brain at work questioning where my life is going to go, what forks in the road I'll end up taking, who I meet, and how much ambivalence--the dance between the "yes" and "maybe" and "NO"--I can appease.
For now, I'll focus on my 17th century literature, Paris, and visits from friends. After all, what more is an almost 23 year old supposed to do?
My first taste, so to speak, of motherhood arrived when my sister was born. I was 12. Parents, if you have children on the verge of adolescence, I swear to you all that the best damn birth control ever is to have another kiddo around this time period. The cute little thing waddled in baby clothes known as my sister really proved herself to be nothing more than a human warning siren. When out in public with her, I would get dirty stares from elderly women who thought my sister was my kid. Then and there, I found out that a) changing diapers can really blow and b) there was no way in hell I wanted a kid.
Nevertheless, I know plenty of people my age (or younger) already married with kids, and while I admire them, I know it's not something I could handle at this moment. I'm using my 20's to learn how to take care of me first, and hopefully to see the world, to do the selfish things I want to do before I possibly settle down. I say this because being a parent is a truly selfless endeavor, and the more I question and think about the possibility of being one, the more crucial I believe it is to ' live the dream' now. This doesn't mean to imply that you can't live the dream if you have kids, more that the 'dream' changes, morphs to fit in a family.
Likewise, this summer I found myself questioning the possibility of motherhood. Of marriage, even. I was at a barbecque with longtime friends from high school, and we got to talking with a married couple with young children. It was one of those rare moments where I felt like I could gleam some perspective of "if my 40's self was talking to my 20's self, this is what 40's self would tell 20's self." I spoke a lot about how I've even begun to question if getting married is for me, how it might be easier in some ways to flout conventionality and neither marry nor have kids. Don't get me wrong: I am not some bra burning, hippy, radical feminist. I don't think men are evil. While I stand for equality between the sexes, I do not think it productive to go on a tirade about how men have "oppressed" women for thousands and thousands of years. It's not because of that that I question marriage and kids. I question it on a personal level, because let's be honest: marriage and kids are not for everyone. It's because of that that I wonder if kids are for me, and on the converse, if I'd make a good mom.
Apparently, there are some who think I would be. One of my best friends said to me this summer when we got dinner that "I'd make a good mom," and given the duration of time that I've known him, this is a difficult opinion to ignore. This morning at the breakfast table, host dad told me Martin's birthday surprise has been rescheduled for tomorrow, to which I said "Ok, looks like Martin will need to do his homework today then!" to which host dad explained "Ha. You'd be a good mom!" I then explained that I have no desire to be one right now. I didn't add the parenthetical "if at all" clause at the end.
I mentioned in a post earlier this year that being an au pair is like being in bootcamp for motherhood, and I've never found this to be more true. If I do decide that kids are my thing, let me tell you, I will be beyond prepared. And everyone has told me it's different when its your own kids versus someone else's. I'll take their word for that for now.
Am I crazy for questioning motherhood at the age of nearly 23? I probably am. But it's my hyperactive brain at work questioning where my life is going to go, what forks in the road I'll end up taking, who I meet, and how much ambivalence--the dance between the "yes" and "maybe" and "NO"--I can appease.
For now, I'll focus on my 17th century literature, Paris, and visits from friends. After all, what more is an almost 23 year old supposed to do?
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Ugly Duckling
Last night Charlotte and I put Emma to bed. Emma loves nothing more than reading a bed time story, and she chose a set of contes to read, the first of which was "Le Vilain Petit Canard," or "The Ugly Duckling."
Although not my favorite tale, it's one that I have, since my early adolescence, identified with. At thirteen, I was deep in the midst of the awkward stage, my skin--which is still, to this day, sensitive--wouldn't behave, my hair went haywire with its curls, and my features couldn't seem to settle themselves under my round glasses. In fact, I'm still so embarrassed by this that I dare not even post of a photo on this blog.
I'm long past those days, but I can't help but retain their imprint. I don't have the acne, the bad hair, the braces, or the ignominy of being intellectually curious--oh, the horror! in junior high--but I still have a tad of what I like to think of as an "Ugly Duckling" complex. This hung over me a bit more in college, especially when my two roommates always seemed to have boyfriends, and even more so now that they are out in the 'real world' with serious relationships, while I floated through Cal dating here and there, but was nevertheless incredibly shy and didn't get involved with any one. I try not to let the ugly duckling image hang over me consciously, but no woman (unless she's Giselle Bundchen) can deny that there are days when she wishes she was taller, thinner, prettier, and the list goes on...
This particular reflection is pertinent as of late, precisely because of the conversations I have with Charlotte. Charlotte, at nearly 13 (her birthday is the day before mine) is on the verge of adolescence. Talking with her is one of the things I enjoy about being an au pair, because she reminds me of the tumult of that time period in my life, for better or worse.
A few weeks ago, Charlotte expressed to me that she is "moche," and that there are girls "a whole lot prettier" at school. Naturally, feeling the same way at her age, I tried to assuage her in saying that she's neither ugly, nor fat. In fact, she's far from it--gorgeous with a stunning olive complexion, deep brown eyes and hair. I explained to her that believe it or not, I was much more horrid looking at this age than she, who is downright beautiful, is, and I proved this to her by asking my stepdad to scan and send mortifying photos of me at age 12-13ish. Indeed, I sacrified myself on the altar of ugly duckling dignity and sat mortified at the computer while her jaw dropped. She could hardly believe it was me. I laughed: neither can I.
For Charlotte, I'm sure that much of this appearance hooplah is tied to boys and dating, which she's been asking me a lot about as of late. This is hilarious in some respects, because all of you who know me well know that I'm *probably* not the best one to turn to for advice. I've very, very shy in that realm of life, so I can only share what little experience I have. In the words of my friends: "You. Are. In. Ept." And that about sums it up perfectly.
Charlotte amuses me, though, because with a coy smile she often says, "hey, hey, you should meet a French guy, you might marry a French guy, and then you could move here." I've replied that I'm not opposed to the idea, but that in the long run, I think I'm more compatible with an American, although of this I am not sure, because I've never really dated a French guy.
Instead, I tell her what I do know about: I know how hard it is to have your heart broken for the first time, and how you see the world differently afterward. I know how much it hurts to fall for a friend and be confused about where you stand while wanting that person to have every ounce of happiness possible, even if that means that happiness is not with you. I know what it's like to get your hopes up thinking that something might just be starting with the person you just went on a first date with, only to have it blow up in your face. I know what it's like to feel a little bit lonely on the road to possibly finding someone. I know what it's like to feel like the ugly duckling in a room full of swans.
What I see in Charlotte is a bit of myself at thirteen, perhaps a little piece of who I am now. Like Charlotte, there are days I wonder if I will ever find "Mr. Right," while she wonders if things will work out with the cute 14 year-old "Mr. Right Now." I'll be frank in admitting that I know with certainty I'm too young for the question of "Mr. Right," to be a legitimate concern, but nonetheless, I ask it. I ask it in the name of the thirteen year old girl inside me who worried if she was attractive and charming enough and if this could make up for the fact that she was just too damn smart for anyone to want to pay attention to her. I ask it in the name of the 17 year old girl whose first love taught her what it is to be bitter and to forgive. I ask it in the name of the almost 23 year old single girl living in France and wondering where this life is going to lead her.
I know that Charlotte is not an ugly duckling, though I can gleam from our conversations that there are certainly days when she feels like the canard in the storybooks. Likewise, I'm sure that I'm no longer that ugly duckling...but sometimes, I don't quite feel like a swan, either.
Although not my favorite tale, it's one that I have, since my early adolescence, identified with. At thirteen, I was deep in the midst of the awkward stage, my skin--which is still, to this day, sensitive--wouldn't behave, my hair went haywire with its curls, and my features couldn't seem to settle themselves under my round glasses. In fact, I'm still so embarrassed by this that I dare not even post of a photo on this blog.
I'm long past those days, but I can't help but retain their imprint. I don't have the acne, the bad hair, the braces, or the ignominy of being intellectually curious--oh, the horror! in junior high--but I still have a tad of what I like to think of as an "Ugly Duckling" complex. This hung over me a bit more in college, especially when my two roommates always seemed to have boyfriends, and even more so now that they are out in the 'real world' with serious relationships, while I floated through Cal dating here and there, but was nevertheless incredibly shy and didn't get involved with any one. I try not to let the ugly duckling image hang over me consciously, but no woman (unless she's Giselle Bundchen) can deny that there are days when she wishes she was taller, thinner, prettier, and the list goes on...
This particular reflection is pertinent as of late, precisely because of the conversations I have with Charlotte. Charlotte, at nearly 13 (her birthday is the day before mine) is on the verge of adolescence. Talking with her is one of the things I enjoy about being an au pair, because she reminds me of the tumult of that time period in my life, for better or worse.
A few weeks ago, Charlotte expressed to me that she is "moche," and that there are girls "a whole lot prettier" at school. Naturally, feeling the same way at her age, I tried to assuage her in saying that she's neither ugly, nor fat. In fact, she's far from it--gorgeous with a stunning olive complexion, deep brown eyes and hair. I explained to her that believe it or not, I was much more horrid looking at this age than she, who is downright beautiful, is, and I proved this to her by asking my stepdad to scan and send mortifying photos of me at age 12-13ish. Indeed, I sacrified myself on the altar of ugly duckling dignity and sat mortified at the computer while her jaw dropped. She could hardly believe it was me. I laughed: neither can I.
For Charlotte, I'm sure that much of this appearance hooplah is tied to boys and dating, which she's been asking me a lot about as of late. This is hilarious in some respects, because all of you who know me well know that I'm *probably* not the best one to turn to for advice. I've very, very shy in that realm of life, so I can only share what little experience I have. In the words of my friends: "You. Are. In. Ept." And that about sums it up perfectly.
Charlotte amuses me, though, because with a coy smile she often says, "hey, hey, you should meet a French guy, you might marry a French guy, and then you could move here." I've replied that I'm not opposed to the idea, but that in the long run, I think I'm more compatible with an American, although of this I am not sure, because I've never really dated a French guy.
Instead, I tell her what I do know about: I know how hard it is to have your heart broken for the first time, and how you see the world differently afterward. I know how much it hurts to fall for a friend and be confused about where you stand while wanting that person to have every ounce of happiness possible, even if that means that happiness is not with you. I know what it's like to get your hopes up thinking that something might just be starting with the person you just went on a first date with, only to have it blow up in your face. I know what it's like to feel a little bit lonely on the road to possibly finding someone. I know what it's like to feel like the ugly duckling in a room full of swans.
What I see in Charlotte is a bit of myself at thirteen, perhaps a little piece of who I am now. Like Charlotte, there are days I wonder if I will ever find "Mr. Right," while she wonders if things will work out with the cute 14 year-old "Mr. Right Now." I'll be frank in admitting that I know with certainty I'm too young for the question of "Mr. Right," to be a legitimate concern, but nonetheless, I ask it. I ask it in the name of the thirteen year old girl inside me who worried if she was attractive and charming enough and if this could make up for the fact that she was just too damn smart for anyone to want to pay attention to her. I ask it in the name of the 17 year old girl whose first love taught her what it is to be bitter and to forgive. I ask it in the name of the almost 23 year old single girl living in France and wondering where this life is going to lead her.
I know that Charlotte is not an ugly duckling, though I can gleam from our conversations that there are certainly days when she feels like the canard in the storybooks. Likewise, I'm sure that I'm no longer that ugly duckling...but sometimes, I don't quite feel like a swan, either.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Winter Lights
This is a love letter to the holidays, to the cold in the air and the winter lights in the trees, to the trees in windows, and to the way the holidays remind me to be eternally grateful for what I have instead of dwelling upon the things I do not. This is a love letter to the holidays, to memories of holidays past and in hopes of holidays future.
Christmas and I have always had a love affair. I remember wearing a set of pink footie pajamas when I was four and watching my dad suit up for a work holiday party. Somewhere in the boxes of photos we have at home is a picture of me with streaky, dirty blonde hair that is flat as a pancake, and my dad holding me and wearing a red tie. That was the Christmas before I knew what divorce meant, when I was still a child and innocent.
I remember the anticipation of presents, and lots of presents, when I was a kid. Somewhere at home there is a video of my brother ravenously ripping open all his gifts while I painstakingly unearth each and every present, as if I want to keep the paper intact. My brother is screaming "chow down, Lindsay, chow down!" as he hungrily unwraps all his presents in a family record 4-5 minutes. He's center stage until a few minutes later when I scream out "I GOT A BOOM BOX!" Whenever I watch the video now, I laugh deeply.
I remember what Christmases were like after my parents divorced--one year with Dad, another year with Mom. Years with Dad meant going to the bay area--Castro Valley or San Leandro, to be specific-- and having a bicultural Christmas with his longterm Hispanic girlfriend, Jean, whose family went ALL OUT banquet style. There was of course ham and turkey, but also carne asada, pizole, and homemade tamales. The house was bursting with people. I was often the only kid there, which also meant I was bored to death and would hide away in a spare bedroom with the family parrot and read on the hardwood floor in order to pass time while the adults watched football and the Food Network. Christmases with Mom meant just our immediate family, as everyone else who was family was out of state, so things were much smaller, much quieter, but a little less lonely.
I remember the first Christmas we had with my sister Arianna, and how excited I was to help her open her first presents. She could still fit in my lap then, and I could still cradle her in my arms and carry her around the house. I was nearly thirteen, and she was only 8 months old, but I can't believe how quickly time has passed since then, now that she's nearly 11.
As I reflect on all these Christmases, all my different Christmas experiences, the one thing that I can say now in my 22 years of wisdom is that Christmas for me is no longer about the presents. In fact, I really don't want much anymore. What I've come to learn about Christmas, as corny and cliched as this may be, is that it's never about the gifts. It's always about the people. And now that I'm 6,000 miles from the people I really love, this Christmas makes that fact even more evident.
I have to say that despite being 6,000 miles away from you all, I have never felt so damn blessed just to count you all amongst the good people I know and the people I am blessed, so beyond blessed, to call you my friends and my family. I have never felt like I have had so much, and I can't help but feel this overwhelming sense of gratitude, and I truly mean that. I am the wealthiest young lady on this planet when it comes to my family and my friends, and I really wish you all wonderful holidays and as much love and luck as I think I've had this past year.
So not only is this a love letter to the holidays, this is a love letter to you all. Thank you for being a part of my life, no matter how big or small a part. It's funny the way people connect, the way people ebb and flow in and out of your life, so no matter if you're coming or going, if you've known me a while, you've known me a long time, or barely know me at all, I still thank you.
This is about the winter lights I saw walking home yesterday. I had gone to the large church in Saint-Germain for a Advent concert on the organs, and I sat there on a wooden pew in a 400 year old church in awe of the ceiling and the stained glass and the music. This is about the winter lights in the trees and hanging from the buildings that reminded me why I love the holidays, and why I love you all.
Christmas and I have always had a love affair. I remember wearing a set of pink footie pajamas when I was four and watching my dad suit up for a work holiday party. Somewhere in the boxes of photos we have at home is a picture of me with streaky, dirty blonde hair that is flat as a pancake, and my dad holding me and wearing a red tie. That was the Christmas before I knew what divorce meant, when I was still a child and innocent.
I remember the anticipation of presents, and lots of presents, when I was a kid. Somewhere at home there is a video of my brother ravenously ripping open all his gifts while I painstakingly unearth each and every present, as if I want to keep the paper intact. My brother is screaming "chow down, Lindsay, chow down!" as he hungrily unwraps all his presents in a family record 4-5 minutes. He's center stage until a few minutes later when I scream out "I GOT A BOOM BOX!" Whenever I watch the video now, I laugh deeply.
I remember what Christmases were like after my parents divorced--one year with Dad, another year with Mom. Years with Dad meant going to the bay area--Castro Valley or San Leandro, to be specific-- and having a bicultural Christmas with his longterm Hispanic girlfriend, Jean, whose family went ALL OUT banquet style. There was of course ham and turkey, but also carne asada, pizole, and homemade tamales. The house was bursting with people. I was often the only kid there, which also meant I was bored to death and would hide away in a spare bedroom with the family parrot and read on the hardwood floor in order to pass time while the adults watched football and the Food Network. Christmases with Mom meant just our immediate family, as everyone else who was family was out of state, so things were much smaller, much quieter, but a little less lonely.
I remember the first Christmas we had with my sister Arianna, and how excited I was to help her open her first presents. She could still fit in my lap then, and I could still cradle her in my arms and carry her around the house. I was nearly thirteen, and she was only 8 months old, but I can't believe how quickly time has passed since then, now that she's nearly 11.
As I reflect on all these Christmases, all my different Christmas experiences, the one thing that I can say now in my 22 years of wisdom is that Christmas for me is no longer about the presents. In fact, I really don't want much anymore. What I've come to learn about Christmas, as corny and cliched as this may be, is that it's never about the gifts. It's always about the people. And now that I'm 6,000 miles from the people I really love, this Christmas makes that fact even more evident.
I have to say that despite being 6,000 miles away from you all, I have never felt so damn blessed just to count you all amongst the good people I know and the people I am blessed, so beyond blessed, to call you my friends and my family. I have never felt like I have had so much, and I can't help but feel this overwhelming sense of gratitude, and I truly mean that. I am the wealthiest young lady on this planet when it comes to my family and my friends, and I really wish you all wonderful holidays and as much love and luck as I think I've had this past year.
So not only is this a love letter to the holidays, this is a love letter to you all. Thank you for being a part of my life, no matter how big or small a part. It's funny the way people connect, the way people ebb and flow in and out of your life, so no matter if you're coming or going, if you've known me a while, you've known me a long time, or barely know me at all, I still thank you.
This is about the winter lights I saw walking home yesterday. I had gone to the large church in Saint-Germain for a Advent concert on the organs, and I sat there on a wooden pew in a 400 year old church in awe of the ceiling and the stained glass and the music. This is about the winter lights in the trees and hanging from the buildings that reminded me why I love the holidays, and why I love you all.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Iris
Running is unmistakeably a huge part of my life and who I am. Naturally, that's meant that in order to remain (debate-ably) sane, I've needed to keep up the running habit overseas, and that has been easier said than done given I'm from California. Today the high is hovering around 27, and the warmest it's been this week is about 32. I've never been one to just plain old give up though, so I'm bearing the cold temperatures to the best of my ability. As a result, I layer it up with the long sleeved wicking shirts, arm warmers, and gloves, though I desperately need to buy a legitimate running jacket so I don't look like the Michelin man, though if there's any country where it's slightly appropriate to look like him, I guess it would be France. The Michelin brothers were French, after all.
It's also more than necessary to run considering the amount of butter, sugar, and cream that is loaded into food over here, so running is also as much of a health and sanity thing as it is a vanity thing. One of my best friends is getting married upon my return stateside, and as one of my host mama's friends jokingly put it, "il faut etre tres fine, taille 36!" roughly translated to "you've gotta be real thin, size 8!"
Nevertheless, this running habit of mine has led me to become involved with a marathon training group in Paris, which is where you'll usually fine me at the hour of 9 on Saturday mornings. I've also volunteered to become one of the groups three head "coaches," as I'm one of the most experienced members of the group, despite being the youngest.
As a result, despite that it was cold, cold, and more cold today, I dragged my ass out to the train and then into Paris for an easy 10k around the Bois de Boulogne. Having people to show up to makes the cold bearable.
Luckily, today my friend Iris showed up, and we did a good three laps around the large lake together. Iris is, simply put, awesome. She's probably mid to late thirties and single, but again, she's lead a fascinating life. She grew up in Germany near the French border, and her mom was a French teacher. She did her undergrad in France and has worked all over Europe--in fact, she spent two years living in London, then one year living and working in Vienna, and now she's working in Paris. We had a good conversation as we ran today about living around the world and how good and necessary it is, if you can, to see what you can while you can.
I talked to her about how much appreciation I have for different lifestyles now that I'm living in a different country, and how I get discouraged sometimes back in the states about how narrow minded people can be, because we're not as exposed to different countries, languages, and people. Europeans are used to having more than one country next door, or even surrounding them, so they seem to be a lot more tolerant, a lot more cultured, more open to learning. We talked about missing family and the holidays, as she can hop on a train and go home within two hours; we talked about the time she spent a year living in New York City as an undergrad while interning for a German company and how she loved it. I shared some of my anxieties about the possibility of being in France for two more years, and she was very encouraging.
Being able to chat with her was nice, and as much as sometimes it's odd to be the "pipsqueak," as I put it, of the group, it's more than lovely to be able to talk to people who are older than I am and who can give me some perspective on living the international life, or life in general. I may be stubborn in my decisions, but I'm definitely not someone to go into decisions blindly, and I tend to mull things over, and I do a hell of a lot of investigating my options before I decide which one I'll take.
Call Iris some form of investigation, call her a running comrade, call her a friend, but whatever I end up calling her, I'm really glad she's there.
It's also more than necessary to run considering the amount of butter, sugar, and cream that is loaded into food over here, so running is also as much of a health and sanity thing as it is a vanity thing. One of my best friends is getting married upon my return stateside, and as one of my host mama's friends jokingly put it, "il faut etre tres fine, taille 36!" roughly translated to "you've gotta be real thin, size 8!"
Nevertheless, this running habit of mine has led me to become involved with a marathon training group in Paris, which is where you'll usually fine me at the hour of 9 on Saturday mornings. I've also volunteered to become one of the groups three head "coaches," as I'm one of the most experienced members of the group, despite being the youngest.
As a result, despite that it was cold, cold, and more cold today, I dragged my ass out to the train and then into Paris for an easy 10k around the Bois de Boulogne. Having people to show up to makes the cold bearable.
Luckily, today my friend Iris showed up, and we did a good three laps around the large lake together. Iris is, simply put, awesome. She's probably mid to late thirties and single, but again, she's lead a fascinating life. She grew up in Germany near the French border, and her mom was a French teacher. She did her undergrad in France and has worked all over Europe--in fact, she spent two years living in London, then one year living and working in Vienna, and now she's working in Paris. We had a good conversation as we ran today about living around the world and how good and necessary it is, if you can, to see what you can while you can.
I talked to her about how much appreciation I have for different lifestyles now that I'm living in a different country, and how I get discouraged sometimes back in the states about how narrow minded people can be, because we're not as exposed to different countries, languages, and people. Europeans are used to having more than one country next door, or even surrounding them, so they seem to be a lot more tolerant, a lot more cultured, more open to learning. We talked about missing family and the holidays, as she can hop on a train and go home within two hours; we talked about the time she spent a year living in New York City as an undergrad while interning for a German company and how she loved it. I shared some of my anxieties about the possibility of being in France for two more years, and she was very encouraging.
Being able to chat with her was nice, and as much as sometimes it's odd to be the "pipsqueak," as I put it, of the group, it's more than lovely to be able to talk to people who are older than I am and who can give me some perspective on living the international life, or life in general. I may be stubborn in my decisions, but I'm definitely not someone to go into decisions blindly, and I tend to mull things over, and I do a hell of a lot of investigating my options before I decide which one I'll take.
Call Iris some form of investigation, call her a running comrade, call her a friend, but whatever I end up calling her, I'm really glad she's there.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Collette
Today I was obligated to skip my teaching gig and go to mandatory (again) training out in Saint-Ouen-L'Aumone. That meant I had to miss probably one of my favorite parts of my job, which are my morning chats with Collette at my second school, Le Chat Perche, which is in Cergy. I normally arrive at 8:15 or so in order to print, prep, and laminate all my materials, and in the process, end up having an hour to snip flashcards while talking with this lovely woman.
I don't exactly understand what Collette's official title is at LCP, because she's not a teacher, nor is she really an office assistant, because they don't really have a "front office," with a secretary or front desk or phone of any sort. Rather, she's functions as what seems to be a jack-of-all-trades, and she does what's needed here and there. She's tall and slender, with greying platinum blonde hair, kind blue eyes, and a friendly demeanor.
She's also led a fascinating life. She spent 15 years living in Mexico, where she taught French to Mexican CEO's and heads of state. Because of this, she's fluent in Spanish, and her children, now grown adults, went to the international high school that's located here in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. She's traded in whatever well paying former career she had (let me tell you, the woman comes to school with Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses and Louis Vuitton Handbags...) for, as she's explained, something much simpler and closer to home so she can avoid the commute. My guess is that she's got good savings. Nevertheless, we always end up chatting about politics or the economy, or even about life in America versus life in France, so she ends up making me stop and think about the world and my own opinions.
It was Collette the day after American elections that asked me what I thought of the Republicans taking the lead, and if I sincerely though Barack Obama had a shot at being re-elected. I like to think of her as a blessing in disguise, since I'll be the first to admit that politics fascinate me intellectually in theory, but often their practice disheartens me. Collete makes me remember to be grateful for the fact that my country has a relatively high functioning rate in comparison to other parts of the world. One time earlier last week she was listening to proceedings in the French senate regarding the state of the economy and the retirement issue here, so we got to talking the world economy too. She forces me to be informed, and I like that.
It's often too easy for me to get lost in my pie-in-the-sky, ivory-tower reveries, and Collete is a firm reminder that life didn't end in the 17th century in France. That's something important for me to remember as I head into graduate school, where I'm going to need a counterbalance to all the literary theory and ancien regime texts I'll be swallowing. I can only hope that one day I'll meet someone who will bring this humanities brain back down to earth too and keep me in the present too, challenge me to think about life in the here and now.
For now I guess, there's Collette.
I don't exactly understand what Collette's official title is at LCP, because she's not a teacher, nor is she really an office assistant, because they don't really have a "front office," with a secretary or front desk or phone of any sort. Rather, she's functions as what seems to be a jack-of-all-trades, and she does what's needed here and there. She's tall and slender, with greying platinum blonde hair, kind blue eyes, and a friendly demeanor.
She's also led a fascinating life. She spent 15 years living in Mexico, where she taught French to Mexican CEO's and heads of state. Because of this, she's fluent in Spanish, and her children, now grown adults, went to the international high school that's located here in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. She's traded in whatever well paying former career she had (let me tell you, the woman comes to school with Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses and Louis Vuitton Handbags...) for, as she's explained, something much simpler and closer to home so she can avoid the commute. My guess is that she's got good savings. Nevertheless, we always end up chatting about politics or the economy, or even about life in America versus life in France, so she ends up making me stop and think about the world and my own opinions.
It was Collette the day after American elections that asked me what I thought of the Republicans taking the lead, and if I sincerely though Barack Obama had a shot at being re-elected. I like to think of her as a blessing in disguise, since I'll be the first to admit that politics fascinate me intellectually in theory, but often their practice disheartens me. Collete makes me remember to be grateful for the fact that my country has a relatively high functioning rate in comparison to other parts of the world. One time earlier last week she was listening to proceedings in the French senate regarding the state of the economy and the retirement issue here, so we got to talking the world economy too. She forces me to be informed, and I like that.
It's often too easy for me to get lost in my pie-in-the-sky, ivory-tower reveries, and Collete is a firm reminder that life didn't end in the 17th century in France. That's something important for me to remember as I head into graduate school, where I'm going to need a counterbalance to all the literary theory and ancien regime texts I'll be swallowing. I can only hope that one day I'll meet someone who will bring this humanities brain back down to earth too and keep me in the present too, challenge me to think about life in the here and now.
For now I guess, there's Collette.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Girl Without An Accent
For the five millionth time in two months, I was told yet again today that I have no traceable accent. Host mama, Stef, was heading out the door with a friend, Valerie, to run some quick errands. When I started speaking, Valerie quickly exclaimed "You don't have an accent!"
I responded promptly to Valerie by saying that it's rather bizarre for me to be told that, but nonetheless, many, many French people have been telling me that since my arrival. I elaborated and state that "no, this is my first time in France," and that by and large, I know "academic French," which means to say, stiff, textbook French. Valerie laughed and said that time here would cure me of that. Additionally, the children I au pair for are teaching me all sorts of pleasant (and not so pleasant) bits of slang. Stef chimed in at the end and added that my vocabulary is impressive, though ever-the-eternal-perfectionist, I still want to enlarge my expressive range.
In essence, I am the Girl Without An Accent. That's both good and bad. I say good because it signifies to me that I have a strong mastery of the sounds and intonation of the language, of its very rhythm and life. French can be an intimidating language because of its reputation as a beautiful one, and because if you're an anglophone learning it, what you hear does not by any means match the sounds you might expect to come off the written page. But it's because of those qualities that I love it. French is musical and beautiful, elusive even, and to me, my lack of accent signals that my going-on nine years of study is paying off.
I'll also be the first to admit that I'm probably a rare case of Accentless-itis. I don't say that to brag, but more because of the fact that I know language is my gift. It's always been my gift. I said my first word at 6 months, was reading by 4, and have the uncanny ability to hear the sounds of other languages and repeat them cold turkey. I can look at another romance language in text and for the most part, I can understand it, without ever having studied it. I'm a whiz at translating latinate-based Old French into English, to the point that graduate class professor last fall would often have me figure out harder portions of texts that older grad students couldn't. My brain is made for and entirely wired for language, and so I am proud of my accentless French. One day I hope to add Italian, Spanish, maybe Portugese, and Latin to the trophy case.
On the other hand, being accentless is a bit like being a linguistic refugee. I say this because having an accent means having the firm and irremovable impression of one's native home, that an accent carries the traces of our roots and our upbringing within itself. The French can't tell I'm American, much less Californian, when I speak French. And to me that seems to say that I am a refugee, floating between the stages of my life, underscoring the sheer lack of roots I have at the moment. Being the Girl Without An Accent seems to mean that I am also the Girl Without A Solid Home and that only serves to make worse the thought that I am entirely transitory right now, a thought that is unsettling if I think about it too much, so I try not to.
But I can't help but be reminded of my lack of rooting when I'm told I don't have an accent.
I responded promptly to Valerie by saying that it's rather bizarre for me to be told that, but nonetheless, many, many French people have been telling me that since my arrival. I elaborated and state that "no, this is my first time in France," and that by and large, I know "academic French," which means to say, stiff, textbook French. Valerie laughed and said that time here would cure me of that. Additionally, the children I au pair for are teaching me all sorts of pleasant (and not so pleasant) bits of slang. Stef chimed in at the end and added that my vocabulary is impressive, though ever-the-eternal-perfectionist, I still want to enlarge my expressive range.
In essence, I am the Girl Without An Accent. That's both good and bad. I say good because it signifies to me that I have a strong mastery of the sounds and intonation of the language, of its very rhythm and life. French can be an intimidating language because of its reputation as a beautiful one, and because if you're an anglophone learning it, what you hear does not by any means match the sounds you might expect to come off the written page. But it's because of those qualities that I love it. French is musical and beautiful, elusive even, and to me, my lack of accent signals that my going-on nine years of study is paying off.
I'll also be the first to admit that I'm probably a rare case of Accentless-itis. I don't say that to brag, but more because of the fact that I know language is my gift. It's always been my gift. I said my first word at 6 months, was reading by 4, and have the uncanny ability to hear the sounds of other languages and repeat them cold turkey. I can look at another romance language in text and for the most part, I can understand it, without ever having studied it. I'm a whiz at translating latinate-based Old French into English, to the point that graduate class professor last fall would often have me figure out harder portions of texts that older grad students couldn't. My brain is made for and entirely wired for language, and so I am proud of my accentless French. One day I hope to add Italian, Spanish, maybe Portugese, and Latin to the trophy case.
On the other hand, being accentless is a bit like being a linguistic refugee. I say this because having an accent means having the firm and irremovable impression of one's native home, that an accent carries the traces of our roots and our upbringing within itself. The French can't tell I'm American, much less Californian, when I speak French. And to me that seems to say that I am a refugee, floating between the stages of my life, underscoring the sheer lack of roots I have at the moment. Being the Girl Without An Accent seems to mean that I am also the Girl Without A Solid Home and that only serves to make worse the thought that I am entirely transitory right now, a thought that is unsettling if I think about it too much, so I try not to.
But I can't help but be reminded of my lack of rooting when I'm told I don't have an accent.
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