This month has been a month of 'doing' rather than 'recording.' What I mean to say is that rather than writing on this blog, I've been taking care of business. Writing was put on the back burner so that I could accomplish, among other things, grading 250 English exams, filing my taxes, and renewing my teaching contract. Additionally, like a pedigreed dog on show, I've been jumping through hoops to complete my applications to French Masters programs, but alas, the hoops must be jumped, and the end of jumping and the beginning of waiting is near.
Today was a day of 'doing.' This afternoon I ventured to the 11th arrondissement, where the lovely cabinet I'm paying ungodly sums of money to translate two diplomas and four pages of transcripts, is located. I went on Monday to drop off my documents, but it turns out that American high school transcripts are wholly unstandardized, so I returned home with said documents to write out all the confusing abbreviations in order to facilitate Laurent, my translator's, life. Laurent is a thin, middle-aged Frenchman with crows feet around his eyes and a kind smile. He speaks English with an unmistakeable French accent, but his comprehension is impeccable, and he brandishes a magnifying glass to scan documents the way a cowboy in a John Wayne movie brandishes a pistol before a duel. He murmurs quietly to himself over these documents, and his air is tidy and unassuming.
Yesterday, Laurent emailed me to tell me that he'd be out of the office on my expected return date, and that I could simply drop the documents with the secretary at the front desk, which was my plan of action this afternoon. Cue my surprise when the secretary tells me that Laurent has JUST returned as she ushers me to his desk.
Dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a brown sweater over a blue button up, Laurent explained that he'd not planned on working this afternoon, as he's technically on vacation, but in a matter-of-fact rather than a complaining way. He invited me to sit down on a green chair beside his desk so he could scan my abbreviation-deciphering-work.
He whipped out his magnifying glass and we commenced with the university transcript, which, paradoxically, is easier to decipher than the high school transcript, simply because it's systematic. He scanned the columns top to bottom with a detached indifference, mechanically. I sat on the edge of my seat ready to explain anything to him.
I explained to him what the 'H' stood for--Honors.
I explained to him what PIB and IB and SL and HL stand for.
I explained to him what 'Cal Grant GPA' means, and what LEAD DEVELOP means.
But what I really wanted to explain to him is why my grades are impeccable, why they are wonderful, with the exception of my junior year. Looking at my junior year grades is painful. It's not painful because I'm ashamed in any way, I'm not. My junior year transcript is painful because front and center, those grades are an agonizing reminder that when I was sixteen, when I had just started my junior year, my dad died. And my grief shot me and my grades down like the sharp shooters in the John Wayne movies. The grades may not say "she lost her dad," but I know, and they are a permanent record, a never erasable indicator of how hard a year that was.
My grades are also a reminder that my dad is not here. I don't speak about him often, and I can go for months on end not thinking about how he's not here, not thinking about how much he's already missed, not wondering if he'd recognize me if he met me on the street now, if he'd know the Lindsay I've become now, if he'd like her. If he'd understand her. If he'd be proud of her.
I do not let his absence govern my life, nor fill my days with sadness, but every now and then, very rarely, there are reminders that call me back to the horrible night on a cold October when he left me forever. Staring at my transcripts was such a reminder. There I sat in a chair next to Laurent, explaining what IB and PIB and HL and SL meant, what H and N and T1 and IP meant, when all I really wanted to do was explain to him why suddenly those grades change so suddenly the third year. Why that mattered.
But some things don't translate, whether it be from English to French, or from paper to reality, from loss to healing. And no translator, no matter how talented, trained, or experienced, can ever translate that.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Rehumanizing the Military
My discussion with The Diplomat about foreign affairs and the military forced me to think more deeply about the subject. The military is a topic hard to avoid when you have close friends in ROTC, and doubly hard when one of your oldest friends is a newly minted West Point graduate currently in Ranger School.
At Friend's request, and as a means of support at Ranger, I've been writing to him as often as possible. I've been happy to oblige him, because as I elaborated in my first letter, my own words are in mon avis, the purest gift of self I could ever give. Letter writing, then, is a very selfish venture. My hope is that he gets to be the cool guy who has to explain to his buddies a) why he has so many darn letters from friends and family and b) why the hell he has letters from France. Nonetheless, my lettered endeavors are a lovely way to reflect on our going-on-twelve-year friendship.
Twelve years may not be much in a lifetime, but when you're 23, twelve years is half your life. And in half my life, I've packed in many memories with Friend, several that stand out. One of those is a particular January afternoon in 2006. I was barely eighteen, the world before me, with a blue skied future and burning sunlight. But perched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing dishes, I received a phone call, and Friend proudly announced that he'd been admitted to West Point and chosen to join the long gray line. That afternoon was the first clap of thunder in a brooding storm: it took me by surprise. And while I was happy for Friend to have what he wanted, I was also crestfallen, in the most selfish way possible. I was crestfallen because inspite of my pride in his commitment to himself and his country, I knew his choice of path would inevitably lead him to danger. And selfishly, I'd wanted him not to be admitted. So I got a little weepy and put the "you could be shipped to Iraq" thoughts into storage for another four years.
Almost exactly two years after that January afternoon, and when I was a collegiate sophomore, Friend invited me to one of his military balls. The ball, known as Yearling Winter Weekend, was on February first, the day after my 20th birthday. Let me assure you, as a civilian, even if you are decked out head-to-toe in heels, makeup, and a fancy dress, this will not stop you from being intimidated by a five-star general. Friend and I were outside taking photos on the steps of Washington Hall when he froze with a deer-in-the-headlights look. A small caravan of black vehicles had driven up.
"Let's move let's move let's move!" He sprung up the steps. "The Big Brass is here!"
My weekend in New York with him is one of my favorite memories of our friendship. He showed me the West Point campus, I met some of his friends, and we went sight-seeing in New York City. I stole his fancy hat in our hotel room and took pictures with it and laughed when he and his buddies wore their very uncomfortable wool uniforms to the top of the Empire State Building. When he deposited me at JFK airport on Sunday, I was sad to say goodbye again. And in the terminal, yeah...I got weepy.
And so time rolled onward. Nearly two years after my weekend in New York, I'd reached my senior year at Berkeley, and Friend had reached his Firstie year. Last fall, he'd been waiting to branch, or figure out what branch of the army he'd enter. I'd known all along he'd set his sights on going infantry, which once again, was (selfishly) not my favorite pick for him. But regardless, I told him to call me the night he knew. I was at home that weekend visiting my family and loading my belongings into my car to make the eighty mile trek from my home back to Berkeley when I felt my cell phone buzz in my pocket.
And of course, I congratulated him on going infantry.
I then shoved myself into my car and cried all the way to Berkeley. What he doesn't know is that I not only cried the entire drive, upon arrival, I went straight next door to my friends' apartment and burst into more tears. I think I soaked the shoulders of several shirts.
"I need alcohol," I sobbed. I then proceeded to drink some strong vodka cranberries.
Fast forward one year and a half from that moment, and what you will find is once again, on a cold January afternoon, the day of my 23rd birthday, Friend reported for his first day of Ranger school. And I've been writing letters. And so the story goes.
And so my opinions about the military are neither black nor white, but a shade of gray. On one hand, I understand how very human it is, because of Friend, because of the personal connection there. On the other hand, I see it as a cold, grinding machine reported on by the press, on ABC and Fox News, a cog in the wheel debated about objectively by bloggers and critics. I admit vociferously that I do not always agree with what the military does, nor the policies it is ordered to enact. If there is anything I have learned from Berkeley, it is to question, to think, to interrogate. And so I question freely what the military does, and I've debated with Friend about many, many things. I've played devil to his advocate in more than one conversation. However, this in no ways means I do not support the individuals who've dedicated themselves to service, because I've seen first hand what kind of a commitment the service demands. I support firmly the people even if I do not support the cause. This is why I am irked when soldiers are discussed as nothing more than brainwashed robots, machines trained to destroy and kill.
Curiously enough, the universe tends to throw interesting reading material at me at opportune moments, and yesterday I stumbled upon a blog in which a journalist talks about "rehumanizing the military." He stresses that of all the people he's ever met, those in the military are those who appreciate life the most, especially since they know how easy life can be taken away. This was a refreshing perspective in a world where left-wing Democrats seem to demonize the military and its operations overseas and a world where right-wing Republicans seem to have a cult-like adoration for armed service.
Why do I say this? Because at the end of the day, underneath all the layers of training, the hours of sweat, the tactics, the uniforms, the weapons, and the emotional scars, those in the military are still humans. Humans like every other breathing, living human individual on this earth. The "Otherizing" and labeling we as humanity like to do needs to stop. Traveling and being abroad has taught me this, but so has this friend.
So here's to my confidence that Friend will not only pass Ranger and get his tab, but that at the end of it all, he will still be as human as ever.
At Friend's request, and as a means of support at Ranger, I've been writing to him as often as possible. I've been happy to oblige him, because as I elaborated in my first letter, my own words are in mon avis, the purest gift of self I could ever give. Letter writing, then, is a very selfish venture. My hope is that he gets to be the cool guy who has to explain to his buddies a) why he has so many darn letters from friends and family and b) why the hell he has letters from France. Nonetheless, my lettered endeavors are a lovely way to reflect on our going-on-twelve-year friendship.
Twelve years may not be much in a lifetime, but when you're 23, twelve years is half your life. And in half my life, I've packed in many memories with Friend, several that stand out. One of those is a particular January afternoon in 2006. I was barely eighteen, the world before me, with a blue skied future and burning sunlight. But perched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing dishes, I received a phone call, and Friend proudly announced that he'd been admitted to West Point and chosen to join the long gray line. That afternoon was the first clap of thunder in a brooding storm: it took me by surprise. And while I was happy for Friend to have what he wanted, I was also crestfallen, in the most selfish way possible. I was crestfallen because inspite of my pride in his commitment to himself and his country, I knew his choice of path would inevitably lead him to danger. And selfishly, I'd wanted him not to be admitted. So I got a little weepy and put the "you could be shipped to Iraq" thoughts into storage for another four years.
Almost exactly two years after that January afternoon, and when I was a collegiate sophomore, Friend invited me to one of his military balls. The ball, known as Yearling Winter Weekend, was on February first, the day after my 20th birthday. Let me assure you, as a civilian, even if you are decked out head-to-toe in heels, makeup, and a fancy dress, this will not stop you from being intimidated by a five-star general. Friend and I were outside taking photos on the steps of Washington Hall when he froze with a deer-in-the-headlights look. A small caravan of black vehicles had driven up.
"Let's move let's move let's move!" He sprung up the steps. "The Big Brass is here!"
My weekend in New York with him is one of my favorite memories of our friendship. He showed me the West Point campus, I met some of his friends, and we went sight-seeing in New York City. I stole his fancy hat in our hotel room and took pictures with it and laughed when he and his buddies wore their very uncomfortable wool uniforms to the top of the Empire State Building. When he deposited me at JFK airport on Sunday, I was sad to say goodbye again. And in the terminal, yeah...I got weepy.
And so time rolled onward. Nearly two years after my weekend in New York, I'd reached my senior year at Berkeley, and Friend had reached his Firstie year. Last fall, he'd been waiting to branch, or figure out what branch of the army he'd enter. I'd known all along he'd set his sights on going infantry, which once again, was (selfishly) not my favorite pick for him. But regardless, I told him to call me the night he knew. I was at home that weekend visiting my family and loading my belongings into my car to make the eighty mile trek from my home back to Berkeley when I felt my cell phone buzz in my pocket.
And of course, I congratulated him on going infantry.
I then shoved myself into my car and cried all the way to Berkeley. What he doesn't know is that I not only cried the entire drive, upon arrival, I went straight next door to my friends' apartment and burst into more tears. I think I soaked the shoulders of several shirts.
"I need alcohol," I sobbed. I then proceeded to drink some strong vodka cranberries.
Fast forward one year and a half from that moment, and what you will find is once again, on a cold January afternoon, the day of my 23rd birthday, Friend reported for his first day of Ranger school. And I've been writing letters. And so the story goes.
And so my opinions about the military are neither black nor white, but a shade of gray. On one hand, I understand how very human it is, because of Friend, because of the personal connection there. On the other hand, I see it as a cold, grinding machine reported on by the press, on ABC and Fox News, a cog in the wheel debated about objectively by bloggers and critics. I admit vociferously that I do not always agree with what the military does, nor the policies it is ordered to enact. If there is anything I have learned from Berkeley, it is to question, to think, to interrogate. And so I question freely what the military does, and I've debated with Friend about many, many things. I've played devil to his advocate in more than one conversation. However, this in no ways means I do not support the individuals who've dedicated themselves to service, because I've seen first hand what kind of a commitment the service demands. I support firmly the people even if I do not support the cause. This is why I am irked when soldiers are discussed as nothing more than brainwashed robots, machines trained to destroy and kill.
Curiously enough, the universe tends to throw interesting reading material at me at opportune moments, and yesterday I stumbled upon a blog in which a journalist talks about "rehumanizing the military." He stresses that of all the people he's ever met, those in the military are those who appreciate life the most, especially since they know how easy life can be taken away. This was a refreshing perspective in a world where left-wing Democrats seem to demonize the military and its operations overseas and a world where right-wing Republicans seem to have a cult-like adoration for armed service.
Why do I say this? Because at the end of the day, underneath all the layers of training, the hours of sweat, the tactics, the uniforms, the weapons, and the emotional scars, those in the military are still humans. Humans like every other breathing, living human individual on this earth. The "Otherizing" and labeling we as humanity like to do needs to stop. Traveling and being abroad has taught me this, but so has this friend.
So here's to my confidence that Friend will not only pass Ranger and get his tab, but that at the end of it all, he will still be as human as ever.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Diplomat
I realize that I write a lot about running. I really do apologize. But humor me here. One of the things I adore about running are the people meeting possibilities it affords. I'd consider myself particularly lucky in that regard here in France with my training group.
On Saturday morning, as per usual, I schlepped myself to the Bois de Boulogne for an easy 18k. It's been a bit of a mindset switch to train in kilometers rather than miles, because I'm hardwired for miles, but I'm slowly getting into the swing of thinking of pace in kilometer per hour versus miles per hour. It's an uphill battle, but it's going. Nonetheless, I made it to the RER C Avenue Foch station right on the hour, accompanied by Iris who caught me on Metro 2 towards Porte Dauphine.
[On a complete and total side note, it's strangely loads of fun to ride around the Paris metro sporting nothing but running gear. You get plenty of weird looks and expressions. Always amusing.]
When Iris and I arrived we were greeted by The Diplomat. I mentioned The Diplomat in a previous entry, but he merits mentioning again. A die-hard proponent of barefoot running, he sported a pair of green Vibram five fingers and a beanie, and looked as cheerful and awake as anyone possibly can on an overcast morning in Paris. I hadn't seen him since before Christmas, as his job obliges him to travel every so often, and because I hadn't run the previous weekend.
Towards 9:33, the rest of our running herd arrived, and we took off out of the RER station and began our quest. I had started running with my usual group of ladies, but about 25 minutes in, felt a good rhythm and pushed the pace towards the front packers, which is where I ended up catching The Diplomat. We ran the Allee de la Reine Marguerite at a fluid clip, and at one point, he tripped on a curb, did a slick forward roll, and came right back onto his feet.
" Woa. Are you ok?" I paused. It had all happened so suddenly that I hadn't had time to process that he had ninja speed stumbled and recovered.
"Oh yeah," he responded nonchalantly. " I used to practice a lot of martial arts, and one of the techniques we were made to practice over and over was how to get off your feet. You're most vulnerable when you're on the ground."
Well, hot damn. The Diplomat is also a ninja, I thought.
I ended up sticking with The Diplomat for the remaining 1 hour and 20 minutes or so to nicely round out an 11.5 mile run. For once, it was refreshing to turn the iPod off and just chat.
We talked about everything under the sun. He began by talking about a diplomat dinner party he'd been at the previous night with Slovakians and the French, among people from other walks of life, until two in the morning.
"That's one of my favorite things about this town," I added. "No matter where you go, you will meet someone from any part of the globe you can imagine."
He continued. He explained to me his formative years growing up in Los Angeles, his stint with running as a lazy surfer kid whose Ethiopian coach could run faster than he and his teammates backwards, and how he met his wife. We talked about chemistry and science and the amazing mystery of this planet, about black holes and possible multiple universes and string theory. We talked about Eastern religious thought, as his wife is currently on a retreat in India, and wondered about the possibility of life on other planets, and if intelligent life exists, what do they believe in? We talked about the IB program, as his two children are IB seniors here. We talked about my boys and how our friends joke that they are the future world leaders of America, but how it funnily is turning out that way, so I've possibly got the army, NASA, and the government covered [don't you dare fail me now boys!].
"All you need now is some scary, crazy theologian to round out your collection," The Diplomat laughed.
"No need to worry," I replied. "I know some people from high school who fit the bill."
And on we talked. He told me about the years he spent in Iraq in charge of some of the food dispersion programs, about his experiences with five star Generals who fly Blackhawks around for shits and giggles, and all the inefficiency he sees in the chain of command. He put it this way: it's easy to convince a general that something won't work if you explain the why behind it, but getting his staff to give up is the hardest part. On the flip side, he added, a General's staff can know that something won't work the moment the order is given, but since it's orders, it has to be carried out nonetheless. And therein lies the Catch-22.
" I wish I could sit you down with my young West point alum bud and his friends, and you could have a constructive conversation about all that. It'd be useful for both of you," I said.
He then told me about his own military service, and how if I ever felt a dire need to purchase anything American, he'd be happy to take me to the military base in Belgium, because God forbid France ever let America put a military base here. He added "it's like Walmart for Americans out there. We can get you bacon and maple syrup and anything else you want!" I laughed. Bacon sounded damn good.
We reached the lakes in the Bois far more quickly than I thought possible, and by that time, I thanked him for running with me, and for the conversation. He thanked me for pushing him hard. I gave him a surprised look.
"I'm pushing you?" I said incredulously. "You just dragged me up that grade. I was hurting a bit there."
Turns out we'd been pushing each other back and forth the entire run, and in the process, had done a very fasssst run. When we hit the turn to loop back to the RER C station, I hit the gas pedal and clipped into a low 8 minute pace. He sped up with me.
"I pushing you!" I laughed. He sped up. When we finally hit the finish point, I thanked him again. He gave me a paternal pat on the shoulder, and then we stretched some.
"You know, you'd be a good candidate for the foreign service," he chuckled. I talked to him for a few minutes more about the subject, how he'd gotten into the service, and added that I can't see myself there, but who knows. Then he had to leave, and so did I. In fact, it was one of those fantastic conversations I was truly, truly sad to see come to an end.
Luckily, there are two months more until the Paris Marathon, and lots of much longer training runs to chat with The Diplomat.
On Saturday morning, as per usual, I schlepped myself to the Bois de Boulogne for an easy 18k. It's been a bit of a mindset switch to train in kilometers rather than miles, because I'm hardwired for miles, but I'm slowly getting into the swing of thinking of pace in kilometer per hour versus miles per hour. It's an uphill battle, but it's going. Nonetheless, I made it to the RER C Avenue Foch station right on the hour, accompanied by Iris who caught me on Metro 2 towards Porte Dauphine.
[On a complete and total side note, it's strangely loads of fun to ride around the Paris metro sporting nothing but running gear. You get plenty of weird looks and expressions. Always amusing.]
When Iris and I arrived we were greeted by The Diplomat. I mentioned The Diplomat in a previous entry, but he merits mentioning again. A die-hard proponent of barefoot running, he sported a pair of green Vibram five fingers and a beanie, and looked as cheerful and awake as anyone possibly can on an overcast morning in Paris. I hadn't seen him since before Christmas, as his job obliges him to travel every so often, and because I hadn't run the previous weekend.
Towards 9:33, the rest of our running herd arrived, and we took off out of the RER station and began our quest. I had started running with my usual group of ladies, but about 25 minutes in, felt a good rhythm and pushed the pace towards the front packers, which is where I ended up catching The Diplomat. We ran the Allee de la Reine Marguerite at a fluid clip, and at one point, he tripped on a curb, did a slick forward roll, and came right back onto his feet.
" Woa. Are you ok?" I paused. It had all happened so suddenly that I hadn't had time to process that he had ninja speed stumbled and recovered.
"Oh yeah," he responded nonchalantly. " I used to practice a lot of martial arts, and one of the techniques we were made to practice over and over was how to get off your feet. You're most vulnerable when you're on the ground."
Well, hot damn. The Diplomat is also a ninja, I thought.
I ended up sticking with The Diplomat for the remaining 1 hour and 20 minutes or so to nicely round out an 11.5 mile run. For once, it was refreshing to turn the iPod off and just chat.
We talked about everything under the sun. He began by talking about a diplomat dinner party he'd been at the previous night with Slovakians and the French, among people from other walks of life, until two in the morning.
"That's one of my favorite things about this town," I added. "No matter where you go, you will meet someone from any part of the globe you can imagine."
He continued. He explained to me his formative years growing up in Los Angeles, his stint with running as a lazy surfer kid whose Ethiopian coach could run faster than he and his teammates backwards, and how he met his wife. We talked about chemistry and science and the amazing mystery of this planet, about black holes and possible multiple universes and string theory. We talked about Eastern religious thought, as his wife is currently on a retreat in India, and wondered about the possibility of life on other planets, and if intelligent life exists, what do they believe in? We talked about the IB program, as his two children are IB seniors here. We talked about my boys and how our friends joke that they are the future world leaders of America, but how it funnily is turning out that way, so I've possibly got the army, NASA, and the government covered [don't you dare fail me now boys!].
"All you need now is some scary, crazy theologian to round out your collection," The Diplomat laughed.
"No need to worry," I replied. "I know some people from high school who fit the bill."
And on we talked. He told me about the years he spent in Iraq in charge of some of the food dispersion programs, about his experiences with five star Generals who fly Blackhawks around for shits and giggles, and all the inefficiency he sees in the chain of command. He put it this way: it's easy to convince a general that something won't work if you explain the why behind it, but getting his staff to give up is the hardest part. On the flip side, he added, a General's staff can know that something won't work the moment the order is given, but since it's orders, it has to be carried out nonetheless. And therein lies the Catch-22.
" I wish I could sit you down with my young West point alum bud and his friends, and you could have a constructive conversation about all that. It'd be useful for both of you," I said.
He then told me about his own military service, and how if I ever felt a dire need to purchase anything American, he'd be happy to take me to the military base in Belgium, because God forbid France ever let America put a military base here. He added "it's like Walmart for Americans out there. We can get you bacon and maple syrup and anything else you want!" I laughed. Bacon sounded damn good.
We reached the lakes in the Bois far more quickly than I thought possible, and by that time, I thanked him for running with me, and for the conversation. He thanked me for pushing him hard. I gave him a surprised look.
"I'm pushing you?" I said incredulously. "You just dragged me up that grade. I was hurting a bit there."
Turns out we'd been pushing each other back and forth the entire run, and in the process, had done a very fasssst run. When we hit the turn to loop back to the RER C station, I hit the gas pedal and clipped into a low 8 minute pace. He sped up with me.
"I pushing you!" I laughed. He sped up. When we finally hit the finish point, I thanked him again. He gave me a paternal pat on the shoulder, and then we stretched some.
"You know, you'd be a good candidate for the foreign service," he chuckled. I talked to him for a few minutes more about the subject, how he'd gotten into the service, and added that I can't see myself there, but who knows. Then he had to leave, and so did I. In fact, it was one of those fantastic conversations I was truly, truly sad to see come to an end.
Luckily, there are two months more until the Paris Marathon, and lots of much longer training runs to chat with The Diplomat.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Origines
In 1787, Archange Lauglois was born in French speaking Canada. She would later go on to marry Joseph Drouillard, and have a daughter named Elizabeth Drouillard.
Archange was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother.
It happens that census data is released as public record every one-hundred years, and recently the 1910 census data was made available. At some point recently, my mother took it upon herself to research her side of the family, above all, her dad's ancestry. And upon a closer look, it appears I am much, much more French/French-Canadian than I had originally thought.
My maternal grandfather's side is sprinkled with six generations of Lauglois, Drouillard, Girardin, Renaud, Fourtin, Bertrand, and Lucore. Needless to say, I was thrilled, and that's putting it lightly.
As my mother expressed to me via Skype while elaborating on our French ancestry, "I knew there had to be a reason why you were so drawn to the French language. It's in our blood!"
Currently we're hoping that she can find out where Archange Laugloise or Joseph Drouillard were born, or their parents at least, to see at what point our ancestors left France. My hope is that if we can get some names of the people who left the motherland that I might be able to do some cool research over here.
You know what my response to my Mom was?
"And all this time my 1/4 Mexican ass was thinking I didn't have a drop of French blood!
YESSSSSSSSSS!"
So yes. I am French and I am THRILLED.
WIN WIN WIN WIN WIN!
Archange was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother.
It happens that census data is released as public record every one-hundred years, and recently the 1910 census data was made available. At some point recently, my mother took it upon herself to research her side of the family, above all, her dad's ancestry. And upon a closer look, it appears I am much, much more French/French-Canadian than I had originally thought.
My maternal grandfather's side is sprinkled with six generations of Lauglois, Drouillard, Girardin, Renaud, Fourtin, Bertrand, and Lucore. Needless to say, I was thrilled, and that's putting it lightly.
As my mother expressed to me via Skype while elaborating on our French ancestry, "I knew there had to be a reason why you were so drawn to the French language. It's in our blood!"
Currently we're hoping that she can find out where Archange Laugloise or Joseph Drouillard were born, or their parents at least, to see at what point our ancestors left France. My hope is that if we can get some names of the people who left the motherland that I might be able to do some cool research over here.
You know what my response to my Mom was?
"And all this time my 1/4 Mexican ass was thinking I didn't have a drop of French blood!
YESSSSSSSSSS!"
So yes. I am French and I am THRILLED.
WIN WIN WIN WIN WIN!
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