My oldest daughter Lily has been invited to a swim party this weekend and in discussing who would be going with her, the conversation about swimsuits came up. You see, I don't want to parade myself around new people in a bathing suit and, should everyone in our family be included in this invite, our youngest is going to want to swim too. She is able (years in Barbados and a wonderful swimming teacher at Cool Splashings in St. George ensured that), but cannot get across the pool alone as she is not yet three years old. This leaves my husband as lifeguard and swim companion and herein lies the dilemma.
The swim trunks. Or really, lack thereof. Banana hammock, striped. Tiny little Speedo style swimwear. Not a lot of material and a pool full of Lily's classmates and their parents. I stepped in even when I knew I should not have, even when I have not yet confirmed with this child's parents that all of us are even invited. I hurt his feelings, which I did not foresee, but my thoughts were on Lily and I could not have allowed him to potentially embarrass our child, maybe even himself.
In fairness, I know that this is not at all fair. I have loved him in his skivvies, think he looks great. But we have been in Barbados, France, the Hamptons in those swim trunks, not at a suburban kid's swim party. "Why are Americans so uptight? It is the body. What is wrong with showing the body? These are for swimming. Who can swim in those giant pants?" And to some extent I have agreed with him, at least supported him in the past. " It's just different this time", I said. Sometimes we just don't get each other, don't understand, though we try.
This morning as my husband was walking out the door, I asked, as I often do, "Do you have your keys?" He walked back up the stairs to me and said, "I gave you one already but here you are," and kissed me one more time.
"Your KEYS. Your KEYS, honey."
"Oh, I thought you said a keez."
That one is cute. Though there are times when it just isn't so, when we not only don't hear each other or understand each other's pronunciations, but our cultural differences, ideas, and perspectives shatter peace in the home as we know it and we are both left staring (or glaring)at each other in disbelief.
My husband is French, REALLY French, though truthfully I have never met a French person who wasn't. I love him and think he and his people get a bad rap. They are presumed by all to be arrogant, humorless (or strangely inflicted with a love of Jerry Lewis), unhip snobs and I think that this truly misses the mark. Arrogance, to me, implies a kind of cruelty, the perception that one is so much more superior and f*** you for not being as I am.
I think the French arrogance is more charming than that. They are proud and very well versed in the successes and achievements of their countrymen, and there have been very many successes. Leaders in philosophy, art, music, fashion, cuisine, culture, politics, literature, war, have come from France. Even favorite children's songs that we all hum along to were composed by French musicians and composers. Love that tune, "Somewhere Beyond the Sea"? A Frenchman called Charles Trenet wrote it originally as La Mer. Trying to explain Sodoku to the husband got me so flustered that I sent him to Wikipedia for a better explanation. As soon as he found it he announced, "Ah, yes. I know this. It is based on a French game. Sodoku in the States was founded by some American in the 60s, but you know the French game is from the 18th century, so..." Neither of us plays sodoku and no, I did not know of its origine francaise either.
Our most frequent conversations revolve around food. Quel surprise! And on nearly every point, I agree with him. And that's the thing, it isn't that he is wrong. It's that it feels so good to him to be right that he smears it like a gorgeous French butter all over the place and I, by nature, have to challenge his smug, "You know I'm right" attitude. One of our favorite topics is le pain quotidien. We love baguette, buy it frequently or he lovingly makes his own in our "substandard oven". (His baguette would be much better, as would his pizza were we to have a more suitable oven.) Where in the United States, a stick of baguette, can run you up to $4 US dollars, a baguette in France, one's daily bread, is inexpensive (approximately one Euro) to ensure that all Frenchmen are able to eat an appropriate serving of their beloved pain.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to tear up a baguette while visiting France and would be hard pressed to share it with a small child, puppy, or nun, the stuff is so fantastic. And I think that it is lovely that the price of a good baguette will never get beyond the means of the average consumer in France. But every.single.time.we eat a baguette,EVERY SINGLE TIME, we talk about how France looks out for "everyman" with this generous offering while the United States could give as crap about the health of the general populace, offering only crap fast food at low cost. I don't think anyone would mistake me as the representative of all that's good in America, but give me a break.
He doesn't wear a beret or a striped shirt, nor does he twist his waxed moustache while peddling a bike with a basket in front. He does love wine and good food (he is a chef after all) and wears his pants up a little too high for a youngish, good-looking man. We have a laugh at our differences and agree that my American black chic mothering style jibes well with the French style being touted at present. He will wait hours for me to get my hair done, listen to me complain about how very few designers, even the beloved French fashion houses do not know how to cut pants for the fuller black behind, has accepted the finger wagging, eye popping, occasional neck roll when he says something that I have found ridiculous, and is genuinely interested in African-American culture, history, and bien sur, cuisine.
I know he finds my attraction to and distrust of the dominant culture a bit confusing and my emotionality, individuality, fast smiles, quick handshakes, and easy handling of social and public situations "very American." He is right to find us (Americans) a bit childish, wide-eyed, self-involved; we are a relatively new country in the grander scheme of things, more like teenagers to the middle life crises of some European nations, and the true kiddies of newer formed nations. We somehow make it work and have managed, as yet, no attempted murders or abandonment.
He is quite logical, head-centered compared to my artistic, organic, heart-centered style. His references are philosophical, historical, intellectual, Wikipedial in nearly ALL conversations. I mean, how many arguments between a husband and wife have this exchange"I am Cartesian! You know this about me." And he is. Square, logical. 1+1=2. But tonight I will appeal to his artistic, creative, and shadow emotional side. Both of us "free to be you and me" except that there is no way I am going to allow him to wear his South of France swimwear to the party. We will try to find a suit before the party with an appropriate length of short and tushie coverage. I know he will capitulate. But I will never hear the end of it.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Love love love
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