Our vacation was almost ruined before it started by my anxiety, the collapsed ceiling in our hallway that fell hours before our flight, and the miserable failure of XL Airlines and the absolute breach of professionalism and trust by this new airline. Were it not for a few Xanax in my pocket, the Minnow would be lost. After a night of sleep stolen on the uncomfortable chairs in JFK Airport's Terminal 4, we got on a new airplane commanded by the incredible Omni Airlines and Virginie promptly vomited into my hand. In the end, she was just tired. At the moment I wondered if we were doomed. We weren't and we made it into the air and to Charles de Gaulle Airport by 7 pm France time, only to get into the car with the French husband's brother and head 5 hours to Bretagne. The brothers chatted in the front seat, the French husband surely delirious from a lack of sleep and tortured resting positions, while the girls and I passed out in the backseat, twisted and contorted but salvaged by animal neck pillows. It was crazy getting here, but we were now in France.
They say when you marry someone, you marry their whole family. Unless they are estranged, this is true. You want to make a good impression on everyone involved and you hope that you find you are also interested in some, if not all, of the family. When I married the French husband, someone from another country, and sometimes, it seems, another planet entirely, I felt that to know and love France would help me to know and love my hoped-to-be-husband.(I mean, the French got it down this love of country and pride of people.) I got the Rosetta Stone, brushed up on my history, listened to him wax on and on about the superiority of his culture to pretty much all others. He meant well. I know this. It wasn't so much arrogance as a cock-suredness that, frankly, was pretty damned sexy to this American broad.
It was the same with the Austrian for whom I tried just long enough to figure out how to conjugate a sentence or two and then was reduced to tears. I drank beer, ate wurst, supported their teams, even recognized the Habsburg jaw. With the Spaniard, I took 4 semesters of post-graduation Spanish and spoke to his parents, my friends' parents, anyone in my broken Spanish. I ate everything, wanted to learn flamenco, loved that Spanish guitar. I have cheered for all of their futbol teams. Sure, this reporting is stylized and reduced to the most obvious cliches of each culture, but trust, I was deep in. I still am.
Thanks to my anxiety, I still want to make a good impression every time, to marry them ALL all over again, to prove to them that marrying this crazy American girl was a good choice. But I was so tired and grumpy and crazy and tired that I nearly tore my poor French husband a new one when he tried to help me get through the security line while I held our sleeping five year old. Though this trip had been planned for months, we still found ourselves jamming things into a duffle bag at the 11th hour and racing out the door, sadly, without the girls' headphones but WITH my dance shoes and our library cards. :-/
We made such good time on the drive we were sure our luck had turned until we arrived at the airport to the gate of some airline called #XLAirways which has discounted fares to France. I'd heard about the airline just once through a new French friend in my dance class and recalled the many times we'd flown overseas without incident on a variety of airlines. Well, at Terminal 4 at JFK, a crappy early 80s design flaw of a place anchored by all the Middle Eastern and Israeli airlines as well as Caribbean Airlines, there was not one representative from XL Airlines, but there was a young woman in an unmarked blazer slowing passing along the bad news that, though none of us had been informed, there would be a delay in our flight time of 6 hours. Thank you very much and please stand on this line against the wall on the other side of anything civilized. Food, bathrooms, and escape were on the other side of the door. We slept on the floor. It was like the Wizard of Oz except not only are the memories of the start of our trip in black and white, but in slow motion.
On the other side, when we opened our eyes, was France. I love being here. I love attempting and trying to convince myself that I actually speak French. I love that my husband and I, who have been struggling with connection as many parents of time/energy/affection-sucking small children do, have time to look at each other. I love that there is discovery and adventure for all four of us and that the places where we roamed as we fell in love the first time in his country are now shared spaces. We showed them the beach where I first sunbathed topless, shy and embarrassed though no one else was with us, and they went topless too (though of course with decidedly different results than a grown woman bearing it all). The girls climbed the rocks leading to the Cote Sauvage where their father played as a young boy. We ate countless croissants, celebrated the iconic monuments of Paris, and drove from West to Central to nearly southern France squealing with delight at castles/chateaux, cows, sunflowers, horses, and vineyards.
And as much as they loved every one of those moments, they were happiest with their family. Their cousins, their uncle and auntie, their Papi, a surly, French, 84-year old fountain of wicked truth telling and a crazy crotchety Gaul. I married them, married them all. Because of my children, I am infinitely tied to this place. It is a part of them that it can never be for me as I am not OF this, no matter all my attempts. When we left Paris and my parents, who visited with us for a few days, I took the last Xanax (save the one for the return flight), closed my eyes, and let it all spin around me. There is too much wine, too much bread, too much cheese, and staying up too late for the under 8 set. But I feel good about it. I even spend a moment or two with the tatas out on the beach. The French husband gives it hard, he can be relentless in his superior posturing, but sitting with my toes in the sand, eating baguette and cheese, flipping through the glamorous pages of French Vogue, with the sun beating down on my naked stuff, I let go.
My trip was nearly ruined by my anxiety, by the stress that I ooze before I finally let go and just be in the place, whatever the place. Right now we have no idea what time it is or what day. We eat baguette and croissants every morning and sit in the garden with lavender all around. We walk to the sea, we eat good food, and we broken Franglais-speak with anyone who will listen to us try to describe this crazy beautiful moment. I say it every time, right before it's all over. We should do this more often. Travel. Be in the world. Be impressed and make impressions on people. I have to remember how I tied myself to that moment when I am home fretting about the hamsters and the bills and the school and the play dates. I have to remember that all those crazy, beautiful, hectic, wicked, scary, freaky, lovely moments are all part of my life. Even when I am not eating a baguette on the beach in Bretagne.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts
Monday, July 21, 2014
Friday, November 16, 2012
Playing the "we"
When I was younger, I had a few boyfriends that just didn't make the grade with my friends. They always invited "us" but then would find a moment to corner "me" and mention that our "we" was kinda getting on their nerves. There were all kinds of different reasons why my beau just didn't cut it, often reasons that I, blinded by love and secret schmoopy-doop whisperings, just couldn't see. Either he was stand-offish, selfish, self-involved, boring, judgmental, smothering, cruel, belligerent, exhausting, needy, whatever and just made the people in my life wonder how and when I would come to my senses and release the fool from my team. Before I settled down with the Frenchy who is charming and funny and a little arrogant but also self-depreciating and of course, French and adorable, I really had no idea how putting together a good "we" could allow "me" to have and keep good friends and relations close.
I have witnessed more than a few relationships fall apart because of this situation, but wondered, what happens when the partner in question is not a boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or pal who can be cut from the squad without legal strings, but is a husband, wife, or business partner? Can a friendship survive if the number 2 always has to tag along? Can you tell your friend that you just can't get down with her man? Out here in the suburbs, people tend to travel in clans. It's not like my former life in the city where packs of roving artists, actors, writers, and single types, often without children could move in and out of circles, trying on different personas, ideas, and accents. In the burbs, you and your partner and sometimes your kiddles move as a subset and merge with other subsets. It's awesome when the wives, the husbands, and the children get along on their own accord, when you don't have to remind someone to be on their best behavior, give them pointers on good conversation, worry that while you are having the time of your life, your partner or your kids are picking lint out of their belly buttons or worse, starting a war.
Political blowhards, lecherous Lotharios, Snoopy marshmallows (as my Frenchy calls the less interesting), inappropriate jokers, and flirty kittens can ruin any night out, dinner, or mixed family gathering. I often wonder, if before heading out the couples have a chat about how to behave. "Please honey, don't tell so and so how gorgeous you thought she was last time. I think it made her uncomfortable." or "Can you just try to add something to the conversation, babe? You have lots to talk about when we are together." I love my Frenchy and I must tell you he is damned funny in French and in English! But truth be told, sometimes I ask him if he wouldn't mind chiming in, sharing a little bit of himself, letting people see how good, funny, intelligent he is. I know that often, we fall for our friends and are so excited by them that we don't imagine that their partners will wilt our flowers, bore us to tears, piss us off to raging blindness. Maybe we don't have to always come as a package. Perhaps it's best to define that role before we force our others on the group and find the space between us grow. Perhaps "we" is too much when all we want is "you" and "me."
If someone told me that they loved hanging with me, but would I mind leaving my Gaul at home, I think I would take that as an assault on my taste and style. Really? You don't want the good stuff? Or worse, you think I don't have the good stuff? Sometimes, it's true, husbands dampen the conversation. Especially when that convo is meant to be about them individually or collectively or about sex or about running away with the trainer (even in jest) or something so private you only want to share it with a good girlfriend, not her husband. But other times, a lively repartee between couples, discourse, new ideas, funny tales can solidify a friendship, make scheduling and entertaining that much easier. And when time is limited, babysitters are scarce, and a good get-together is just what you are looking for, it's nice to know that we can all get along.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I have witnessed more than a few relationships fall apart because of this situation, but wondered, what happens when the partner in question is not a boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or pal who can be cut from the squad without legal strings, but is a husband, wife, or business partner? Can a friendship survive if the number 2 always has to tag along? Can you tell your friend that you just can't get down with her man? Out here in the suburbs, people tend to travel in clans. It's not like my former life in the city where packs of roving artists, actors, writers, and single types, often without children could move in and out of circles, trying on different personas, ideas, and accents. In the burbs, you and your partner and sometimes your kiddles move as a subset and merge with other subsets. It's awesome when the wives, the husbands, and the children get along on their own accord, when you don't have to remind someone to be on their best behavior, give them pointers on good conversation, worry that while you are having the time of your life, your partner or your kids are picking lint out of their belly buttons or worse, starting a war.
Political blowhards, lecherous Lotharios, Snoopy marshmallows (as my Frenchy calls the less interesting), inappropriate jokers, and flirty kittens can ruin any night out, dinner, or mixed family gathering. I often wonder, if before heading out the couples have a chat about how to behave. "Please honey, don't tell so and so how gorgeous you thought she was last time. I think it made her uncomfortable." or "Can you just try to add something to the conversation, babe? You have lots to talk about when we are together." I love my Frenchy and I must tell you he is damned funny in French and in English! But truth be told, sometimes I ask him if he wouldn't mind chiming in, sharing a little bit of himself, letting people see how good, funny, intelligent he is. I know that often, we fall for our friends and are so excited by them that we don't imagine that their partners will wilt our flowers, bore us to tears, piss us off to raging blindness. Maybe we don't have to always come as a package. Perhaps it's best to define that role before we force our others on the group and find the space between us grow. Perhaps "we" is too much when all we want is "you" and "me."
If someone told me that they loved hanging with me, but would I mind leaving my Gaul at home, I think I would take that as an assault on my taste and style. Really? You don't want the good stuff? Or worse, you think I don't have the good stuff? Sometimes, it's true, husbands dampen the conversation. Especially when that convo is meant to be about them individually or collectively or about sex or about running away with the trainer (even in jest) or something so private you only want to share it with a good girlfriend, not her husband. But other times, a lively repartee between couples, discourse, new ideas, funny tales can solidify a friendship, make scheduling and entertaining that much easier. And when time is limited, babysitters are scarce, and a good get-together is just what you are looking for, it's nice to know that we can all get along.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Between a rock and hard place: A story in sleep torture
It seems that mine is a life of sleep deprivation and contorted positions. Before Lily was born I'd been given stern warning by mothers and women, friends and strangers even to get my rest. "Sleep now," they'd say,"because it all goes to hell when the baby is born." How could I have known, a single girl well into my thirties, who'd been able to drop in and out of bed whenever I chose, whose boyfriend/fiance/then husband was still willing to put some tape across his nose and rid himself of the rhinosounds, squeaks, and hisses, and who was still able to put in earplugs because the only thing she'd had to listen out for was, well, nothing, that these ominous warnings would predict a future so bleak that I should have been lying down all day every day?
Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family. It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister. None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.
We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt. I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down. She turned it up a notch to hysteria. I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow. She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me. She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her. I was knackered. Just wanted to get to sleep. My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.
As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired. When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed. Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company. Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks. "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom? May I wash my hands? Can I go to the bathroom?" Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle. Thank you. We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket.
Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door. I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls. My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either. I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom. While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay. He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea. Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.
During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old. Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results. I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me. But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her. After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction. I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired. I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night. This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.
I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years. I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago. For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors. Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them. Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me. I'm awake"
Night night.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family. It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister. None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.
We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt. I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down. She turned it up a notch to hysteria. I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow. She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me. She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her. I was knackered. Just wanted to get to sleep. My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.
As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired. When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed. Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company. Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks. "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom? May I wash my hands? Can I go to the bathroom?" Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle. Thank you. We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket.
Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door. I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls. My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either. I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom. While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay. He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea. Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.
During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old. Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results. I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me. But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her. After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction. I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired. I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night. This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.
I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years. I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago. For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors. Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them. Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me. I'm awake"
Night night.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
My children, thoughts after Trayvon Martin
Before having the ultrasound that would tell us the sex of our second child, I watched and wondered with amazement and curiosity my misshapened belly swelling and contorting in ways that it did not during the first pregnancy. "It's definitely a boy!" family members, friends, and strangers would point out, giving me all sorts of "proof" of this. "A boy for your husband. Good job." At this, I would cringe. The thought, the expectation that I might need to keep popping out people until a boy was handed over to my Cheshire grinning husband made me nervous and frankly quite sick. I wasn't sure I would be the best mother for a boy and worried about raising a biracial little boy who would want to take the lead from his father who had not at any time during this lifetime been a black man.
Yes, such is the way my brain works. I thought of my uncircumcised (My husband is French and would find circumcision completely barbaric and ridiculous. I actually agree, but all the other kids would be circumcised which would further alienate and complicate.), bi-cultural, bi-racial, brown-skinned boy trying to navigate the world of American boyhood. Baseball, football, ultimate Frisbee, basketball, all games my husband has never played nor enjoyed watching. I wondered if I would have to stand in front of the house teaching this child how to do and love these things, maybe even coach so that he just might have a fighting chance on the playground. Untucked shirts, pants hanging low (even if low-ish that's pretty low for a French guy who pulls his pants up close to his chest), and unkempt hair just might be too much for this Euro metrosexual who loves cologne as much as wine.
I panicked before I even had any idea the sex of the baby. Would I be the one to have "the talk" with our son? About how he was sweet and lovely with curls and an eager smile until he went into the local convenience store at twelve for some wholly unhealthy snack, until he and his friends sauntered home from school laughing and talking loudly about whatever it is teenage boys talk about, until he turned too quickly at a stop sign while driving a car full of his friends, until he wanted to date one of his lifetime playmates and then became "the black boy." I hated the thought of explaining that though he loved space and astronauts, science, art, music, girls, and skateboarding, people would look at him suspiciously because of the color of his skin, just waiting for him to do something wrong. I cringed thinking about explaining how "no matter what your white friends are doing, don't you get caught out there doing any of it!" The same message that, even as a young girl, I received.
All these things gave me pause, but none like needing to teach my little brown boy that though his parents were a mixed couple with a European father and an African-American mother, in the eyes of the United States of America he would be a little black child, a black boy, and that being a black boy was somehow "less than" no matter what we'd taught him. I agonized over having to explain to him and to his father that while yes he was indeed a boy of mixed heritage, in the United States definitions and criteria for Americanship are nebulous, and that here one is often forced to "choose a side", to simplistically label, and that black, no matter what popular culture (music, games, sports) would tell him, was not cool on the street, in your car, in the store, on a date.
How would I explain that even our president, the leader of the modern, free world still had to spend more time than necessary explaining who he was and where he came from, so much so that it often seemed like that was the only question anyone wanted answered, nevermind a sluggish economy and serious world issues to tackle. I woke up many nights in terror as I heard my husband describing our children as "metisse" or "Creole" with all the sincerity in the world, really having no idea what a young son of ours would endure. My husband is an altruist when it comes to race and culture, expecting that all should be open and curious about our differences and excited by our similarities. I hated to be the acid rain on the parade, but after all my years in this country I was not so optimistic about people. I was prepared if I needed to be, but extraordinarily grateful when the ultrasound told us that, once again, we were having a girl.
I am not proud of this. In truth there is a lot of shame for me that I just did not think I could bear it, could not live up to what a little black boy would need to become a strong, dignified, self-respecting black man in the face of overt and covert racism and discrimination. I knew that because of my fears and my inexperience with boys and males, that I would be a strict, aggressively clingy, overprotective mother. And that that could be possibly emasculating and harmful to the boy who just might not ever learn how to defend himself because at every turn, there I would be. I just knew that I was not great with boys and would take the responsibility of leading him and showing him a path through our racist, hypocritical culture as though it were a life and death matter. Already, my girls know that Mommy holds them accountable for more than many of their friends are held. They know that there are rules about self-respect, public behaviors, how we treat others, what we call them, and how we judge.
This afternoon, after a walk with a friend in a local reservation, we stopped into a Starbucks in a neighboring town. We were dressed in athletic gear. She with a fanny pack (very cute LeSportsSac) and I with a small, shoulder-slung backpack. She suggested we browse at a cute shoe store and also a little dress shop that looked promising. I bristled but not noticeably. We perused together and were met at the door by the shopkeeper who was kind and all smiles. We did not buy anything. I actually did not have any money with me, but we muttered to one another something about the shoes being cute and hoping to get back soon. On the sidewalk I mentioned to her that I don't usually go into small shops or boutiques, malls, department stores, anywhere really, dressed like I was for fear of being followed. "Shopping while black" I told her. She was quite surprised. I have known her nearly all my life. She is astute, incredibly intelligent, fair, open, very liberal (maybe even more so than myself) and had never considered this at all.
How I wish Lily and Virginie will not have to learn this. And I hope that they will not have to defend themselves against people who believe them to be sexually promiscuous, aggressive, emasculating, or less attractive or intelligent than their white counterparts. I hope that they are not given more to bear, too much to carry while others are given less to handle. I hope that they will not have to be representatives from the Planet Black or Planet Biracial explaining all the time who they are and what moves them. Can we still not find common ground?
When I hear the story of Trayvon Martin unfolding, when I see the injustice, when I see the hypocrisy, and the laissez-faire attitude with which a black life is considered, when I see how easy it is to describe a tall, lanky, unarmed black boy as suspicious with little disagreement or worse, ignored concern of good neighbors, my heart bleeds for us all.
Trayvon Martin could have been our child and but for the grace of God he could have been yours too. Hold your children close tonight. Whisper in their ears how they are loved, how you will honor them, how you want with them to make the world a better place. Then tell them how even in the leading country in the world, a citizen can be gunned down on the street, a child,a playmate, a friend, by a vigilante who thought that he, dressed like all the other teenaged boys in the world, looked suspicious. Let your kids know this, so they can feel it and help us change the world.
Yes, such is the way my brain works. I thought of my uncircumcised (My husband is French and would find circumcision completely barbaric and ridiculous. I actually agree, but all the other kids would be circumcised which would further alienate and complicate.), bi-cultural, bi-racial, brown-skinned boy trying to navigate the world of American boyhood. Baseball, football, ultimate Frisbee, basketball, all games my husband has never played nor enjoyed watching. I wondered if I would have to stand in front of the house teaching this child how to do and love these things, maybe even coach so that he just might have a fighting chance on the playground. Untucked shirts, pants hanging low (even if low-ish that's pretty low for a French guy who pulls his pants up close to his chest), and unkempt hair just might be too much for this Euro metrosexual who loves cologne as much as wine.
I panicked before I even had any idea the sex of the baby. Would I be the one to have "the talk" with our son? About how he was sweet and lovely with curls and an eager smile until he went into the local convenience store at twelve for some wholly unhealthy snack, until he and his friends sauntered home from school laughing and talking loudly about whatever it is teenage boys talk about, until he turned too quickly at a stop sign while driving a car full of his friends, until he wanted to date one of his lifetime playmates and then became "the black boy." I hated the thought of explaining that though he loved space and astronauts, science, art, music, girls, and skateboarding, people would look at him suspiciously because of the color of his skin, just waiting for him to do something wrong. I cringed thinking about explaining how "no matter what your white friends are doing, don't you get caught out there doing any of it!" The same message that, even as a young girl, I received.
All these things gave me pause, but none like needing to teach my little brown boy that though his parents were a mixed couple with a European father and an African-American mother, in the eyes of the United States of America he would be a little black child, a black boy, and that being a black boy was somehow "less than" no matter what we'd taught him. I agonized over having to explain to him and to his father that while yes he was indeed a boy of mixed heritage, in the United States definitions and criteria for Americanship are nebulous, and that here one is often forced to "choose a side", to simplistically label, and that black, no matter what popular culture (music, games, sports) would tell him, was not cool on the street, in your car, in the store, on a date.
How would I explain that even our president, the leader of the modern, free world still had to spend more time than necessary explaining who he was and where he came from, so much so that it often seemed like that was the only question anyone wanted answered, nevermind a sluggish economy and serious world issues to tackle. I woke up many nights in terror as I heard my husband describing our children as "metisse" or "Creole" with all the sincerity in the world, really having no idea what a young son of ours would endure. My husband is an altruist when it comes to race and culture, expecting that all should be open and curious about our differences and excited by our similarities. I hated to be the acid rain on the parade, but after all my years in this country I was not so optimistic about people. I was prepared if I needed to be, but extraordinarily grateful when the ultrasound told us that, once again, we were having a girl.
I am not proud of this. In truth there is a lot of shame for me that I just did not think I could bear it, could not live up to what a little black boy would need to become a strong, dignified, self-respecting black man in the face of overt and covert racism and discrimination. I knew that because of my fears and my inexperience with boys and males, that I would be a strict, aggressively clingy, overprotective mother. And that that could be possibly emasculating and harmful to the boy who just might not ever learn how to defend himself because at every turn, there I would be. I just knew that I was not great with boys and would take the responsibility of leading him and showing him a path through our racist, hypocritical culture as though it were a life and death matter. Already, my girls know that Mommy holds them accountable for more than many of their friends are held. They know that there are rules about self-respect, public behaviors, how we treat others, what we call them, and how we judge.
This afternoon, after a walk with a friend in a local reservation, we stopped into a Starbucks in a neighboring town. We were dressed in athletic gear. She with a fanny pack (very cute LeSportsSac) and I with a small, shoulder-slung backpack. She suggested we browse at a cute shoe store and also a little dress shop that looked promising. I bristled but not noticeably. We perused together and were met at the door by the shopkeeper who was kind and all smiles. We did not buy anything. I actually did not have any money with me, but we muttered to one another something about the shoes being cute and hoping to get back soon. On the sidewalk I mentioned to her that I don't usually go into small shops or boutiques, malls, department stores, anywhere really, dressed like I was for fear of being followed. "Shopping while black" I told her. She was quite surprised. I have known her nearly all my life. She is astute, incredibly intelligent, fair, open, very liberal (maybe even more so than myself) and had never considered this at all.
How I wish Lily and Virginie will not have to learn this. And I hope that they will not have to defend themselves against people who believe them to be sexually promiscuous, aggressive, emasculating, or less attractive or intelligent than their white counterparts. I hope that they are not given more to bear, too much to carry while others are given less to handle. I hope that they will not have to be representatives from the Planet Black or Planet Biracial explaining all the time who they are and what moves them. Can we still not find common ground?
When I hear the story of Trayvon Martin unfolding, when I see the injustice, when I see the hypocrisy, and the laissez-faire attitude with which a black life is considered, when I see how easy it is to describe a tall, lanky, unarmed black boy as suspicious with little disagreement or worse, ignored concern of good neighbors, my heart bleeds for us all.
Trayvon Martin could have been our child and but for the grace of God he could have been yours too. Hold your children close tonight. Whisper in their ears how they are loved, how you will honor them, how you want with them to make the world a better place. Then tell them how even in the leading country in the world, a citizen can be gunned down on the street, a child,a playmate, a friend, by a vigilante who thought that he, dressed like all the other teenaged boys in the world, looked suspicious. Let your kids know this, so they can feel it and help us change the world.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Parting the waters/Cultural divide
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.
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.
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