Why the French are gonna be alright

Family and friends have been asking me how things are in France.  We are now going on three weeks since my adopted country got shaken by the worst acts of terrorism most of the French have seen in their lifetimes.  If the horrific images of November 13th are starting to grow distant, they are still in the back of our minds.  If the hunt for the terrorists isn't the top story on the news, we keep wondering if something else will happen soon.

One of my students asked me if it was perhaps easier for me to deal with since, as an American, I'd already experienced 9/11.  As we were sitting there five days after what people were already calling the French 9/11, I had to say, no.  It doesn't make it any easier, I said, as I wiped away the beginning of a tear.  And besides, as France is also my home now, it was like they were attacking my second homeland.

After the rawness started fading more into resolution that life in France had changed, I noticed something else starting to happen.  Resistance.  "The danger is eveywhere, so the danger is nowhere," an older stage actor said on the news as he encouraged people to keep going to the theatre.  And not more than a week after, I saw Parisian ladies drinking mojitos on TV and proudly  saying they were going out anyway.

That's when I realized, the French are gonna be alright.  And it's for the very reasons they are sometimes mocked around the world.  But now those "faults" have become their strengths.

It's because they're proud and stubborn.  How many times have I bemoaned these very things on my blog in some gentle French-bashing?  Like how they love to brag about how their country and food are so great, for example.  But now that pride will serve them well as they remember how much they love their country.

And as they keep going to concerts, even if they are afraid and check out the exit doors before, as one TV report showed, they are also one of the most hard-headed nations I've ever seen!  Just look how many train strikes these people can pull off in a year!  Never try to win an argument with a Frenchman.

It's because they love life.  Joie de vivre.  It's a French expression that has even crept into English.  As one journalist mentioned after the attack, it seemed that's what the terrorists were targeting when they so cowardly shot people on terrace cafés.  But you can't kill the spirit of a people who love life this much, who can go into ecstasy over the subtelties of cheese and wine and pastries.  I know, 'cause I teach French people, and their capacity to talk about the little things in life is endless.  And in these dark days after the attacks, that will help them get through things.

It's because they are more like Americans than they realize!  For all the jokes our two nations may trade across the ocean, we are actually eerily similar.  After the attacks, there were more French flags put proudly on display.  The president even encouraged people to hang them from their windows two Fridays ago during the national "hommage."   The flag that used to be reserved for sporting events and Bastille Day has come out of the closet.  The French are just as patriotic as we are, just in their own way.

So even though I am still worried about the threats out there, I know the French are strong.  Strong-willed, too.  It takes one to know one.  And just like America after our 9/11, they will keep on going.  Keep on living and laughing and fighting.

Fakin' it in a tweetin' world

Tweet! Get it?!

Yes, I am one of those people who writes silly hashtags on my Facebook posts from time to time.  Another attempt to be witty and get a like or a virtual chuckle.  I really should consult a professional about this perpetual need for approval. 

But I was wondering what happens to all those fake hashtags I add as an afterthought to some posts. So I signed up with Twitter. For the sole purpose of investigating my hashtags.

This is monumental if you know that I swore I would never have a Twitter account.  Something about not wasting all my time on the Internet.  Yeah, that one worked out well.  And my mom actually had a Twitter account before me.  I know!

So there I am, eager to see my hashtags in the Twittersphere and...silence.  Virtual crickets chirping. 

A newsflash that will come as a surprise to no one except me- if you don't link Facebook and Twitter and make your posts public, your hashtag will fall silently in that deep forest that is in the Internet.

But I wouldn't let it go.  I was still curious if other people had used some of my "fake" hashtags.  So I searched for some of my more recent ones like: #toomanyfairytales or #shesgotapoint and #childlogic. And, bingo, a string of unrelated posts (not mine) of people saying these very same things.  Different situations but the same hashtag. 

And I felt an immediate kinship with these people.  Ok, we're not going out for coffee or anything, but I got a kick out of the fact that there are other people who were having some funny or frustrating moment in their lives and categorized it with the same feeling or phrase as me. 

And I got to thinking that Twitter, with its limited number of characters, is a bit like our modern day haiku.  And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Forcing us to condense ideas in a small space, adding a tag to label that moment.  To capture the essence.

So the take-home message is, there is no such thing as a fake hashtag.  Because we are the authors of the Internet and we are making this up as we go along. 

Recently there have been some funny and powerful uses of hashtags.  No doubt you've heard of the Muslim backlash against ISIS or Al Qaeda with #notinmyname. But there was also a slew of humorous cat tweets in the  #Brusselslockdown situation last weekend where Belgians posted cat pics instead of giving away information on police or military searches. 

Not to mention #MuslimID recently from Muslims posting their military, hospital or police badges in response to Donal Trump's suggestion that all Muslims have an ID or closer surveillance.  Or the husband who honored his deceased wife with #100lovenotes and inspired others to express their feelings to their loved ones.

Frankly, I love the idea that one person can come up with an idea and it can set fire to the Internet and spread a message so quickly.  So with all the ugliness in this world and all the futile stuff we can find on the Net, sometimes a little tag can go along way.  Will Twitter and hashtags last forever? #onlytimewilltell

Message from a war zone

I woke up this morning because my husband was blowing his nose rather loudly.

My daughter came in shortly after and woke us up again (though we were already up).  We had a family cuddle and I gave her Eskimo and butterfly kisses. 

Then she opened the living room door letting the cat come and "wake us up" in his turn. 

I woke up to rain on a chillier autumn day than we have had recently. 

I woke up to three iMessages from my mom.  Asking me if I'd seen the news, was I ok. 

I woke up to the bad news that most of the rest of the world already knew.

I woke up to three messages on Facebook and several emails from concerned friends and family.

I woke up in a war zone of sorts.  I woke up to a France more terrorized than ever.  To a Paris that was mourning its dead and wondering what would happen next.

If my my small city two hours from Paris seemed spared this time, it is still all a little too close to home.   It is also a little too familiar after the Charlie Hebdo attacks in January and the near miss of the Thalys train in August. 

Where I live, life goes on pretty much as before.  People gathered to light candles and observe about half an hour of silence.  But other than that, we are here for another day, shopping and driving and just living. 

And as with every attack before, we are saddened, and scratching our heads.  Wondering how people could kill innocents like that, kill themselves, all for a cause that is so perverted and so far from godly.

I have a dream, a lot like Marin Luther King, Jr.  A dream that Muslim children and Christian children play together.  A dream that kids play together no matter where their parents come from or what language they speak at home.  A dream that people from different backgrounds talk openly and see how very much they are alike.

The thing is, that dream is already here.  I see it everyday in Juliette's school.  Her best friend is from a Muslim family.  Yesterday when I picked her up I did the cheek kisses with several moms, two of whom are Muslim, one of whom was wearing a scarf that let a few black strands of hair peek out. 

I heard the Syrian father who came to France with his family about a year ago and whose French is improving every day.  I saw his son come happily out of the schoolyard, speaking French like the other kids but his own language with his father.

So if it can work in the schoolyard in my little middle-class city neighborhood, and if it can work in so many Parisian offices and schools and park benches, why is this kind of evil still being perpetrated?  The terrorists attacked Paris, attacked the French everyday citizen.  But how many of those people are/were living out a peaceful coexistence with different faiths and cultures?

These terrorists picked the wrong target.  Not that there ever is a right target.  France, the way I see it, is already doing pretty well at integrating and accepting different nationalities and religions.  It's not perfect, but it's getting there. 

And I know, as the father of Juliette's best friend has told me time and again, this is not Islam.  Real Muslims don't kill in the name of their god.  And I know French Muslims weep today just as I am. 

And I know that my dream of different cultures living and working together will keep being played out.   We have to keep that dream alive.

How the French do Halloween

Candy and pumpkins, check!

I thought about calling this post "How the French DON'T do Halloween."  But that wouldn't be exactly true.  They do celebrate Halloween, just in there own way.  That is to say, not exactly how North Americans do.

I was looking for some type of accessory for Juliette to be a vampire for her day care party last week.  We were in the biggest supermarket in our city, where they had dedicated an aisle to costumes.  I was surprised that nearly all the costumes were of the scary or dark kind: witches, grim reapers, vampires, skeletons. There were a few pumpkin costumes for the little ones and some called "gothic dolls" which were more like Monster High "light" for young girls.  But what about pirates, cowboys, fairies?  If you want a costume like that in France, you have to go to the toy section, thank you very much.

That is the thing about the French and Halloween.  When they aren't dissing it for being an "American" holiday they are complaining about it only being scary and gory.  My other expat friends have noticed this, too.  No, I tell the French naysayers!  You can be anything you want for Halloween in the US.  When I was a little schoolgirl I was anything from a doctor, tooth fairy, witch or school teacher.  Halloween may indeed have its origins in ghosts and ghouls, but it is also about any costume and being anything you want, for just a day or night.  Kind of like a Halloween American Dream fusion.  And though I did see a few kids dressed in non-scary costumes, the majority of those I saw going door-to-door this year were in black and bloody attire.

Speaking of trick-or-treating, I think I am doing my American parenting thing wrong.  Living in an apartment, I have never actually taken Juliette door-to-door.  When we saw some kids out around 5 pm last Saturday, she was at first perplexed, then wondering why they were all dressed in scary things.  For the record, she was also a cowgirl for the home parties we attended and hosted.  The vampire outfit was more in honor of her favorite TV show du jour, Chica Vampiro.

Those French parents who do not let their kids do trick-or-treating may (rightfully) say it's kind of dangerous.  They might also tell you that they already have a holiday where kids dress up, and that it's not scary (oh, please, stop with the Halloween is scary thing!).  That would be carnaval, the equivalent of mardi gras.  During carnaval children dress as anything, knights and princesses and animals.

Besides, many of my French students tell me, Halloween is just an American thing to make money!  Well, not exactly.  It is Celtic and Anglo-Saxon, but not exclusively American.  Some students make a point in telling me they celebrate All Saints' Day, the day after Halloween, which is a religious holiday.  Ok, so not only is Halloween a money-making opportnity in their eyes, but they have to get all sanctimonious on me!

I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree on Halloween, as on so many things.  They will never exactly get my giddiness about dressing up at work for Halloween (Bollywood princess this year) and I will never understand their love of silly slapstick comedians like Jerry Lee Lewis.  Can't we all just get along?

40 is just a number. 40 does a number on you.

Can I just tell you, 40, no big deal?  It's those months after your birthday that you start to suddenly realize, hey, 40, that's half of 80.  Hey, 40, that's when I should have accomplished a lot of things in my life.  Hey, 40, isn't that supposed to be the new 30?  Hey, 40, would you shut up already and let me get on with my life?!

But that's the thing.  I have never been so good at getting on with my life.  As in making decisions and feeling totally at peace with them and hence myself.  So at 41 (and a half), things just start getting complicated in my head.  And don't get me started on the fine lines around my eyes.

So as I often do when in an existential dilemma, I look to my cultural references for a little help.  That would be movies and songs, as I've done before.

Sliding Doors
I can't tell you how many times I've seen this movie, but I find something new in it every time.  The concept is that Gwyneth Paltrow's character's life could take very different paths just based on whether she catches one subway or the train after it.  Hence the sliding doors reference.


Watching this movie we can see that, in a way, every moment is a yes or no decision, a binary 1 or 0.  And that can put too much pressure on each decision.   Am I making the right one?  This moment is so crucial!  Even though her life could take very different paths, in the end she is where she is supposed to be.

Take-home message:
Maybe things end up the way they should; different paths can lead to the same (correct) answer.  Plus, this movie has a killer soundtrack.

Strictly Ballroom
Another one I watched more times than I could count.  Love Baz Luhrmann.  Love the campy, kitschy characters and their awesome Aussie accents.  A mousey young woman wants to be dance partners with the handsome lead.  She is transformed by the experience and overcomes her fears.  Her mantra is: a life lived in fear is a life half-lived.


Decisions are hard enough but when fear is involved it paralyzes you.  And by never making decisions (be they right or wrong), we aren't living to our full potential.

Take-home message:
Fear is killing you softly (with its song*, killing you softly). So say goodbye to fear and just do it (thank you, Nike). 

Non, je ne regrette rien
I am not a huge Edith Piaf fan, but this song has a great message.   When I teach my students the structure "should have done" I often ask them what in their life they wish had done differently.  Most say, I don't have any regrets.  Maybe they would have liked to study something different in school, but they accept where they are today and always find something positive to say about it.


Take-home message:
Isn't there a saying, he who regrets is a fool twice?  Why waste time and energy regretting, especially if it's over a small issue.

So as I am firmly on the "dark" side of 40, I am trying to see things with a pinch of persepctive and a dab of devil-may-care.  Maybe I will make the wrong decision but life goes on. I can always change my mind, re-work things, re-evaluate, change paths, retool.  Reset.  Forty is not the end.  It's just a new chapter.  And as Bon Jovi said (and I can't believe I am quoting him), "it's my life/it's now or never." 

* And if fear had a song, I bet it would be creepy, scary and keep you up at night humming it in your ear.

How to be exotic

The "eyes" have it.

"Madame est américaine," said the middle-aged woman in my stretching class two weeks ago.  She said it with a mix of pride and curiosity.  An American amid the sports mats and barefooted, mostly 50ish women who were warming up to...stretch.

"Ooohhh," the exercising ladies seemed to say collectively.  How exotic! In this pale blue room in an apartment complex in a small French city, there is a foreigner!  The teacher asked how to say my name and she repeated it a few times to get it right.  I felt their admiring or curious glances on me and was a little embarassed to be the center of attention just for my nationality.  No matter how much I try to imitate a French speaker, my accent betrays me, as it did this time.

Growing up in Alabama, somehow I was never considered exotic.  My strawberry blonde hair might have made me stand out a little, but since there are plenty of people of Scotch-Irish descent where I live, that wasn't that unusual.  In school, especially middle and high school, a little shy and uptight were more likely the words people would use to describe me.

But now that I live in France it is strange how "exotic" I have become.  It's like I am the Selma Hayek of my neighborhood.   It doesn't happen everyday but now and then I realize I am still very different from the people around me, just by my origins and accent.

Some people maybe are too shy themselves to point out that my accent isn't exactly local.  But when they do they may have a slew of questions for me.  Somehow I get bashful answering them, even though I encourage my students to ask me these things during our first lesson.  Somehow I would rather talk about my daughter or how she speaks English than my own history.

After 13 years in this country (plus one month, to be exact), I suppose I can still elicit questions.   "Is it hard to be away from your family?"  Yes.  "Do you like it here?"  Uh, depends on the day.  "Why did you come?"  For my husband.  Maybe I get tired of answering but they don't get tired of asking.

And I don't blame them.  I do the same when I meet another foreigner in France.  I barrage them with the same questions because I am curious, especially because I know what it's like to rip up your roots and plant yourself elsewhere.

Even Remi seems to forget we are "exotic" by being a "mixed" marriage.  When we saw a report about a Frenchman married to an Italian woman, he said, that must be funny to always have people asking about your accent and where you're from.  Yeah, like me, I said.

So I guess I'll have to get used to my tropical status.  I will always be that mom on the playground or schoolyard who talks to her kid in English.  The one who dresses up at work for Halloween.  The one who gives hugs to other Anglo colleagues instead of cheek kisses.  (Though I do the cheek kisses, too.)  Just call me Penelope Cruz or Shakira or, even, l'américaine.  That's me and I'll be happy to answer a few questions.  But just a few.

Seven is so...

For each age, there is a stage.  I've already chronicled some of the more well-known ones, most recently six and a half.  But my little one keep's getting taller and smarter and sassier.  There are also still some very sweet moments so it's frankly hard to qualify my 7-year old.  But since I like lists, I'll try anyhow.

Seven is sassy
I just came back from dropping Juliette off at her scouting walk in the woods.  Shy at first around the other parents, after five minutes she was chastizing me for not getting the right photo album to put all their scout poems in. And not to mention scooting away from me when I tried to get her to wear her raincoat.  And frankly there are some times at home when I think she is 7 going on 13 judging by her tone of voice or eye-rolling.  Oh no, the seven-year old is no stranger to sarcasm;

Seven is silly
But she still has that school girl sense of humor.  Poop and gas still make her giggle.  Or just telling silly stories or making her Playmobil characters attack each other and be "bad."  She will still make funny faces in some photographs and make up funny songs (in English, too, to my great pleasure).

Seven is serious
The age of reason is upon us.  She questions whether God exists and has her opinions about a lot of things. She listens to what happens in the news and though she doesn't always get it at the time she will later make connections about things and ask me questions.  Just today she integrated Syrian lions in her Playmobil game since we have been talking about the migrant situation lately.

Seven is sweet
She likes to play with my hair or take my face in her hands.  She loves bedtime stories and requests cuddles.  So even though she sometimes stares at me fiercely with those cool blue eyes, I know her sweet side will come back soon. 

Seven is still small
I can still pick her up and Remi can still put her on his shoulders for a piggy-back ride.  Of course she's getting heavier and these rides are shorter than before but she is still a "little" girl.  I sometimes look at her hands or feet compared to mine and marvel at their "still" smallness.

 Seven is starting...
...starting to see the world differently.  She is now enamored of slightly bigger girl shows like Chica Vampiro and she cares about how her hair will be done for school.  She is starting to read and write so much better and have real "lessons" at school about line segments and living versus non-living things.

Seven is seven
She can't escape her age, and neither can I.  She says "ewww" when people kiss on tv and she still dawdles at bedtime because she wants to watch another news report on tv.  She still asks me to stay a while with her in her bed before she goes to sleep and yells "mom" insistently because she desperately needs some construction paper.  Seven is a lot of things and I try to appreciate them all without letting her turn into a spoiled brat.

The other day at the playground that she's been going to since she was a toddler there were some middle-schoolers showing off on the swings, acting out, acting their age.  I said in English to Juliette that I didn't like it when the big kids hung around the playground.  "Does that mean you won't like me when I'm big?" she asked.  "Of course, I'll love you," I said.  "I just hope you won't get on the swings when there are little kids around."

And I'll do my best to love her for who she is today.