Wednesday, November 29, 2006
How French are you?
That awful woman who brought us French Women Don´t Get Fat is at it again with another book, which I won´t name because I don´t want to promote it. But I will promote Mireille´s quiz, dubbed, "How French are you?" It turns out that (sigh of relief) I am "une vraie française." But that´s because I lied on about half the questions.
This brings me to identity. My Franco-Irish-American identity. I´m the only American Raftery with this issue. When Finn was three years old, the verbose little guy proclaimed to my mother that he was half French, half Irish and 100 percent American. My parents have moved away from this indulgent exercise and onto people of other origins. (Rob is from the U.S. but his grandma lived in Mexico and Hana is from the Czech Republic, but she spent a long while in Germany.)
Me, I have a little more trouble. I moved to the States when I was four, and I remember missing Ireland terribly. I spent my summers in France listening to my aunts´and uncles´vehemently anti-American rhetoric. I remember my parents vowing they would never give up their European identities, remember my father walking around our St. Patrick´s Day parties, counting the number of nationalities present. Dad´s rule was that a person had to have been born in the country or be a passport holder. The highest number he reached was 14, Finn being the only American.
My parents have since become American citizens, as have many of their international buddies. My father waved that star-spangled banner after 9-11 and he took me to the voting polls when he cast his first votes. "When are you going to get your citizenship," he would ask, and I kept coming up with excuses. The lamest one was that it shouldn´t matter, as reporters shouldn´t express their opinions. He provided an all-too American response. "It´s your constitutional right!" Then he laughed. "Isolde," he said, "When have you not expressed your opinion?"
In Central America, I´ve had an identity shift. At first I said that I was from Ireland, hoping that lurking pick-pockets might have heard of the potato famine and take pity. I found out on my second day that it don´t matter where whitey´s from, so long as she´s got money. Plus, I felt as though I was lying.
Then I said that I lived in the United States. "Where?" They would ask. For a while, I said Seattle, but that too felt like a lie, since I haven´t lived in Seattle for seven years. I switched to Washington state, which brought about further confusion. "The capital!" They would exclaim. Nope, I would say, though I lived there once. "How near to New York?" And I would say far, though I lived there once too. At this point, they would have grown bored of the "hot-hot-cold-where-are-you-from" game.
But yesterday, to my teacher, I finally said it. "I´m just American. Kind of from all over the country, like most Americans. Kind of from all over the world, like most Americans." She got it.
Today, a Peruvian guy at our hostel was confused because he heard me speak French and English. "Where are you from?" he asked. "Soy estadounidense," I said, "Pero mi mamá es de francia. Entonces, yo hablo frances."
"Oh, you´re American," he said in English. "That makes sense."
I thought so too.
This brings me to identity. My Franco-Irish-American identity. I´m the only American Raftery with this issue. When Finn was three years old, the verbose little guy proclaimed to my mother that he was half French, half Irish and 100 percent American. My parents have moved away from this indulgent exercise and onto people of other origins. (Rob is from the U.S. but his grandma lived in Mexico and Hana is from the Czech Republic, but she spent a long while in Germany.)
Me, I have a little more trouble. I moved to the States when I was four, and I remember missing Ireland terribly. I spent my summers in France listening to my aunts´and uncles´vehemently anti-American rhetoric. I remember my parents vowing they would never give up their European identities, remember my father walking around our St. Patrick´s Day parties, counting the number of nationalities present. Dad´s rule was that a person had to have been born in the country or be a passport holder. The highest number he reached was 14, Finn being the only American.
My parents have since become American citizens, as have many of their international buddies. My father waved that star-spangled banner after 9-11 and he took me to the voting polls when he cast his first votes. "When are you going to get your citizenship," he would ask, and I kept coming up with excuses. The lamest one was that it shouldn´t matter, as reporters shouldn´t express their opinions. He provided an all-too American response. "It´s your constitutional right!" Then he laughed. "Isolde," he said, "When have you not expressed your opinion?"
In Central America, I´ve had an identity shift. At first I said that I was from Ireland, hoping that lurking pick-pockets might have heard of the potato famine and take pity. I found out on my second day that it don´t matter where whitey´s from, so long as she´s got money. Plus, I felt as though I was lying.
Then I said that I lived in the United States. "Where?" They would ask. For a while, I said Seattle, but that too felt like a lie, since I haven´t lived in Seattle for seven years. I switched to Washington state, which brought about further confusion. "The capital!" They would exclaim. Nope, I would say, though I lived there once. "How near to New York?" And I would say far, though I lived there once too. At this point, they would have grown bored of the "hot-hot-cold-where-are-you-from" game.
But yesterday, to my teacher, I finally said it. "I´m just American. Kind of from all over the country, like most Americans. Kind of from all over the world, like most Americans." She got it.
Today, a Peruvian guy at our hostel was confused because he heard me speak French and English. "Where are you from?" he asked. "Soy estadounidense," I said, "Pero mi mamá es de francia. Entonces, yo hablo frances."
"Oh, you´re American," he said in English. "That makes sense."
I thought so too.
