2008 Woodie Awards
After watching my compatriots eagerly search for items most closely resembling hot dogs, corn chips, and red, white, and blue Bomb Pops in the supermarket, I went home to have dinner with my French family. We had nothing like the bizarre combo the other Americans had thrown together: andouille sausage stuck inside a baguette, sliced the long-way, with tarte aux pommes for dessert.
This meal arose out of their desire to celebrate the Forth of July, here in France. A desire I, for many reasons, did not share. Sure, I like picnics, fireworks, and the tingle of sunburned cheeks on a cool, summer night. But I guess I’m not one to celebrate my nation’s independence in a country far from my own. Patriotism generally tends to creep me out. It’s not that I’m not proud of where I come from. I am. I just don’t feel compelled to put it on display.
It turns out I’m not alone.
La Prise de la Bastille, or Bastille Day, took place this past Saturday, July 14. In preparation for the French national holiday, my professor prepared a few activities for us to complete during class. We reviewed the symbols of the French Republic: the flag, the rooster, the Phrygien bonnet. The motto: liberty, equality, brotherhood; the national hymn, “La Marseillaise;” and Marianne, the feminine face of the nation. As I looked around the room I noted that my classmates were more pumped about the quatorze juillet than any French people I’d seen. Most of the girls were outfitted in blue, white and red; their red pearls matched their red bracelets, which matched their red heels.
We broke up into pairs for the first activity. Our mission was to walk up to people on the street and ask them to explain the origins of these symbols. Easy enough.
Our first contestant was a middle-aged woman standing by an island of best-sellers in a bookstore. She was obviously occupied but politely told us that the rooster came from the Gauls, the people who lived in France during ancient times.
The following few people we asked were much more reluctant to answer our questions. Granted, I’m fairly threatening at 5’2”, speaking broken French with an American accent, determined to complete my questionnaire. But really, they didn’t clam up until after our greeting, until the actual questions started flowing.
“Hum,” one guy stammered in response to our question. “What does the 14 of July represent to France?”
“These questions aren’t for me. It’s not my thing.”
OK, onto the next.
“No, sorry. Not me.”
Damn.
When our time was up we headed back to our classroom, the survey half finished. Everyone, it seemed, had a similar experience.
Thinking that perhaps people didn’t want to talk to us because we were American students, I asked my host mom some of the questions at home. She explained that overall, the French are edgy around nationalism. They’re careful not to come off as patriotic and don’t feel responsible for celebrating a national identity. She said they take more pride in what comes out of France, like cuisine, wine, literature, or art, than in the nation itself. People don’t fly the French flag from their doorsteps, there are no “I’m Proud to Be French” songs on the radio, and you would never see someone sporting a “God Bless France” T-shirt. All of that would be really embarrassing, she said.
It’s no surprise then that in addition to playing Charles Trenet’s World War II version of the song “Douce France,” we also listened to Rachid Taha’s 1986 version, complete with Algerian background music and a new verse. We discussed the line “sweet France, dear country of my childhood,” and how it’s meaning might change for someone who has confronted racial prejudice or complications with immigration. We recognized that being a citizen of a nation means acknowledging the nation’s mistakes as well as its achievements.
As I observed the events of the holiday weekend, it seemed the French were more concerned about getting to the beach for vacation than about celebrating the storming of the Bastille. The small number of locals who stayed in the city strolled up and down the Boulevard des Pyrénées. No one knew when or where the fireworks were to take place, and most didn’t seem to care. They were content walking arm-in-arm with their sweethearts or carrying their children, asleep in little, baby backpacks.
I rode my bike home, the chain clicking with each turn of the pedals, through the silent streets and dark neighborhoods. I lay in bed waiting for sleep and after a while, heard the distant popping sounds of fireworks.
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