Today is the first day in quite a while that I woke up, got dressed, and headed to school feeling like I might be approaching ready to go home. Like the concept of leaving France in four weeks’ time wasn’t so overwhelming that I couldn’t breathe. Like the smiles and hugs and conversations and dog hair on my black clothing that await me are more important than the dwindling life I have here. I’m glad about that.
With my compadres gone and the school year winding down, I’ve had piles of time to think in the last two weeks. To really think. To sit on my bed, stare out my windows, drink some iced tea, cut my nails, and think. Thinking is dangerous – always – and productive – sometimes.
A week ago today I changed my life forever. I scraped together eight months’ worth of thought and feeling and I used them to stand up for myself. And that’s what this is about. Between the linguistic humiliations, the punks à chien asking for des petites pièces, the strikes, the insolent children, the adorable children, the buses that come too early or too late, and the landlady who apparently tells people that I “lack human warmth,” that’s what this is about. Me. Becoming me. Me. Finding a voice amongst the silence. Me. Learning to accept my own self-worth.
A week ago I told my friend and colleague P-O that he
a. frustrates the hell out of me
b. that I don’t understand him or the very fucked-up dynamic between us
c. that he gets under my skin like it’s his job
d. and that he does these things, I recognize, because I find him fascinating, intriguing and pretty incredible. That I admire him. That I like him – a lot. And I think he’s super hott. Okay. Not the hott part – I didn’t mention that.
While I’m sure he saw all of D coming (even the implied last bit,) the lift of his brows and slight bulge of brown eyes under those Lacoste glasses when he heard points A, B, and C told me that those were surprises. I opened our “conversation” in Classroom Trois with A, B, and C. I knew I’d find my way to D eventually, but it actually wasn’t as important.
The hour-long exchange that followed these revelations is too lengthy and too strange and too personal to detail here, and in the end, kind of irrelevant. Suffice it to say that life is complicated and so are people. Pierre and I are no exceptions. I mention this incident not because I want to spill my heart-goo or whine about the fact that the connerie of men knows no limits. I mention this because I’m not sure I’ve done anything scarier, or more necessary. I’ve never taken my emotional life into my hands and tried to fix it.
For years my older brother Emil has given me the same sage advice: if you want something, you have to take it for yourself. Seems simple enough. But this statement assumes that its practitioner truly believes, in her most quiet and tucked-away corners, that she merits that which she seeks. That she is worthy of her quarry. And that’s not always a fair assumption to make. Now I don’t mean to say that I have low self-esteem. Or at least, that I have lower self-esteem than average. I spent a good seventeen years being told that I was not only more intelligent and more promising than the world around me, but that I was also a lot cooler. And had naturally perfect eyebrows I should never pluck. (I did.) Westridge School for Girls saturated me with my own female empowerment. Become a neurosurgeon? Possible. A high-power environmental lawyer? Possible. An English professor with a PhD from Berkeley? Probable. Heartbroken, awkward, and allergic to nice guys? Definite.
But all the academic encouragement and stimulation from a truly stellar collection of teachers, and all of the emotional and psychic support from a mother whose generosity is fairly boundless, can’t make you take that extra step. They can’t make you look in the mirror and feel any prettier, and they can’t tell you that the ability to read Latin is just as bitchin’ as fluency in three living languages. They can’t reassign your nationality. They can’t make you pipe up when the silence is overwhelming and the words just aren’t coming. C’est à toi.
So after eight months of bewilderment and awkwardness and ambiguity and timidity and miscommunications and unnecessary acceptances and derangements and inconveniences and hard feelings and stifled personalities and text messages and non-contact and meaningful glances and être gênée and smirks and concealment and sweater buttons and hoodies and lunettes and copy machine competitions and musical pretensions and punitions and Atlantic distances and facial stubble (his!) and pierced ears…
I did something. For myself. For him. For us. FOR MYSELF.
Why? Because I couldn’t bear it any longer. Because I couldn’t stand being someone other than myself, someone who smiles shyly when she really wants to shout, who laughs when she wants to joke, who has perfected the meaningful glance when she’d rather say those words. When she’d rather hear them in her own voice and feel them form with her own lips. I’m tired of being quiet. And tranquille. And respectful. I’m tired of feeling like I’m unimportant and inconsequential. Cause I ain’t. Cause I deserve better. Cause I am worth more. TAKE THAT BUDDY.
IL FAUT AGIR.
IL FAUT VIVRE.
IL FAUT SE PARTAGER.
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