Une Recette

I’ve been back in Bor-dizzle for about a week and a half now and even I am finding that hard to comprehend. My summer at home was such a stunningly different experience than any that I have here; it truly feels like a world away.

Now that I’m back in 33000, I can admit that my feelings were more than mixed about returning. When I left here three months ago, I couldn’t feel anything other than sadness, and when I got home I couldn’t feel anything other than an aching desire to go back. Those weeks were rough, feeling neither here nor there. Feeling neither American nor French. Anya/Joanna. Out at sea, drowning in disorientation. But living in the safe warmth of my mom’s house in LA is easy. The bookcases in my room are comforting. Walking through the grass of our front yard is a pleasure, and sitting on our porch with a long-haired cat drooling into the nook of my elbow is simple. It feels genuine, and so unquestionably natural that everything else feels like a sham.

I was mid-shower a few hours ago and something occurred to me: a distinct memory of myself sitting on the edge of my bed chez Dejean six months ago. Talking to my mom on the phone about my desire to return to Bordeaux and my assistantship. I was feeling pretty nervous about telling her that I’d accept the position were it offered, and I surprised myself with the words coming out of my mouth. I told her I felt I needed to return because I “hadn’t finished the work I started.” By that I meant in no way the actual “work” I have. I meant the bulldozing and reconstruction of self. The wiping clean of my personal slate, and the organic reforming of my personality. That probably sounds like a bunch of bullshit, and the memory of that conversation made me laugh as I brushed out my hair under the water. But I meant it then. I meant it when I said that I felt like living in France was making me a better person, and that while it was often hard and often tear-inducing, I knew I was growing from it. So many parts of last year were wretched. I hated how insignificant I felt in my job and how small I felt around my colleagues. Who for the most part, didn’t seem remotely interested in getting to know me. I hated my landlady. I hated her hellhound who peed on my bed and then shat on our kitchen floor. I sure as hell hated the UHT milk. But I loved how immediate and important and, for lack of a better word, “raw” it all felt. How unsafe it was. How overwhelming and critical and personal it seemed. Like life was direct. Like maybe, for once, I was living in my brain and body simultaneously, appreciating every sensation I could experience. Be it the extreme hurt I felt, or the joy of eating salty caramel ice cream. It was so important.

And it is still. Being here still feels like something I need to be doing for myself, but I’ve been reminded of something major this summer:

I don’t need to wipe my personal slate clean. I don’t need to create when I can evolve.

In other words: I need to remember that I’m not so bad; I need to give myself permission to like myself more.

I’ve told all of my teachers (and subsequently all of my students) this year that my name is Anya. I’m hoping – not to bury – Joanna, but to make sure she was a character from last year’s chapter. I don’t need that alias’ foolhardy and naïve approach towards French men, for one, and I don’t want to be that insecure people-pleaser anymore. Does this mean I officially have multiple personalities? Perhaps. Multiple personalities are pretty handy.

My peanut butter arrived yesterday, along with my measuring cups, baking soda/powder, knitting, winter coat, and every bar of soap my mom has been stashing for the last five years.

I feel slightly ashamed admitting this, but despite my imminent trip to Sweden where temperatures are already below freezing, I was most excited about the peanut butter.

AUX FRANÇAIS : BEURRE DE CACAHUÈTE = BON.