Double Exposure

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have now started our descent to the John F. Kennedy Airport, landing in New York City. Please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened. We will be on the ground shortly."  This landing ritual at the end of a westbound flight across the Atlantic never fails to evoke a persistent ambivalence: Am I coming home, or leaving it? The same question arises on eastbound flights ending with the same PA announcement in French: “Mesdames, Messieurs, nous arrivons à l'aéroport Charles de Gaulle à Paris. Nous vous prions de bien vouloir attacher vos ceintures pour l'atterrissage."  In either direction, I feel that I belong to neither. And to both.

On the one hand, I was born, raised and educated in France where I lived in Paris until I was 21. I grew up immersed in the Mediterranean (also called Latin) culture, values, way of life, attitudes, customs, rituals and mindsets. French was my first language. My formative years, which usually leave a permanent impression even if they are later outnumbered by the rest of one's life, were spent in Paris. However, after two years of college, I was not happy and wanted a change of scenery.

On the other, I have spent my entire adult life (or twice that many years) in the United States, starting in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and subsequently spending various amounts of time in New Jersey, Massachusetts, then Illinois, Michigan, and Minnesota again, and Utah, following the various trails my life journey took me on. This all before setting up a bipolar life of summers in Wisconsin and winters in southwest Florida with my second husband, after retirement.  My adult years have exposed me to the cultural and ethnic diversity of this country. They introduced me to the Anglo-Saxon culture, with its more reserved temperament and less expressive norms of communication, both resulting from very different value systems.

My first crossing of the Atlantic Ocean was by plane, at age 21. There was no doubt in my mind that I was, indeed, leaving home. My parents were very distressed by my departure since I was following in the footsteps of my mother's younger sister who had herself emigrated to the U.S. 12 years earlier. The fact that I was going to stay with her and her family -- which included five children and one on the way -- in Minneapolis somewhat softened the blow for them.

For my return to France the following year -- necessary to obtain the permanent visa and green card I needed to get a job in the States, I sailed on a French ocean liner. The anticipation of going home was very strong and unilateral, both upon leaving the pier in New York and coming into view of Le Havre. Going home was still a non-equivocal process at that point, though mixed with anxiety to meet again the ghosts I had purposely left behind the previous year.

Eleven months later, and equipped with the necessary documents, I made my second westbound trip, again on a French ocean liner, the SS France (which later became the SS Norway, when it was bought and refurbished by the Norwegian Caribbean Cruise Line), to return to and settle in the Twin Cities. This time, I was able to experience the exhilarating feeling of slowly approaching the Statue of Liberty, while reflecting on its symbolism. Unlike the first immigrants arriving at Ellis Island, I was seeking adventure, not refuge. Like them, however, my expectations and excitement at the prospect of starting a new life were boundless. The first twinge of question whether I was going or leaving home probably occurred on that trip. Once settled in Minneapolis as a permanent resident, I soon found employment and met a young American whom I married a few months later.

All my subsequent crossings for the next 50 years were done by air. As my life became more and more rooted in this country through marriage, working in various fields, motherhood, and many moves, the landing ritual on either side of the Atlantic brought on an increasingly ambivalent feeling of having one foot on each side of the Atlantic.

This ambivalence became more crucial for me when, two years after my first husband and I were married, I found I had to renounce my French nationality to become an American citizen before my husband and I could legally adopt the seven-months old daughter who had been ours since she was three weeks old. Unfortunately, dual nationality was not an option for French citizens 33 years ago, so I had to give up my French citizenship. That is when I first discovered that nationality is an emotional reality, regardless of the color or language of one's passport.            

I am proud of the strengths of each country, and will defend and try to explain each to the other. Like all good citizens, I often complain about the shortcomings of each government and the down side of each culture. For the last 30 years, I have been stirred equally by the Star Spangled Banner and La Marseillaise -  even if, in true French fashion, I don’t put my right hand on my chest. As such, I am also uncomfortable with hearing our solemn and emotional U.S. anthem played before trivial events such as boisterous ballgames. And thus I became completely bi-national, bilingual and bicultural by the time I was 45.

To do so, I had to learn to enjoy the best of both the Mediterranean and the Anglo-Saxon cultures without pitting one against the other, and to feel ambivalence without conflict. Both my second husband – born, raised and educated in England – and I "feel" American when we are in France and England, and French and English respectively when we are in the U.S. However, when we are elsewhere in Europe, I "feel" French first, and American second. And my husband feels British first, and then American. But when we travel abroad, we position ourselves as Americans, adding our French or British dimensions if appropriate. How very subtle are those nuances!

I can at the same time admire and appreciate the benefits of the very accessible American educational opportunities available to people of all ages (so long as they can afford it), while preferring the substantially higher educational level of French primary and secondary schools, and the fact that higher education is free (so long as they can meet the very exacting admission requirements).

I can at the same time resent having to not wave my hands around while I talk (it took me several months of concerted effort and definite discomfort not to do so, after I moved to the US), or to not touch the shoulder or the arm of the person to whom I am speaking (Anglos are more conscious of personal space when talking to someone than Latins who prefer closer contact), while appreciating that Americans don't interrupt as often and don't speak as loudly as the French. I can at the same time feel totally in tune with the demonstrativeness of Latin people and their ability to enjoy life, while respecting and admiring the more disciplined and law-abiding aspect of the American temperament.

I can at the same time value and appreciate the French sense of style, elegance and refinement in dress, in architecture, cuisine or art, while respecting and admiring American creativity and resourcefulness, as well as their unmatched sense of service to their customers.

And so I discovered that the essence of a dual nationality is the permanent and simultaneous enjoyment of the one country while missing the other. It is "being home" in two places, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.           

I know that I am “chez nous” when I hear people who loudly disagree in what Anglo-Saxons would call "a fight," end the evening with a smile or a hug; when I witness how much the French protect their leisure time, and revere their food and drink; when I experience and share the importance the French attach to history, culture and languages.                 

I know I am "at home" when I witness our extensive and unspoiled open spaces (whose sheer scale always astounds Europeans); when I find clean, comfortable restrooms everywhere (they are becoming more common in Europe, also, but slowly); when I can return any item I purchased simply because I changed my mind, without being treated like a criminal or a lunatic; when I am the recipient of the remarkably efficient American systems or institutions (you have to have experienced the agony and the frustration of dealing with the French government to appreciate this point); or when I enjoy the easygoingness and flexibility of American life in general.

However, this straddling act can sometimes be quite uncomfortable, and even irritating. On either side of the Atlantic, the line between fact and fiction, reality and fantasy, actuality and myth, is often blurred, as evidenced by questions which reflect vast cultural differences and very different value systems (or sheer ignorance). I get tired of feeling I have to justify to one people the actions and reactions of the other, in light of their respective cultural contexts. This process can get old as the years go by.

I am referring to such questions from the French, as: "Oh, I heard of the terrible blizzard in New York. Were you OK in Minneapolis?" -- "Well, actually yes. They are 1,200 miles (1,800 kms) apart."  Gasp. Although Europeans' knowledge of geography, their own or the rest of the world's, is better than Americans', they have a hard time relating to the sheer scale of the United States, and distances between American cities remain very sketchy in their minds.

Or: "Why are Americans obsessed with their president's sex life? What does it have to do with his ability to run the country?" -- "Hum, well, ah,".  The French believe (I have to admit to endorsing that position) in separating everyone's private and public lives, and can't comprehend why the American public needs to get involved in a politician's private life.

Or: “Why are American movies so violent?” That one always stomps me because I happen to object to the amount of violence in American society in general, and my position on the possession of guns by private parties would not be supported by the NRA.

While on this side of the Atlantic, I have to deal with:  "When you write or call your family, do you speak French to them?" -- "Well, yes! You speak to your family in English, don't you?"  Why on earth would I speak to my family and friends, who have always lived in France, in any other language but our native tongue?

Or: "How can the French eat all that rich food, and not get fat?"-- "Well, mostly because they each much smaller quantities of everything, use much less sugar than we do, and don’t snack between meals.” Although I hear, and notice myself, that young French people have adopted the bad American habit of snacking, causing the rising incidence of obesity among children.

Or: "I guess it's easier for the French, or other Europeans, to speak more than one language, because their country is so small and they really have to."  -- "Well, I guess you could look at it that way. But then it could also be due to the greater importance Europeans give to languages in their educational curricula, and to their higher awareness of a global economy." Food for thought, I hope?

All in all, and despite this prevailing and unavoidable ambivalence, I feel very fortunate to have been exposed to the richness this diversity has brought into my life. This double exposure allows me to intuitively understand reactions to specific comments or situations, and correctly interpret what is said, as well as what isn't. For example, knowing that Americans would never laugh at a specific joke which has the French rolling in the aisles – and vice versa; understanding that the French interrupt so often in a conversation because in their culture, interrupting demonstrates interest in and responsiveness to what the other person is saying; knowing that Americans are eager to show you their house when you visit them for the first time, while it's never offered, and would be a serious breach of privacy, in France; or never forgetting that Anglo-Saxons have a tendency to understate, and Mediterraneans tend to overstate.

However, there are two questions I have never had any trouble answering on either side of the Atlantic: "Did you think of moving back to France or England when you retire?", and "Do you prefer living here or there?". My unequivocal answers are "Yes, but we decided against it" to the first, and "In the States" to the second. Having spent only short bi-annual vacations in France since 1961, I can honestly say that, at this stage of my life, I am familiar with the intricacies of daily life in the States much more than I would if I returned to France. I find living in this country easier, more functional and practical. I have no illusion that living in France again, after spending all my adult life in the States, would be quite difficult, if not impossible, for me.

So my husband and I keep on planning how often and for how long we will be able to continue to take trips to our birth countries of France and England. We need those periodic battery-recharging excursions in our respective “old countries” to remind ourselves of how lucky we are to have known, and been shaped by both cultures. In the meantime, we thoroughly enjoy what we feel is the best of two worlds, even if we have to straddle the Atlantic to do so.