For six months, I've been blissfully passing the time in this French adventure. Overcoming the obstacles of foreign-ness, adapting to a different culture and way of life, straining my brain to take on an entire new language. For six months, I've been asked over and over, "are you homesick? do you miss the US?" Every time, I smiled triumphantly and replied in the negative. My commitment to expatriatism is infallible, my resolve unbreakable. I've dusted the little hardships off my shoulders, and I've gotten right back up after every falter. Until tonight.
I should have seen this coming. Yesterday, on the bus home from babysitting the girls, a group of American businessman got on. I was sitting close enough to hear their quiet conversation. Every single dear English word pronounced casually and comprehended instantly. Every word felt like a punch to my heart. It's not as though I haven't heard Americans around the city before, but there was something that seized me last night with that group of businessman. I hung on to each word, soaking in the instinctive comprehension, wishing I had the kind of personality that would invade a group of unknowns purely on the context of mutual nationality. There was none of the usual strain that has become a different kind of second nature to me when I participate in French conversations. In that same bus ride I prided myself on understanding much of the French small talk floating around me. When strangers talk to me, I can comprehend and answer immediately. I can speak in full sentences and have meaningful conversations. But it's nothing like the ease we take for granted with our mother tongue. English isn't the prettiest language, but to me, on that bus, it was a golden light shining in dingy French public transportation.
Of course listening to English makes me think of America, my lovely homeland. Uprooting from Washington, D.C. to anywhere else in the world is a special kind of detachment. I lived a mile from the Pentagon and Arlington Cemetery; several times a week I ran around the Mall, the White House, the Capitol, across and around the Potomac. Red, white, and blue is caked on every surface, and I adored it. Before living in DC, I was a tepid American. After DC, I'm as zealous a patriot as any. Obviously distance clouds the negative, and I realize America isn't perfect, and there were days I wanted to curse out every single Metro driver in the DMV. But the shared experience of love of country is a powerful thing (as the last 2000+ years of human history can show us).
In the back of my mind, I've been wondering when the homesickness would hit me. Would it be a slow smoldering or a breaking dam? Would it be riding the tram all by myself, in the midst of friends, at dinner with Ben? I've been slightly terrified of my own calm. I'm a person prone to wild emotion, and my steadiness in the face of complete upheaval has been not a little unnerving.
But then it happened in the most obvious and least expected place. We were invited to go see American Sniper with some friends tonight. I wasn't too keen on going; I'm not a fan of going to the movies, and I would far rather spend the money on a pint of beer. But we'd been putting off going, so I conceded. I knew the story, I knew what happened. On it's own, I thought the movie was terrifically well made, lots of kudos to Bradley Cooper's biceps and that fake baby. I almost made it all the way through. But then the unknown torrent inside of me finally broke the banks as the movie showed footage of Chris Kyle's funeral. American flags, bugle calls, men in uniform. It was too much, and I quietly sobbed my way to the credits until the lights came on and exposed me to the yawning French audience. In that moment, the only place I could want to be was kissing the American soil in my parents' backyard. I wanted to hop the next plane, buy the biggest cup of Dunkin' available, and wrap my arms around the nearest monument while enrobed in red, white, and blue. I wanted to scream English words and be understood. I wanted to shake my fist and wax poetic about how much I love my country. I kept repeating America, America, AMERICA over and over in my mind like a kind soothing mantra. I managed to keep some measure of composure while walking out of the theater, but once outside I sobbed like a little kid. AMERICA.
191 days is how long it took for me to be homesick. Heartsick for my country of origin. I'm trying to come to terms with this new emotion, but at the moment, it still feels too raw in my chest. My heart feels tight, and the tears are threatening to drown me again. In my head, I know it's ok to feel homesick and also be happy where I am. I really have nothing to complain about in France. I mean, I literally have everything I've been dreaming of for the past four years. But in my heart, I am, as ever, an American.
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| 'MURICA |
