La Française

Four months later…after my initial interview with the citizenship officer (and months of gathering the right documents + my lovely French examination) and a few hiccups in between, Xavier and I visited the French Consulate this past week and sat down with Madame le Consul herself. I am pleased to say that my citizenship dossier has officially been submitted, accepted and sent on to a (singular, very singular) judge in Nantes, France. Apparently, he is the king of these dossiers and will sit on mine for 9 months to a year before I receive a congratulatory note, which will manifest my Frenchness. It feels like a relief – if only because I will never have to make another request for a certified copy of my birth certificate (or Xavier’s, his parents’, my parents’, or our children’s) again.

There was an unfortunate moment a couple of months ago when we were due to have this interview and the citizenship officer had gone missing (an extended holiday in France or some other engagement keeping him away from his desk on Fifth Avenue) for 6 weeks. He missed our appointment and therefore rendered many of the documents I had summoned and carefully combined void. They have a 3-month window of validity. The orchestration of amassing the right things in this cranny of time is a true feat. I am convinced it is a deliberate bureaucratic hurdle to hinder the number of successful applicants. One needs true staying power to get through it.

When I finally did nail down this Monsieur, I almost cried on the phone when he declared I would have to secure a fresh FBI Background Check and new versions of various certified documents (along with their translations). I almost dumped the entire folder in the recycle/shredder bin in the copy room at work. I didn’t though. And so, Xavier and I sat down at the Consulate, hand in hand, across from these lovely French officers and answered questions about my Mormon family and my admiration of the French and how we were going to instill Frenchness in our girls (an uphill battle in another country, said Madame le Consul – right she is). It is over though, just a waiting game now.


Voilà: my French citizenship dossier (each dividing page a separate notarized document with translation) on the desk of le Consul in New York

La Javanaise.

I love a certain song in French: La Javanaise by Serge Gainsbourg. I love Serge Gainsbourg, even if part of me hates his patronizing/objectifying regard of women. That aside, his dexterity in wielding the French language in his music is both study and hobby for me as I listen. La Javanaise resonates on many levels: his word play (listen to it and look at the lyrics) - from the idea of 'la Javanaise,' which sounds like it must be a dance in the song, but is actually a kind of pig-latin in French [the idea is adding "av" after a consonant before the next vowel - one example: Paris = Pavaravis"]. The whole song goes round and round the letter V - weaving in and out, but never using 'javanaise' directly - only an inadvertent salvo. And then the cadence and poetry in just the sound and the stanzas - because it is poetry, this song.

Serge Gainsbourg sums up a lot about France. It sounds simplistic, but he was one of those rare people whose perception of his own culture was constantly spun brilliantly/resolutely into the web of all of his art. And he is universally admired in France - respected, paid homage to - as something of an everlasting diplomat of France. We listen to Serge at our house a lot (when I start singing along Colette directs, "stop chant-ing en Français mama - just papa" - she likes to keep people securely in their respective language boxes. The only ones she lets roam freely are Marguerite and Lola - Lola is Marguerite's doll) and I have been thinking about French culture on a larger scale as part of the next step in my French citizenship process.

If you read the op-ed piece by Pamela Druckerman in the New York Times this week: "How to Be French" She explores the question - what does Frenchness entail or even mean? I know it has a lot to do with language - as I shared in narrating my most recent step in the citizenship process. The next step in my quest for "Frenchness" is turning in my 3-inch thick 'dossier' of documents (all of which have to be dated and translated/notarized within the last 3-months and not a day before then - a difficult orchestration indeed) and sitting down for a meeting with a citizenship officer at the French Consulate in New York.

I spoke to this officer briefly on the phone - listened to his skepticism as I reassured him that I had compiled all the correct documents (his response was brusque - not to worry we will find something out of order) and then I was surprised to hear that our meeting was not about those documents actually, it was an interview. Don't bring your husband, he instructed, it will just be the two of us. He said he wanted me to sit in front of him and describe why I wanted to be French.

I came home that night with different ideas and talked to Xavier - my admiration of parts of the French education system, quality of life in France, the fact that I love my husband's family deeply, as a start. Xavier steered me clear of the first couple (me as a potential barnacle to French society isn't a good starting point). He said to avoid the last reason too - sentimentality just isn't culturally cherished in the same way in France.

So, we came up with a few - the space we afford and give to the French culture on a daily basis at our home and with our girls; the unity of everyone in our family having the same nationalities and the ability to share countries freely...some others are budding. Maybe the citizenship officer will like my goal of learning to speak "Javanaise". The interview is on December 3. I am going to walk in there with a big brace on my leg (ACL surgery is this week); I hope that doesn't put the officer off. The French get knocked off their bikes too (although no one would ever sue for it, that is strictly American - says the Frenchman).

French Citizenship.

I went to Boston last week for a particular reason: to take an exam. It was a French exam - the one for applying for French citizenship from here. Xavier and I have been amused by the differences in the citizenship process between the two countries. He pointed out that the French are mostly interested in assessing a candidate’s ability to assimilate in French culture and language. Americans are principally interested in a candidate’s moral standing – some assurance that she will be a good upright citizen.

Xavier basically studied a civics text primer: the branches of government, how many seats in the Senate, his NY representatives' names, some founding fathers trivia and had an oral interview covering these topics. He swore that he was not a terrorist, a communist or a mean person.

My test was different. I went to Boston because the test is proctored in the US at specific locations, on specific dates. I missed the most recent test date for NYC and it would be another 4 months before the test was offered in the city again. So, I ventured to Boston. Back Bay, which, incidentally, is truly charming and so beautiful. The townhouse and garden situation was inspiring for someone who also lives in a townhouse, but hasn't quite gone to town on the gardening front. The French Cultural Center is located in a big, formal townhouse on Marlborough Street.

The test was like the house - it was stuffy and rigid. The first portion was listening comprehension to what were, essentially, radio programs followed by questions to gauge comprehension. One program was about an 18th c. painting discovered in an old man's house and the provenance of the painting and the Louvre's restoration of it. The questions gauged whether or not you understood small and specific details in the various stories, not the broad strokes. That lasted 40 minutes.

Then came the truly fun part. The performance part. I was led down a small hallway to what must have been, at some point in the life of the house, a closet. At this point it was an examination room. There, on the other side of a table were two people. I sat down in my chair facing them and listened. The gentleman, with his froggy French eyes, explained that he would give me an advertisement for something. I would need to study the ad and then spend 10 minutes selling the product to them. Seemed like a memory/business or marketing school exercise as much as a language one, but of course I went with it.

The product - fittingly for the French - was a basket of organic fruits and vegetables, grown locally, delivered directly to your door, recipes included. I didn't memorize quite as closely as I should have, so I was left to invent all sorts of extra details about the service, spending time pointing out the effects of a large carbon footprint (I claimed the service was delivered by bike and then came up with some waste statistics that simply aren't factual, but bore the right message). I also suggested a few cooking ideas, and so on. In another similar exercise involving a clothing store ad, I spiced things up by claiming I was actually obese and that my husband was a very short man and we needed special tailoring and this service was always perfect for people like us. The French language part posed no real problem. Presumably that is the part in which they were interested. Perhaps, however, a good memory for advertisements is pivotal for good civil society in France.

Let's see if the examiners in Paris like my extrapolation. You see, there on the table in front of me was a recording device. The record of my tales will be sent to the official arbiters of this exam (in the version in my head, they are sitting stern-faced at the Préfecture de Police on Île de la Cité). I won't receive the results for at least 4 weeks.

Totally cracks me up.

Becoming French.

Colette officially became French today (she is, of course, already American). This is her passport photo. Going to the French Consulate is like stepping off Fifth Avenue into the magic wardrobe that takes you straight to Paris. I guess all consulates are like that - they are literally the territory of their respective country - but down to the accents of the people who work there, the television station (with the Prévisions météorologiques à 9 jours sur toutes les villes de France) and the precise bureaucratic pleasantries Xavier knew to speak - we were in Paris. It is funny to look at little baby Colette and wonder which culture will "take" and which parts of each will "hold." I hope the best parts (and I have some specific ideas on what those are).

Formation Civique

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of - no, in point of fact, I was required to attend "French Civic Training." Since I was lucky enough to get a Carte de Séjour, I apparently needed to learn a few things about being a quasi-French citizen.

I made it to the class (which started at 9am and lasted until 5pm) a bit late and walked into a run-down classroom to find about 30 people sitting in chairs around the periphery of the room. Most of the people were from past French colonies - west African countries, or places like Martinique, etc. In fact, only a Russian and I broke the geographic trend in the room. (We were also the only two whose native language wasn’t French).

Our instructor for the day (Jean-Luc) was a frog-like man (this had absolutely nothing to do with his nationality…really – just the fact that his eyes were spread too far apart and seemed to pop away from his face…and the fact that his smile stretched as far as his eyes above). He seemed to enjoy the fact I was American. As I entered I signed an attendance sheet and Jean-Luc asked, “Would you like to join us for lunch, although I’m sorry to say in advance it won’t be a hamburger” (and then directed this add-on to the rest of the class, “for the petite americaine”). I smiled and laughed a little bit.

I sat down and watched as a woman from Guyane came to the door of the classroom with her newborn baby strapped onto her back. She entered and Jean-Luc said bluntly: “This is not possible. Trop petit. Too little. He will cry.” He sent her away and said (absurdly), “You’ll have to come back when the baby is older.” (Remember, no one is attending this little gathering because they are interested in the subject; it is a requirement to work and live in France). I guess ‘integration’ is tricky if it involves a baby.

We had to introduce ourselves and talk about what we were interested in learning that day. I said, sort of cheekily, “I’m really interested in learning how to become French.” Jean-Luc responded just as cheekily, “This is not possible for you, my dear.”

The day continued with invaluable instruction regarding French symbols – such as the tri-colored flag and the bust of Marianne, which apparently, at various times, has been modeled after Catherine Deneuve, Brigitte Bardot and Laetitia Casta (showcased below). Given the length of time Jean-Luc spent commenting on each of these French ornaments (the women – mind you), I gathered that these must be significant particulars for our civic training. To be fair to Jean-Luc, the time he devoted these beauties was far less, and with far fewer scenarios, than what he devoted to France’s new first lady, the “ravishing Bruni.” French femininity. I suppose he was right to devote such time to the subject.



Laïcité was the next subject at hand. (Secularism, I suppose, is the best translation for this, although I do not think that word actually quite grasps the sense of the word in French and for the French). There was, of course, the classic school discussion. No overt symbols of religion in schools. Jean-Luc did mention that a small cross, worn around the neck, is perfectly unobjectionable. Handy.

I managed to pull Jean-Luc aside at the awkward cafeteria-style lunch. (Where people were sitting at long, rectangular tables, just staring at each other mostly). I told him that I was really looking forward to learning important ways to be French today and that I hoped that in the second half of the day, we might touch on those things. For example, I continued, how to go on strike, how to deliver unparalleled insults to other drivers, those sorts of things. He laughed at me and asked if I thought I would make it through the afternoon without a coke.

That afternoon, we actually did touch on some of my desired curriculum. One of the fundamental rights of French citizens is the right to strike (right up there with the right to obtain a job – connotation: not a privilege or ability or good fortune - a right).

Anyone with a connection to France knows that strikes are part of the fabric of living. Cities freeze because of metro strikes that can last a few weeks. (Cab drivers were just on strike in Paris). I was delighted that the subject came up – so I raised my hand and asked, “Is it possible to go on strike all alone?” The class really enjoyed my question (and my French at the same time, I am sure). Jean-Luc basically looked like he wanted to give me a high-five. (The worst part is that he answered my question pretty seriously using a hypothetical example of Carla Bruni…if she were a cashier at Printemps and she were the only cashier to strike).

(Another amusing example of Carla Bruni came up when we talked about the balance of powers in a democracy. It had something to do with a car crash and her being responsible in court even though her husband is le petit Sarkozy).

Our session ended with the motto projected onto the white screen, loud and clear:

Choisir de vivre en France, c'est avoir la volonté de s'intégrer à la société française et d'accepter de respecter les valeurs fondamentales de la République.

Choosing to live in France is to have the desire to integrate into French society and to accept and respect the fundamental values of the Republic.

…to which, Jean-Luc added, “There are some countries – the United States for example – which allow small pockets of foreigners to preserve their language, their very culture from their home country – to reproduce things. Not in France. We need to integrate, we need to be all together, agreeing on our culture.”

The day ended with a lag time of 40 minutes (Jean-Luc couldn’t let us leave before 4:45pm even though we had finished early). But, he improvised and created a memorable off the cuff awards ceremony. Each of us had earned a certificate of completion and he called us one by one to collect our certificate, to shake hands with him and to sit back down again. I congratulated my fellow students as they walked past my chair.