I have had the unique pleasure of being a French major during George W. Bush’s reign. With this title attached to me but my degree not yet earned, I have spent time in each of the cities engaged in the triangular trade of Franco-American mutual condescension: Washington, Houston and, now, Paris.
My time in Texas was, fortunately, limited to a week. Equally luckily, I encountered only one stereotypical Texan, that is, someone who weighed far more than 200 pounds. He polished off an entire steak and readjusted his cowboy hat as he questioned me about why in the world I would want to major in French.
My timing with regard to France-related activities has never been good. When I was supposed to visit Paris and Marseilles in the spring of my senior year of high school, Sept. 11 terrified the eastern Pennsylvania school board enough to cancel the trip. When the lamentable “freedom fries” trend began during my first year at Georgetown, I followed the zealots in musing about the replacement of the word “French” in other phrases. My favorite was the renaming of my grammar class as “Intensive Advanced Freedom 2,” which I fancy as a fantastic follow-up to “Operation Iraqi Freedom” and “Operation Continuing Freedom.”
Leading up to election day, I had heard plenty of Parisian grumbling about the state of American politics. My 60-year-old host mother claimed to have no concept of the function of the Electoral College, was confounded that I could vote for different parties for different positions and expressed the Nader-esque belief that it wouldn’t matter whether Kerry or Bush won. The younger Parisians all seemed sure of an impending Bush victory. Whether they suspected him of scheming or assumed that all Americans love him, they would not say.
As a new resident of Paris, I have, somehow, survived the reelection of Bush and the unsurprising French reaction to it: disgust. Since I couldn’t watch the election results come in on TV on election night, I succumbed to the enticement of free champagne at a swanky art auction with my host mother. Amid the black dresses, buzzing conversation and ridiculously expensive paintings, armoires and brooches, I was temporarily able to block out the matter of grave importance currently at hand.
But denial doesn’t last forever (and certainly not for four years). Upon leaving Drouot Montaigne, the gallery just off the Champs Elyse?s, the chic greeter/au revoir-er handed us an election-themed copy of Figaro Magazine with Kerry and Bush plastered on the front. I spent the rest of the night in my TV room writing a paper on a terribly boring French play and getting frustrated about the time difference.
The Thursday after the election, I went out with a few friends to a bar hosting an “Erasmus night” (Think the international students of L’Auberge Espagnole). When I overheard two nearby floppy-haired boys discussing the victory of “Boosh,” I interjected that such depressing talk had no place in the establishment. Upon explaining “je suis am?ricaine,” I had to keep repeating that I voted for Kerry and that he had won my swing state. They didn’t seem to believe me. Almost every brief exchange I had with a European student devolved into the annoying accusation that I was culpable for Bush’s reelection; I quickly lost patience. Inspired by an Instant Messenger conversation earlier in the day with a friend, my last retort to a French student was to quip that at least he wasn’t subject to Bush’s domestic policies. Just like when I asserted: “No, I don’t like Bush, and I didn’t vote for him,” this point was also lost on him.
Instead of being the anti-Bush co-conspirators I had hoped for, my French peers have been all too quick to implicate me in the president’s agenda. Instead of snapping back something about the French intervention in Cote d’Ivoire-which critics liken to W. ’s actions in Iraq-I just scoffed and walked away. I was warned that talking politics was dangerous, but I am hoping that the French kids and I both just need some time to cool off. Maybe next time I feel daring, they’ll be sober.
