Hardly. My given name is Reneau, spelled in the original French. I have traced my genealogy all the way back to 1600 Bordeaux. However, it has been over 330 years since my ancestors unwillingly left France, as Huguenots, fleeing first to London then travelling thirteen weeks by sea, settling eventually in Virginia.
My family has been in America since 1688, nearly a hundred years before it even became a country. So that would make me wholly American, right? Of course, it does.
Then why is it that I feel such a yearning, a literal pull toward all things French? What could explain the tear-inducing sadness that I’ve felt on more than one occasion upon seeing a picture of an ancient French homestead? Why is it that I’m drawn almost exclusively to antique French décor?
It isn’t only French things that capture my attention. It's more about French ways. I recently read the statement by a French language professor, “The American way is to live in the 'faire' (to do) or in the 'avoir' (to have), but the French live in the 'etre' (to be)." Don’t get me wrong. I am a good American in that way. I make lists. I love to cross things off those lists. But I am most content when the list is emptied, and I am able to just “be”.
My perfect day would be spent at home, a pot stew on the stove, cooked in red wine, the aroma meandering through the house. No television. No electric lighting. No artificial sounds, just the wind or rain or simply the birds singing their happy tunes. Most importantly, that perfect day would include time. Time to create, whether that be painting, writing or designing a garden. Time to soak in the bathtub and just daydream. Time to turn on the music of Rufus Wainwright, Laura Fabian or Edith Piaf and dance in the kitchen. Time to hang out with my adult children. Time to play like a kid with my grandchildren, unencumbered by the clock or a phone or the pressures of the world. Time to go antiquing with my best friend. Time to play cards with my parents and sisters, laughing with abandon. Time to sit in the dark and watch an old movie with my husband. Time to live full on. Time to be, to just be, (etre).
I believe that we Americans might just live a little too comfortably. We say, “we’re starving” if we’re the slightest bit hungry. We say, “we’re freezing” or “we’re burning up” if we are just a couple of degrees off perfectly comfortable. I have always loved to feel the warmth of the sunshine and the coolness of the wind. The combination of the two are my favorite. Don’t misunderstand, I appreciate having heat and air conditioning during extreme seasons but feel it’s okay to not live in a consistent temperature at all times. In fact, I prefer it.
During my trip to France, I stayed in a four-hundred-year-old house with no heat or air conditioning, just a warm breeze blowing through the opened windows during the day. In the evenings, it became quite cold. Snuggling under the piled-high blankets made it more real, more memorable, more wonderful.
The French believe it is okay to feel things; hot and cold, joy and sorrow, pain and release. My oldest daughter once told me that she wanted to fully experience childbirth. She wanted to go into labor naturally. She didn’t want pain medication. She wanted to deliver her baby the old-fashioned way. It made the birth of her child more exhilarating, more real. She said, “The greater the pain, the greater the relief, how much more magical the birth.” I wish I had done that. She has a little French in her, too.
While I was in France, I saw the French take time to celebrate every meal. There is a mandatory two-hour break when all business close for lunch, except restaurants, of course. When one makes a dinner reservation, the table is reserved for the entire evening. No one rushes meals in France. And neither do I. My husband, on the other hand, consumes his meal before I get myself situated. It isn’t a problem when we eat at home but is very frustrating when we eat out. My pet peeve is when the waiter takes my husband's empty plate, leaving me to appear to be the only one eating dinner. This would never happen in France.
So, what could explain my similarities, my connection to all things French? My husband was the first to explain it. He had watched his wife of over forty years, me, moi, slowly peeling off the layers of American culture, eventually revealing her French self. I’ll never forget the day he said these profound words to me. “Of course, you’re French. It is literally in your blood.”
My ancestors were forced to leave their homeland. I'm sure they wished they were able to return. Maybe that is why I feel a pull to be there. As crazy as it sounds, could it be that one day we will discover more about our DNA and the marvelous, God-created things that could be hidden therein?
I may never know for certain during this lifetime, but I am content just knowing, “It’s in my blood”.
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