Le Blog de Melissa: February 2009

The

is actually quite relevant to French culture in terms of art.

"Art Nouveau" was a movement that started in France and other European countries and peaked from around 1890-1905. It largely featured the girandole. One of the most recognizable examples of girandole found in Art Nouveau is the Tiffany lamp invented in NY by Louis Comfort Tiffany. Tiffany lamps are girandole-shaped if you look at the lamp shade from the top. Some other artists of this movement include French-born Swissman Theophile Steinlen who created the quite famous "Chat Noir" poster (shown above on the left) which features a girandole crowning the cat's head like a halo. Another example of the girandole can be found in the Grand Palais in Paris, created by four main architects in the style of Art Nouveau. The photo above on the right is a girandole-shaped dome from the interior of the Grand Palais. Overall, the artists of Art Nouveau strived to put high art to practical use. That's why Art Nouveau didn't stop at paintings and architecture, but expanded to posters, lamps, and even cigarette cases.

*The facts and photos in this entry about Art Nouveau were taken from Wikipedia. The spin on the girandole is from me.

I studied abroad as an undergrad, like many of you, and there were plenty of ways that I was culture-shocked, but here's one event that has stuck with me through the years.

I barely knew any French when I arrived in Pau--a Fayetteville-sized city by the Pyrenees Mountains--despite my 2.5 years of language education in the states. I couldn't communicate with anyone. Even my host family scared me because they didn't smile and they talked very quickly in French (of course). Phone time at my host home was a rarety since the one line was shared with two young women, a live-in boyfriend, and the mother, so I had to walk to the local grocery store to use the pay phone to call my family.

The third time I did this, a young man standing nearby waited until I hung up and said something to me I didn't understand. I thought he needed to use the phone, so I said "I'm done. Uh, je suis fini."
"Non, non" he said. "Chuboin café?"
Finally a word I recognized. "Café?" I replied. "Ou?"
"Là bas." and he pointed across the street.
I didn't understand what he said, but I understood pointing and a friendly offer. He was the first person to reach out to me since I'd arrived and I was greatful, even if I wasn't being very safe.
Our first conversation was difficult. All I could figure out is that "café" was more like espresso, but it was served with chocolate which made it tolerable. The mysterious stranger didn't speak a word of English, and I only knew a few words in French, but I couldn't understand his French because he spoke just as quickly as my host mother. When it was clear that sentences were impossible, we resorted to single words, or pairs of words.
I eked out, "Je. M'appelle. Melissa"
And he copied me, "J'm'a pelle Faysal."
My turn: "Je. Suis. Americaine."
His turn: "Jviendmorrok."
I had no idea what that meant.
We exchanged phone numbers and arranged to meet again. An actual friendly French conversation partner? No way would I let this opportunity slide!
I was so excited to have made a friend that I immediately told my host mother and sister. Their reaction was odd.
"His name is Faysal? That doesn't sound French."
"Well, he's French," was my witty reply. After all, he lived in France and spoke French. I assumed.

To make a long story a little shorter, Faysal turned out to be from Morocco. He was the only person I knew besides my language teacher at the University of Pau who would speak French to me without getting frustrated. Even my host family would constantly speak English to me because it was easier for us all. Faysal and I had coffee "là bas" every week, and every week we found out a little more about each other's lives as my language skills improved. (And every week I beat him at pool. French pool tables are much smaller than American ones.)

Faysal and my host family never met each other.

My birthday fell at the end of the semester just before I was to return home to the U.S. I wanted to have a party at my host's house and invite about 10 people over for dinner. The mother was fine with the party and the dinner, but she asked me "Are you going to invite your Moroccan friend?"
"I was going to."
"Well don't, he'll steal something."
I looked for humor in her eyes, but she was completely serious. I was absolutely shocked. Here was a perfectly normal French woman showing blatant racism in what I thought was one of the most progressive-thinking nations in the world. After all, France is part of the European Union. The EU was supposed to be progressive, tolerant, and above all RECONCILED. This was worse than hearing an old man back in Arkansas grumble about how he thinks Mexican immigrants are stealing jobs from "real Americans," because I knew that there was racism in Arkansas. Europe, I thought, was the epitome of racial tolerance. Of course I've learned since then that this isn't true. Countries are made up of people. People like the status quo. Many people only like people who look, talk, and act like themselves. France and the U.S. were more alike than I would have liked.

When I talked to Faysal about what my host mother said, he was disappointed but not surprised. I apologized to him many times for the situation, but I couldn't get over the feeling that my experience abroad had been stained--like a favorite shirt I could never get clean again but would wear anyway.

My host mother ended up changing her mind after all. She told me I could invite Faysal to the dinner, but to be careful. I didn't invite him. Faysal and I had a separate birthday party. He took me to a new, giant bowling place and gave me flowers. We had a great time, which was made even better by our now fully developed conversations in French.

I don't know why I didn't try harder, or earlier, to reconcile my friend to my host family. I don't know why I didn't invite Faysal when I took trips with the other language students. It's like I had four different lives while I was there: one when I was with my host family, one when I was with my classmates, one when I was with Faysal, and one when I was alone wandering the streets of Pau and trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. It was easier not to bring them all together. It was easier to segregate the parts of myself and the people I spent time with. I could have been a tool to help reconcile a racist French family to a kind, generous immigrant, or reconcile my Moroccan friend to my classmates from around the world so that every one's tolerances would have been expanded just a little bit. But I didn't. I didn't reconcile them and I lost that chance at that moment to make a difference in that way.

Sometimes I try to reconcile Faysal to the world now. On the rare occasion that someone asks me about my experience studying abroad, I try to talk about Faysal and the kindness and patience he showed me and the intolerance and bigotry he faced. Because it wasn't just him. France is a nation that faces the issues brought on by the clashing of proud tradition and immigration, just like the U.S., just like Africa, just like Australia, and hundreds of others. All we can do is try to be tools for reconciliation when we are faced with that opportunity.