Deserted Island

Every day of class is kindergarten déjà vu. The same fifteen faces and desks arc about a teacher who gladly receives our regurgitated phrases. Apparently this past week, she had had enough of our parroting and therefore requested we choose new careers. Girl-who-leads-people-through-forests has a convenient French counterpart: un guide dans la nature. With mid-life crises done, a traumatic scenario was presented for us defend our life-callings. We ( in real life, a friend on my left, a Spanish friend on my right, a handful of Asian compatriots, a nun, a Mexican, a quartet of Americans from the South) were hypothetically placed in a hot air balloon. Between the sun and the surf, loss of énergie, and descent into shark infested water, a hot argument would ensue.

If half removed their dead weight, the others could float safely to the deserted island. Turns out that liking animals is a guaranteed ticket to theoretical survival. Our class nun thought to be a nurse in a handicapped children’s hospital, which is also as indispensible as a carpenter, baker, and film-directress. The last would create some one hit wonder that would make us all gazillionaires. And then we could forget that we’d voted off the illustrator that wanted to draw us food to remove hunger pangs, the art restorationist, and the singer that attempted to steal my role of charming wild animals. We laughed so hard because he would not sing to save his life. But when he finally agreed, the teacher threatened to leave if the song wasn’t in French. And so, well, the half of the story ended there.

Eventually, I did make it to a forsaken state. My tummy copping a fit after a month precipitated an eerie reckoning of my NBN, or Non-Belonging-Ness. Bits of individuality and expressivity get lost in translation. If language is the base of culture, I am swimming upstream with paddles foreign from their very primordial goop. In English, we paint with our words. Our words paint us. Then you look at your heap of words and say—my heap of words looks different than yours, it is my heap. In French, everyone organizes their heaps in similar il/logical patterns but with different substances. To quote the most clarifying phrase of this week, from my professor’s mouth, “The charm of English is in its syntax,” (finger wag), “the charm of French is in its lexique.”

I.E. Memorize a new vocabulary or risk being eaten alive in French.

For my two remaining months, I am withdrawing from English land and her Facebook siren as some language cafés and a pretty sweet church are underworks. These developments struck me after devouring half a bag of Hershey’s chocolates, in France, don’t judge. I also discovered a jar of peanut butter happiness in my house. Maybe I am facing the same hurdle of foreigners back in my bubble. Why didn’t I go out of my way to meet a Korean girl whose eyes never leave the sidewalk? Or during high school,  greet the Hispanic guy in 7th period study hall? Because nothing is more humbling and rewarding than when my sister, after having cocked her head, raised her eyebrow and corrected my grammar, gives me a smile of comprehension. Because no one is an island unto themselves.

A rabbit in my room. More like the guest room of a friend in whose house we pulled a sleepover arranged by our parents because they're besties. I swear it's like I'm in third grade all over again. Expect more/better pictures after next weekend in Normandy!

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