French Twist

by Catherine Crawford

  The most common French stereotype that comes to my mind is that of pomposity. The words “French” and “snob” are almost as linked as “Nutella” and “baguette.” Wait—am I the only one who links those two words so often? Now that I’ve dipped deeper in, rather than “snobby” I would describe the French as “particular” (apologies again, Madame Prideux). And this makes sense if considered in a historical context. Whereas we Americans are very comfortable trying out new things—we are a nation of frontierspeople, after all—it’s not so natural for the average French citizen, who’s been living in a country that’s steeped in traditions, many of which haven’t changed for centuries. Nadeau and Barlow point out that “The ancestors of the French go back several ice ages. They are not a people who, like North Americans, arrived in the midst of a primitive culture, erased it, and started over. They have always been there. There was plenty of upheaval throughout French history, but no definitive break with the past …” and when we “are faced with France’s peculiar way of doing things, [we] do not reason that [we] are dealing with an ancient people who have their own way of doing things.” When it comes to doing things like making their kids obey, I’m all ears.

  And a little perspective is always a good thing as well. Take, for instance, the French approach to money, which is very different from our own. Whenever I’m in France, I marvel at those big, beautiful shutters on the multitudes of old buildings. I find them very romantic, yet I always wonder why they are so huge. It wasn’t until I read Nadeau and Barlow’s theory about the old system of taxation in France that I saw how these charming facets of French architecture have a much deeper purpose than making me light-headed or even keeping out the sun. Hundreds of years ago, taxes were assessed on “apparent” wealth. Tax spies, working for the despised “tax farmers” (fermiers généraux) would look in the windows to do the assessing, leading to the theory that these enormous shutters functioned, at least in part, to block out prying eyes. The heads of more than a few of these fermiers généraux were lopped off during the Revolution, but they still managed to leave a long-lasting mark on the French psyche. Indeed, this has informed how the French relate to money, and they are still less likely to make it obvious who has it and who doesn’t. This probably has something to do with why they are generally more private than we are.

  I learned about this cultural difference the hard way at the end of a wonderful lunch in Paris. A friend of mine had gathered a few of her colleagues for me to question. The food was of course lovely, and the conversation was so interesting that I lost track of time. It had been my intention to pick up the tab as a gesture of thanks, but I ended up having to rush out to make another meeting across town before the check arrived. So I did what any American would do: I left a wad of cash on the table, instructing my friend to please pay on my behalf. Not good. It was as if a record had been scratched on the giant turntable of life. And then silence at the table. Thankfully, many of my lunch companions didn’t speak English, and my friend was able to tell me, as sotto voce as possible: “Put your money away. Money is taboo here. You can’t do that.” If you’ve ever wondered how you, too, could feel like an international imbécile, this is the way. After I left, those ladies must have found some discreet, classy way to divvy up the bill, but it’s still a mystery to me.

  And what about the staunch French defense of their language, also responsible for some “snob” slinging? I have been made by French waiters to repeat the word (words?) “l’eau” over and over and l’eauver again in an attempt to get a glass of water. Many tourists think this is just an overt attempt by le garçon to make us look stupid—and stay thirsty. However, there are some roots to this insistence on the correct pronunciation (even though that server knows exactly what you are talking about). The French are very serious about their French. In 1635 they established L’Académie française, an organization dedicated to the conservation of the French language and rigorous oversight of any changes to the French dictionary. This might not seem so significant, until you realize the kind of power they have. For instance, the French subsidiary of an American company was once slapped with a $650,000 penalty for proffering software in English only (and not French) to its employees. They are not messing around.

  I discovered that even the French affection for really cute children’s clothes has a fascinating historical explanation. Tooling around on a website devoted to boys’ historical clothing (yes, this exists: histclo.tripod.com), I came across the term “garçons modèles,” a phrase used to describe little boys who are both impeccably behaved and impeccably dressed. The French have a term for this, yet they do not have a word for “parenting.” That says a lot. Anyway, it is theorized that the aftermath of World War II profoundly affected the way French children were dressed. Although there had always been high standards for appearance before the war, children’s outfits were more likely to resemble shrunken versions of the prevailing adult costume of the era. Yet, because so many Frenchmen died during the war, women started to make more decisions—and they took up a children’s crusade of sorts. Cool things happened, like child labor being outlawed. Another boon was that kids were treated more like kids in areas such as education, character, and … dress. One of my favorite things in the world now is getting a bag of hand-me-downs from my French friend with a nine-year-old daughter. French kids’ clothes are so adorable and beautiful and whimsical. I am clearly not the only American who feels this way either, as evidenced by the rage for the Petit Bateau line of clothes in this country.

  And there is Mac, who, after seeing the movie The City of Lost Children in the theater, was obsessively searching for a gray cable-knit sweater with small brass buttons. We seriously scanned vintage and thrift stores for weeks. Actually, Mac might be a special case.

  Of course, there are aspects of the French character that I won’t be trying to replicate in my family. One of my French pals in New York says that it can be excruciating when her parents come to the States for a visit and criticize everything. While they do this in France, they usually wait until people (with the exception of their family members) are out of earshot. Here in the United States, they are under the impression that no one speaks French, so they often loudly and freely lambaste innocent (and occasionally bilingual) bystanders. Awkward. And unkind.

  For my little “Frenchensteins,” we are going to accentuate the positive—and the observant, respectful, and obedient.

  Masculin / Féminin

  At about age three, Daphne went through her “sporty” phase. Four times each week, at the very least, she insisted on wearing an Ireland soccer jersey with matching nylon shorts that a friend had brought back from a trip abroad. Oona had a similar tomboy chapter, and it was just last summer that she had a hell of a time figuring out what kind of bathing suit to wear. She wanted to go with boy swim trunks, but I wasn’t (still am not, for that matter) quite unconventional enough to allow her to go without a shirt, regardless of how far away from puberty she might be.

  During both of these identity enterprises, I congratulated myself on providing the kind of atmosphere wherein my kids can comfortably examine their sense of self and experiment with their individuality (hello, again, Free to Be … You and Me. I do love you). I’m still into that, but I fear that sometimes we American parents go a bit overboard with keeping all options open, and to do so we end up burying our own sexual identities when the children are present. I love the way French parents can be so affectionate with each other and not worry about the kids. I overheard one happy French dad declare the choice phrase “Cette femme a un corps absolument magnifique”—“This woman has an absolutely magnificent body”—almost absentmindedly, in front of his six-year-old fille. In my environs, I’m pretty sure such an exposition would be seen as damaging to the mind of any young, impressionable daughter. “Not in front of the kids!” But I rather like these celebrations of sexuality. Unfortunately, it has been reported that many a French père has the abominable habit of directing similar adoration towar
d women he’s not married to—not at all what I am after.

  The French have a long, stalwart tradition of feminism, but their brand is not mutually exclusive to femininity. This is something I’d like to impart to my two girls, whichever style of bathing suit they eventually find the most comfortable. Hopefully they won’t chafe, and I’m convinced it will cause less confusion. Also, the occasional French kiss keeps their father and me merry; as they say, a happy mom is a happy kid.

  Chapter Eight

  La Conclusion

  When I was a little older than Oona, I was out selling “World’s Finest Chocolate” bars in my leafy Northern California neighborhood to raise money for my Catholic school. (Those bars, by the way—definitely not the world’s finest.) Actually, I was selling the candy to win a prize, and the proceeds just happened to go to St. Charles’s. I was determined to earn at least the cocker spaniel stuffed animal slated for the third-highest seller.

  A middle-aged woman came to the door of a house around the corner from my own. I gave my pitch. She seemed delighted but in the end admitted that she would not be able to buy from me, because she was sure the kids across the street, who also went to my school and whose parents were good friends with this neighbor, would come around with the same proposition, and they’d be terribly disappointed if she’d purchased the chocolate from another seller. I remember thinking, Ha! I know those lazy kids, and they are probably playing Atari and stuffing handfuls of Frosted Flakes in their mouths right this second. I need this sale! I want that dog! I guess my face didn’t betray these feelings, and I must have even smiled, because the next day, while I was at school, that lady walked over to my house to tell my mom what a polite and gracious child she had in me—and she left me one dollar. Not enough for that stuffed spaniel I was not destined to win, but it was something. When my mom recounted it all to my dad, they both visibly inflated into self-satisfied human peacocks.

  It used to annoy me when my parents would puff up anytime a stranger complimented our good behavior. It’s not like they did anything, I’d think. Oh, how wrong I was. As I have learned, they must have done quite a bit to turn out mannered citizens—especially ones who did not even realize their civilities. Somehow, between the time when I was a kid and when I started having kids, I lost sight of how they did it.

  The rest is French history, of a sort. By now you know all about that.

  When I picked Oona and Daphne up from a sleepover recently, and the parents began gushing about them—“Your daughters actually asked if they could be excused from dinner. We will have them over anytime you want—maybe they will influence Luke and Isabella. Oh, and Oona apologized for not eating my rice pilaf. Your kids have amazing manners. I wish they would rub off on mine”—I could feel my pride swelling. Well, until I looked over at Oona, whose eyes were rolling at full speed. At that moment I knew just how my parents had felt, and yet I also understood what Oona was suffering. I remembered how a French friend once commented on the frequency with which we Americans compliment our children’s behavior, even though it is very often hideous. She postulated that in France, decorum is expected and not always—in fact, rarely—congratulated.

  Evidently, the real trick is going to be maintaining a healthy balance between French and American parenting techniques. Mac and I have successfully managed to halt the evolution of insolence in our daughters—most of the time—and have even reversed some very obnoxious habits they (and we) had fallen into. But sometimes I worry that I might take it too far and lose perspective in my attempts to be more like that little French parent I feel sitting on my shoulder, barking orders like a lunatic angel. I knew things were getting out of hand while watching Mary Poppins with Daphne the other day: I found myself thinking that Poppins was sorely un-French. I actually began to root for the authority of George Banks over Mary’s more innovative caregiving style. When Mary Poppins isn’t safe, it’s time for a little self-reflection.

  I have to remind myself that the French way is not always without complication, and, thankfully, I have a number of memories in the arsenal to keep things sagacious. I often find myself thinking back on one night in particular in Los Angeles, when Oona unexpectedly schooled a French father.

  Perhaps the worst nightmare for a French parent is being formally questioned about how they created such a well-behaved child and then having that child melt down in the middle of a conversation about such good manners. This is exactly what happened when I met with a lovely couple from Normandy, Christian and Annette, and their three-year-old daughter, Celine. Our rendezvous took place at a friend’s rooftop pool. Although we were scheduled to talk in the early evening, Annette was detained at work and they didn’t arrive until nearly 8:00 P.M., after my own kids were already splashing about in the pool. Neither of mine will ever threaten Mark Spitz’s records, yet they were so proud of their achievements (in Daphne’s case, this entailed not much more than jumping in by herself wearing water wings) that all the adults on the sidelines were unceasingly called upon to watch their dazzling feats: “Mommy, watch what I can do!” “Did you see it, I’ll do it again!” “Wait, watch! I’ll show you something really cool.” “Can you take a picture of me doing this trick?” “Dad! Uncle Aaron! WATCH!”

  Into this cacophony of loudly solicited praise, Celine showed up and slipped right into the water without comment—or water wings. She proceeded to swim the length of the pool while her parents swiftly joined the grown-ups with a bottle of wine. I was so impressed with the new little swimmer that I couldn’t help but effuse on her aquatic talent. Little Celine just looked at me with slight confusion and smiled shyly. That is to say, she was French.

  After swimming circles around my girls with barely a peep for nearly an hour, Celine had had enough and retreated to her father’s lap. Not long after, my own kids followed suit and joined the adults. I’m not really sure what happened next, because I was deep in conversation with Annette, but Celine began to howl. To my surprise, the little Frenchie was throwing a fit, but none of us grown-ups could figure out why. After many attempts, her parents were still unable to calm her. I thought she had hurt herself, but her father assured everyone that she was fine. Eventually, Annette had to take Celine indoors. After they left the scene, Christian looked to Oona and asked, “What? Did I do something to her?” Christian must have known he was somehow responsible for Celine’s freak-out, but why he turned to a seven-year-old for counsel, I’ll never understand. Apparently, though, Oona had seen what had gone down. Immediately, she broke the situation down as she saw it: “I think that there are a few things bothering Celine. First of all, she is very little and it is late. I think she must be tired. Also, I am not sure that she ate dinner yet. I think she might have been crying about dinner. But, actually, what probably made her really the most upset was when you embarrassed her. She was sad about that. I could tell. I wouldn’t have liked that very much either.”

  Poor guy. But he did ask.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or pleased with my burgeoning psychiatrist. Although she administered it gently, Oona was publicly dressing down this adult, one she hardly knew, for the way in which he had treated his child. This couldn’t possibly be very French, but, then again, he had asked Oona’s opinion. I couldn’t help but feel pride for Oona’s outspoken interpretation of the situation. Even Christian, now clearly embarrassed himself, seemed impressed by her explanation.

  While working on this book, I have come up against this strange dynamic with my subjects. Almost everyone I interviewed and observed was a parent, most often with children in tow. I realized early on how impossible it is not to be self-conscious when you know someone is scrutinizing your kids and how you interact with them. For Frenchies like Christian and Annette, the pressure was on, and for my dear American friends, the defenses were up. I am glad to have made it to the other side relatively unscathed. I hope those who participated will agree.

  There were, of course, a few casualties to the experiment—like when I told Daphn
e that if she didn’t shape up, I would get French and cancel a highly anticipated playdate with her bestest pal of the week. Sadly, she didn’t heed my warning, so I was forced to call off the fun, via an email to her buddy’s mom. This might have gone down without a hitch in France, but here in Brooklyn I received a somewhat chafed reply, in which the other mother explained how “unfair” it was that her child, who was “devastated” not to have Daphne over, should be punished for Daphne’s behavior. She asked if perhaps I could have “chosen a more appropriate consequence.” Give me a break. The truth is, however, I haven’t used that threat since.

  That was early on though, and these days I rarely even need to heighten the stakes. Even Daph’s letter to Santa this Christmas shows evidence of what is going on in her darling little head. She wrote:

  Dear Santa,

  All of us in America are sorry for our bad behavior, but I’m the sorriest. Speaking of, I want Julie’s bunny.

  Love,

  Daphne

  Okay, so she’s still very much an American kid. And I love her and her Americanness. And Oona too—who I might never convince to slow down and refine her motor skills. I won’t stop trying. However, there are times when I wonder if some form of the principle that applies when a person loses one of their senses, and the other four kick in stronger, might be in play with Oona’s sensibilities. When we were out at Fire Island (you may remember those blissful summer days from Chapter Six), she noted that a couple of kids had set up a station near the ferry dock and were selling handmade friendship bracelets to newcomers. Oona cannot resist a commercial opportunity—or a competitive challenge—but she also has little to zero interest (or know-how) in weaving a bunch of bracelets. After thinking it over for half a day, she came up with her own product: “Poem in a Shell.” She spent the other half of the day gathering shells from the beach and making signs, and by the time the first ferry pulled in the next morning, she was out hawking her wares. She would lure customers in with her charm (and cute little sister) and then propose that, for $1.75, they could give her one word, and she would—on the spot—compose a short poem; her father (whose penmanship, lamentably, is not much of an improvement over Oona’s) would then transcribe it on the inside of the shell with a Sharpie. Even the price point was brilliant, as nearly every one of her clients gave her $2 and told her to keep the change. In less than an hour, she had pulled in $18.