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The dancing monkey who steals things...a.k.a., an American host student
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My French host mother, often asking, "Julie! What are you doing? Are you alright? Where are you going? Ok, well..."
Though I've written a couple warm and cuddly posts about my host family, allow me to remind any one considering a stay with a host family of the possible difficulties as well. No, my mission is not to paint some sort of misanthropic picture of my lovely French host family.
But, let's face it.
They are French.
And that means that there are certain, let's say, qualities inherent in the way they interact with others, primarily their wee little American girl living with them. In a conversation with my mother (yes, on Skype*), I was telling her about what I'd call a sincere cultural difference between myself and my host family. Let me give you the exposition.
My host mother, lovely as she is, is somewhere between a mother hen, looking after her little flock of sons, husband, and American girl, and an overly curious journaliste, looking for as many facts as possible about every aspect of her inner circle's affairs.
So, what does that mean for me, the American who tries to speak French and survive the teasing antics of her host brothers?
It means that I'm somewhat of a dancing monkey for my host family. They love me and accept me, but to a certain extent. For them, I feel sometimes to be the source of a dysfunctional kind of entertainment. When I make a grammar mistake, when I take two slices of Camembert instead of combining those two slices into one, when I go out with my friends and come home sort of late, when I don't go out, when I take a sip of water too quickly, when I'm a little tired and I don't respond right away, it's a round of:
"Julie! Qu'est-ce qui se passe?? Pourquoi t'es aussi fatiguée? Tu n'as pas une bonne mîne, Julie, pourquoi? Qu'est-ce que t'as fait hier soir? Tu étais avec qui? Pourquoi? C'est qui? Tu dînes là? Pas ici?"
(translation:)
"Julie! What's going on?? Why are you tired? You don't look so good, Julie, why? What'd you do last night? Who were you with? Why? Who's that? You're eating there? Not here?"
The flood of questions doesn't stop there.
On top of that, even now, 7 months after living with this family, I still feel like I'm stealing when I eat my breakfast in the morning. I grab an apple or a yogurt and I feel like the French thief at the end of Ocean's 12 stealing the jewels while balancing multiple laser boundaries. It's a bit absurd. The feeling of being a stranger, of being outside the family, never totally goes away. It lingers like the dew of a strong fog--it's almost all clear, and one can see the way to go, but the sense of a haze isn't gone. And it doesn't go. It's an important aspect of living with a host family--we never become truly a part of the family.
In short: I am the dancing American monkey, funny to watch, funny to talk to, who sometimes "steals" apples and bananas, who is adored in a "Oh, you cute little thing" sort of way, who is in the circus but will never be one of the French trapeze artists who are soaring high above.
Ok, I have to go, I have a class with the 50 other American monkeys dancing here in Nantes. À bientôt!
*see previous post for some Skype snippets
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