Solidarity Francais

Paris was my first love. Before boys, before Truffaut films, before cappuccino. As a fifth grader in Madame Kosmerl's French class, I would make a harsh sound from the back of my throat, trying to imitate elusive French “r.” I loved how the words flowed from her lips like a melody; I was entranced by the sounds so foreign to my American ears. She promised she would find a way to send me to Paris to stay with her parents.

I never did visit her parents, but I did make it to Paris. Like so many other dewy-eyed American university students, I was lucky enough to spend my junior year abroad, a rite of passage that my own three children have embraced. I braved crowds in the Louvre to catch a glimpse of Mona Lisa; soaked in the spirit of Jean Paul Sartre over coffee at Les Deux Maggots, watch old men play boules in the Luxembourg gardens while I ate a beignet. As a fille au pair, I climbed seven flights to my attic room, where I would lean toward the red tile roofs of Paris and count my lucky stars to be in this romantic city of light.

It was in Paris that I gathered the self-assurance to go to movies and dinner by myself; rode a motorcycle for the first (and only) time; and starred in a commercial where I repeatedly bought the same baguette from a sweet woman with gold crown in the front of her mouth. I saw Nureyev dance and heard Georges Moustaki sing. On the way to my classes on Rue Daguerre I would stroll an open air market, in awe of the cheeses and meats and fruit that would be bought and stashed in stretchy net bags for someone’s dinner. I talked with an older French woman who had German officers stationed in her apartment during the occupation, and she proudly recounted how she had defiantly tossed the gift of chestnuts from an officer into her fireplace. The French of my generation were critical of American imperialism; the older generation immensely grateful.

And now I grieve for the men and women, most of them so very young, who lost their lives through acts of unspeakable darkness in the city of light. Among them was a 23-year-old student of design from California. ********

Ironically I have just returned from a trip that took me half way around the world to see my son in Kyrgyzstan and to visit Turkey, which had been wracked by terrorism that stole 100 lives just two weeks before. Those killed were demonstrating for peace in a country that sadly has become much less tolerant and is now moving toward becoming an Islamic state under its leader. My brother had asked me if I would change my plans. I hadn’t thought about it all, I said.

Humanity cannot live in fear.