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France and Family
Recently I've been getting really into my French heritage; my dad is a native of the Southwest, not too far from Bordeaux. I returned to college for no "real" reason and found myself as a declared "Francophone Studies" major (whatever that means). In reality, I think I gravitated towards the major because it deeply troubled me that my father never really had a true conversation with me in his native language, and I felt partially responsible for that. Now I'm taking it into my own hands to learn the language of my ancestors, and it's honestly become a passion of mine. That's not to say I'm a fluent speaker or even conversational for that matter; I just enjoy the idea of language and how it all fits together.
I've come to realize, as I think many academic language-learners have, that the only way I will ever become proficient in the French language is by moving there and fully immersing myself in it. There's definitely something romantic in the idea of moving to France. Maybe that lies within the idea of France itself; they are a very dramatic people. Maybe it comes from the countless American depictions of Paris in popular culture. Or maybe it lies in the idea that I could (for the first time in my life) truly connect with my dad's side of the family. I'm lucky enough to have those connections in this strange foreign country. There is a studio apartment in Paris that my grandfather recently gifted to his sons, a vineyard in the wine country run by my cousins, countless family members, cousins, second-cousins, great-aunts, and distant relatives I'm still discovering.
I suppose this all amounts to the simple fact that I am, and have always been, the only person standing in my way. That and a global pandemic.
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