Category Archives: Travel

Eponine

Posted on by
Reply

A dream come true! Les Misérables the musical is coming to movie theatres on Christmas Day! My long obsession with this musical dates back almost 20 years when I was a kid going to see the touring company as they came through Fort Worth, Texas. Right from the start I latched on to the tragic heroine, Eponine, not only because she had the most beautiful solo, but because she was so often unnoticed and unappreciated by those she loved. She essentially lived in two worlds: the world as it was and the world as she longed for it to be.

No doubt Les Misérables played a role in my decision to learn French, study abroad, and eventually earn my bachelors in French. Victor Hugo and I crossed paths when I read the English translation of Notre-Dame de Paris as a teenager as well. And who would have imagined I’d one day learn that Victor Hugo and I were born on the same day? I can’t tell you the whys and the wherefores for such bizarre coincidences, but to me there must be a reason – there must be.

It was October 2002 and at last I could walk through the streets of Paris, alone, pretending to be Eponine dreaming hopelessly about her sweet Marius. The temptation to sing “On My Own” aloud was difficult to resist. There was the Seine, right beside me, singing softly and mournfully. I could feel the emotional weight baring down on me again. I could’ve been with my friends. I didn’t have to be alone. But I changed my mind at the last minute for the same reason I’d recently bought those new, long-sleeved shirts. I didn’t want my friends to see the cuts on my wrists.  I wanted to prove to them I was strong. I didn’t want to disappoint them.

Of course Les Misérables sounds prettier than “The Miserable People” as one might say in English. Like many people do when they realize they can’t control the circumstances surrounding them, Eponine retreated into her imagination.

“On my own, pretending he’s beside me / All alone, I walk with him ‘till morning / Without him, I feel his arms around me / And when I lose my way I close my eyes and he has found me.”

Imagination is one way to escape from a world we can’t control. Sometimes, when I’ve had to take a walk to find peace away from crowded dormitories and chatty housemates, I’ve taken a walk with my grandmother who died when I was a baby or imagined long conversations with friends I hadn’t seen in ages. And with all my might I’d try and imagine someone holding me and whispering in my ears the simple phrase “everything’s going to be all right.” But my imagination can only take me so far.

Prayer requires imagination as well. I’m not saying I have to imagine the existence of God (although to some extent that may be true). But God is not physically tangible (as you probably already know). All the way back to the ancient Hebrew texts, God is too sacred and too powerful for our human eyes to see. Moses was told not to look at God on the mountain top, for he would surely die.

But when I am walking alone at night, I sometimes imagine God walking with me. I have conversations with him in my head. Sometimes I smile at what I imagine him saying.  Most of the time I try and imagine him reminding me that I’m still important and I still have a purpose in life. My story isn’t over yet.

Eponine dies in the arms of Marius, the friend she loves who is not in love with her. Still, she masks her pain to make him happy. It is what she’s always done from the first time he set eyes on his bride, Cossette, until her fall at the barricades.

This is the strange thing about human relationships. We don’t want to burden our friends with our troubles and yet we feel sad when our friends withhold their troubles from us.

We all know how the France chapter of my story ended. I tried so hard not to let the people I most cared about see me when my pain had become too difficult to bare that my mind could no longer distinguish between what was my imagination and what was real. And yet even when I woke up in a psychiatric hospital and a couple of my friends took time to call, I didn’t tell them anything was wrong.

I will note it’s much easier to hide your pain from your friends when your friends live far away. People like me have trouble regulating their emotions. I can’t stop the tears once they’ve been triggered and it’s often made for awkward situations. But I can weep silently while listening to a friend’s voice on the phone and they never have to know.

As Eponine died in the arms of her Marius, she sang a kind of lullaby with him.

“Don’t you fret Monsieur Marius I don’t feel any pain / A little fall of rain could hardly hurt me now / You’re here that’s all I need to know / And you will keep me safe / And you will keep me close / And rain will make the flowers grow” 

 

 

He Remembered My Name

Posted on by
Reply

My study-abroad in France had been the fulfillment of a dream. At last I could immerse myself in a new language and new way of life! As I took my first steps on French soil, I yearned to be transformed. As an American, I felt stifled and unsatisfied with who I was. No label fully defined me, but I could more easily see my flaws than my talents. Beneath it all was an undiagnosed and untreated depression, completely saturated with self-hatred. I felt insignificant and unworthy of love – but I told no one. I instinctively knew something was wrong with me and I’d convinced myself France was the anecdote.

After three months of traveling around Europe during the summer of 2002, I boarded the train to Montpellier ready to absorb myself in French for a year. The train was overcrowded with students and some of us had to sit on the floor. In the spirit of adventure, we huddled together and chatted in French about our summers and goals for the coming school-year. We were joined by a middle-aged woman coming to meet her son at the train station. Evidently it was her son’s first year at the university and, like any proud mother, she unabashedly boasted of his achievements. We talked until we reached our destination. I smiled at her warmth and devotion.

Upon arrival, the kind mother and I briefly parted ways while I wandered aimlessly in search of the rendezvous for my school. She and I crossed-paths once more that day, only this time her son accompanied her. The glowing mother politely introduced him to me as Stephan and with a little motherly encouragement, Stephan gave me his home address, email, and phone number. I thanked him and contacted him as soon as I could. But for some reason, he disappeared without a trace. Feeling betrayed and friendless, there seemed for me but two choices: I could either spend time with the American students and forsake my entire reason for coming to France or take off on solo adventures and meet French people. I saw no other solution; I was better off spending time in places where only French was spoken.

As a solo drifter in an uncharted world, I’d sometimes get lost while trying to find my way home. But searching for direction usually meant asking questions of strangers in French, so I didn’t mind. Ultimately this led to my encounter with Marc, a tall, long-haired, whimsical angel whose French was a bit too slurred and hard for me to understand at times, but I muddled through anyway because he didn’t speak English and I knew the best way to learn a foreign language was total immersion.

I learned a little about my angel. Marc loved to stop and watch the street performers. He’d once fallen in love with an Algerian woman and thus strongly opposed any sort of racism toward Arabs. He’d never been to America but he was convinced he had some Navajo in him. But most importantly, whenever we met, he made me smile.

As the semester progressed, I moved to a solitary studio apartment away from the university and closer to the city center. Marc and I had actually met through a mutual friend so I didn’t really have a way to contact him. Sadly our meetings were often left to chance so I couldn’t tell him how the world around me was crumbling. I ran into him once after I’d cut my wrists for the first time. I remember awkwardly smiling at him as I pulled my long sleeves over the wounds and prayed he wouldn’t notice.

When first came to France, I actually had a coping mechanism for my depression and it had sustained me for a couple of years. I was a runner. I’d even run a marathon earlier that year and had signed up to run the Paris marathon the upcoming spring. However my mind took to its own world when I ran, leaving the rest of me vulnerable to injury. One night while running, I tripped on an uneven sidewalk and fell with all my weight landing on my left knee. I gave it three weeks to heal, but it didn’t (a year later, it was x-rayed and shown to have been fractured, but healed). Then I knew I had to relinquished my spot in the marathon. Through uncontrollable tears, I mourned the loss of a dream. No one was there to comfort me. How I ached for someone to hold me!

Once one metaphorical wall caved in, the rest soon followed.  Around Thanksgiving, my wallet was stolen, but instead of asking for help right away, I naively waited in hopes it was merely lost and someone would return it. Meanwhile, my food supply diminished until I was living off packets of powdered soup. I finally called my parents and asked them to wire me some money, but I didn’t dare reveal how bad things had really become. I didn’t want them to worry. Moreover I didn’t want them to send me home early. I wanted to show them I could survive and even thrive in another country.

One night, after finishing a dinner of powdered soup and water, I lay shivering on my bed, clutching my aching belly and refusing to raise the electric bill by turning on the heat. I had to conserve minutes on my pre-paid phone as well. Incoming calls were free, but outgoing calls were terribly expensive.  My phone was usually silent but just as the tears and the pain began to overwhelm, he called. Marc, my friend and angel, remembered me and called.

He invited me to a blues club with him. I told him I couldn’t afford to but he said it was his treat because he hadn’t seen me in a while. Flabbergasted, I said yes. It had probably been about a month, but he remembered my name. That night I heard some incredible music – American styles sung by French natives, but you wouldn’t know they were French by listening because they completely owned it! Afterward Marc walked me home. We spoke in French about what would be the ideal political system and we talked about the upcoming holidays. We shared our hopes and aspirations. He said goodbye to me that night never to know the extent to which his words and actions lit up my heart. It was the beginning of my first journey out of the dark.

My Christmas and New Years that year signified the dawning of a new era. I’d been beaten down during my first semester abroad but my second semester would usher into the world a new and happier Clara. Little did I know I was about to receive the shock of a lifetime. In February of the new year, I’d be taken involuntarily to a French psychiatric hospital where I’d stay for about a month until my dad flew out to bring me home.

Just before the course of my life took a sudden, unexpected turn, I sat in front of a student diner in Montpellier awaiting someone else. Then I heard a voice calling my name: “Clara”! I looked around and gasped with astonishment to see Stephan. Six months had past with us not seeing one another and suddenly, from out-of-the-blue, there he was!

“Stephan!” I cried in utter joy. “Hey, I think I still have your phone number! Let me try it.” I dialed his cell phone and it worked!

“Wow!” he exclaimed, with an air of whimsy. “You have the secret number!”

That night I walked back to my apartment, smiling and crying all the way home. Little did I know that was the last time I’d ever see Stephan. Had we met when my mind was sound and the happiness in him remembering my name hadn’t fed my delusions, I’m sure we could’ve been good friends. But, unlike the encounter with Marc, Stephan actually gave me an email address and we were able to reconnect, but the timing was still wrong.

For some of us, it’s quite easy to fall into the vicious cycle of self-pity and depression (especially if our brain is chemically predisposed to it). For me, to have someone address me by name is like telling me I’m important. Moreover, it shows I am wanted.

God only knows how far my life story would’ve gone were it not for people like Marc and Stephan. Knowing I’m needed is not enough to keep me alive in the dark of night. Knowing I’m wanted, on the other hand, will keep me alive until God alone decides my story’s end.

International Students are Awesome (Part 1)

Posted on by
Reply

 

Since I first left home at 19, it’s been fairly common for people to hear my story for the first time and then look at me with befuddlement. They wonder how a woman like me could’ve been raised in a religious and conservative family and yet somehow manage to grow-up to be reasonably left-leaning and open-minded. Contrary to conventional thought, I’ve also never completely rebelled against my upbringing, nor have I ever felt compelled to conform to it. There are many theories as to why I differ so profoundly from my family and yet maintain the capacity to respect their points of view.  But for simplicity’s sake, let’s just say I’ve always felt foreign – at home, at school, everywhere.

My introduction to different cultures began quite early in my life. Mom always wanted to travel the world but finances in my youth were always somewhat tight. Nevertheless, Mom and Dad made sure my sister and I visited museums and art galleries as well as cultural festivals and exhibitions throughout our growing-up years.

My dad never showed as much enthusiasm as Mom for world travel – then again, Dad’s not good at showing any emotion. However, Dad’s mom (my grandmother) did have a hankering for travel. I learned about it after I’d already grown and gone on my own trans-Atlantic travels. In 1948, she wrote her Master’s thesis on “Employment and Exchange of Teachers on an International Basis.” She believed strongly in the value of international education, even though she wasn’t able to make her own trek overseas until she was almost retirement age. My dad tells me her journey around Europe was one of the great highlights of her life.

In sixth grade, I sent a request for a pen pal to a service specializing in world pen pals. In return the agency gave me the name and address of an Irish girl around my age and our correspondence lasted for more than a decade.  To this day I’ve saved all her letters.

Many foreign exchange students experience their first time abroad in high school. My sophomore year of high school, I met a girl from Japan. She and I walked home from school together sometimes. I’d ask her about her experiences as a foreigner and stand in awe at how well she spoke English. From Japan to Sri Lanka to England and to Swaziland, Egypt, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Cameroon, to Colombia, Haiti, Chile, and Senegal – my fascination with places vastly different from my homeland continued to grow.

Some of my initial observations came while spending time with foreign students. It was embarrassing to realize almost all the students I’d meet were from countries where English was not the primary language. In other words, most of them were at least bilingual and many spoke three or more languages. I felt like I’d been somehow cheated in the monolingual, public education system I’d been forced to endure.

I could’ve been a foreign exchange student in high school too. It was a temptation with one major drawback: American students usually had to take an extra year of high school upon their return. I longed to go to France because I’d been studying French and fallen in love with the language . Unfortunately I was already set to graduate at 19 years old. It would’ve been utterly humiliating to graduate at age 20.

After high school, I went to Azusa Pacific University in Southern California because I wanted to get as far away from home as possible and APU was the furthest I could handle at the time. I must’ve lucked out because APU became my first insight into being an international student.

For starters, I lived in a residence hall and my own profound feeling of not belonging anywhere (feeling “foreign”) began to surface. I was shy among the more “normal” spectrum of American students, but for some reason I could easily talk with the foreigners. In turn, the foreign students found an American who cared about them and we became friends. I longed to see the world through their eyes and I’d often shower them with questions about their homes. Then I’d walk to my room and imagine what it must be like to leave everything you’re familiar with and fly to a place where the language, the culture, everything is new. 

That first year of university, I wasted no time in going overseas. But wasn’t interested in being a tourist. Instead I joined a short-term mission team from APU and flew to Romania for 5 weeks. For me, this would be my first time overseas. But my roommate was from Japan and had been an international student in the US for about four years already. Her first-hand cross-cultural experience made her an excellent guide for my ugly-American manners. It wasn’t easy for me to receive correction for my cross-cultural blunders, but I was grateful for what I learned. A few things she taught me were:

  • Don’t converse with her in English in front of our host-family because they don’t understand what we’re saying and it’s rude.
  • Don’t complain about the food even if you don’t like it. It is a great kindness for your hosts to have prepared something for you in the first place.
  • Put others before yourself. You can go without food for one me if someone needs your lunch more because they haven’t eaten in days.
  • Don’t assume your problems are larger than anyone else’s. Be strong and encourage one another.
  • Be grateful for all you’re given. Remember, you’re a stranger in a foreign land. You are not automatically entitled to kindness.

When the time came to leave Romania, I cried, my roommate cried, and our host parents cried. I’d fallen hopelessly in love with a country I’d known nothing about just a few months prior. My host family and I exchanged letters for several years after. They didn’t speak any English, but since all the young people were perfectly bilingual, it was easy for my Romanian family to find translators. Just as I’d been with my Irish pen pal, I was ecstatic each time I found a letter in the mailbox postmarked Romania.

The next leg of the journey would include my dream-come-true of studying abroad in France.  To be continued….

My Declaration of Freedom!

Posted on by
Reply

When in the course of a human life the ability to live fully and freely has been compromised by a series of unexpected and traumatic events, it becomes necessary to renounce the lies imposed by said events and break-free from one’s oppressors, be they real or imaginary.

I, Clara Jane Tenny, hold these truths to be self-evident, that no superficial or psychological label has the power to impose limits on me. I have been endowed by my Creator certain unalienable rights, among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. Yet for too long I have allowed myself to believe that I am unworthy of these and other fundamental rights.  At times, I am ashamed to say, I have even believed my own suicide would be a reasonable and noble act.  I believed my death would unburden my family and friends of me and end all my emotional pain. But those beliefs were nothing more than cruel lies and I shall not believe them anymore!

In the course of my young adult years, directly following my hospitalization in and repatriation from France, I experienced all five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The grieving process cycled through my system while my friends moved on in life – diligently working their way up in the world, marrying and settling down. While their lives progressed, mine seemed to regress and I was left to grieve on my own.

For too long I have carried the invisible chains of stigma and madness. But there are visible scars on me as well. My scars remain as symbols of a time when I could not see beyond the pain. Moreover, I know I am not the only one with scars in this world, but to wear my scars while living free might be my greatest gift and testimony. For freedom is the strength to keep moving forward while still courageously owning our past, no matter how painful it may be. If there be trials we have survived and overcome, then our stories have the power to help someone whose struggle has just begun.

I, Clara Jane Tenny, with the support of my family, friends, mentors, counselors, and doctors, give myself permission to:

-      boldly pursue my passions

-      denounce the self-condemning lies I once believed

-      live confidently knowing I am worthy of love and NOT doomed to a lonely existence

-      be free to travel and explore the world without chaperones or restrictions

-      be free to believe in God for the impossible

-      be free to write and keep writing with the confidence that my talent combined with hard work and dedication will ultimately be recognized and become a source of income for me

Prehistory and Making History

Posted on by
Reply
I had intended to give you a break from the serious stuff now and share what I’ve learned about France’s language and culture. This is a generic email I sent to my friends in my pre-blogging days about my travels with Fleuriane around the region of Dordogne in France. I was 22-years-old and had never been hospitalized. The world was at my feet and you’ll probably note that in the tone of this email. I give this disclaimer: I did quite a bit of revision before posting this to my blog tonight. Believe me, when this was initially sent out, it was full of flaws. I thought a cleaner version would be easier for my readers to take in. You’re welcome.
 
 

Subject: Pre-history and Clara making history

Date: Saturday, July 6, 2002

Well, everyone, I was going to hold back and write this email tomorrow because I’m actually quite exhausted from my first week of traveling with Fleuriane, but hearing from many of you energized and inspired me.  So I will write and any spelling or grammatical errors you can just attribute to my fatigue and the fact that my fingers are still adjusting to the French keyboard.

Our trip began on Tuesday, late in the morning (sometimes I can be a little bit slow when vacationing – even more so now that I’m in France and don’t have to worry about classes yet). We managed to get on the road and rolling in time to see some interesting things, but we failed to plan for unpredictable weather.  Instead, Fleuriane and I had optimistically packed our bags exclusively with summer clothing only to be rained upon subsequently spoiling our original plan to camp in a tent all week too.  So we spent two of our nights in cheap hotels.  It could’ve been worse, granted the first one was a bit noisy and we dared not use the sheets for fear of whatever strange and disgusting things previous guests might have done in them.

I also saw my first French movie in a French movie theatre.  Astérix & Obélix : Mission Cléopâtre. I laughed even though I didn’t understand everything. Sadly I doubt if it would ever find its way to an American movie theatre because it’s based on French comic book  characters that the majority of American’s have never heard of.  Still, there were a lot of actors I recognized from other French movies I’ve seen.

To spare you from the boring stuff, I will tell you some of the other highlights of the trip during which we saw many beautiful castles and Medieval buildings and caves.  Yes, caves.  This is what Dordogne is known for.  It is the region where the well-known Lascaux cave was found, however it is now closed to the public.  Not far away, though, there is a very impressive and meticulously done reproduction of the cave cleverly named Lascaux 2 and we were fortunate to visit that.  It was very cool-looking, but knowing that it was only a copy of the robbed it of its splendor.

I was most impressed with Gaume, the last of the caves where visitors can see the original, prehistoric cave paintings.  But it’s still so protected that they only except 100 visitors each day and Fleuriane and I were fortunate to be among them.  I imagine that one day this cave, too, will be closed to the public. But at least it will remain embedded in my memory.

Among the castles and Medieval buildings we saw, I fell in love with a quaint town called Sarlat, which, according to my travel book, was of little significance until I think the 1960’s when it’s buildings, dating from the 13th century, were restored and making it a tourist attraction and the backdrop for some well-known movies, including Ever After (I’m told).  Fleuriane and I imagined how it would be living near the town center, perhaps in apartments across from one another so that we could shout at each other from our windows as we’d observed some Sarlat  residents doing .

There were some new cultural experiences I enjoyed. One was canned duck, or canard in a can as I prefer to say with my best Texas accent (but Fleuriane doesn’t like my little combo of French and English in that phrase, so I don’t say it much anymore).  Yes, we being the poor students that we are brought all our food with us, most of which was given to us by Fleuriane’s grandma.  Each day we bought a baguette and, as long as it didn’t rain, we would eat outside.

On our way too and from we met up with Fleuriane’s best guy-friend whom she hadn’t seen for a long time. With genuine enthusiasm, she introduced him to the American hug.  I enjoyed watching his stunned reaction.  On the way back to Fleuriane’s village, we visited her friend and joined his family for dinner.  They were all from Algeria so we ate couscous and were entertained by some of their traditional music afterwards.  It was beautiful! Once more, I found that, for the first time since my month in Annecy, I wasn’t afraid to speak French with them. Their kindness and hospitality seemed to dissolve my inhibitions.  I think I shocked Fleuriane a little because I’d been so shy on this trip when it comes to speaking French.  You know, having only had 2 years of the language, it can be a bit intimidating to suddenly be immersed in it, but I’m learning and Fleuriane is a tremendous help.  Since all of our tours were conducted in French, she was kind enough to help me understand anything that I couldn’t pick up.

On our journey home tonight, Fleuriane told me that road trips like this weren’t normal for French people.  She told me that usually they find a favorite destination and spend their 4-week vacation there.  The reason she did this for me, she said, was because I took her on road trips and the US – well, that and by her own admission, she’s “not really French”.

We have a whole month in which we will be traveling throughout France and parts of Germany, Austria and Italy.  That trip, however, will be by train and I expect the experience will be completely different, yet just as unforgettable.

There are so many more stories I could tell, but I suppose I will reserve them for my personal journal and leave all of you to experience your own lives, wherever you are at the moment.  Fleuriane and I embark on our next journey Monday.  For the next month my emails will be scarce, but I will try and keep in contact as much as possible.  Take care and stay cool!

Luv, Clara

 

La Fête de la Musique

Posted on by
Reply

This blog is going to veer ever so slightly away from my typical blog – and I think that’s a good thing – for all of us.

Today is not only the first day of summer, but it’s also the annual “Fête de la musique” in France.

In 2002, when I went to la Fête de la musique with my friend, Fleuriane, in Clermont-Ferrand, I wrote:

[La Fête de la Musique] is a grand French tradition which takes place each year on the first day of summer. There are bands of every genre and on each street corner. The streets are swarming with people who come for a night of pure enjoyment…the experience was unbelievably great and I hope that I will be able to go again next year as I most likely won’t be leaving France until the end of June.

Music touches all of us in different ways, but I think for those of us with mood disorders, it tends not only to be our comfort when emotions run high, but the language of the turmoil within us. For me, I’ve been gifted with a good singing voice and the ability to read and interpret music with voice, piano, and a little bit of guitar. I’m not anywhere close to being a professional musician, but, nonetheless, music has been my favorite form of self-expression.

My favorite musical genre to express myself in has been in the context of a musical simply because songs from musicals are set within stories that the artist must interpret  from the perspective of the character she is portraying. For me it has always been easy to “become” the character for whom the song was created. Now, I’m no actress so if I tried to give a dramatic stage performance without music, I’d probably break character in no time. But music has always been a more accessible realm for me.

Here in the US, we have a strong tradition of book musicals such as Oklahoma!, The Music Man, West Side Story, My Fair Lady, Hair, Sweeney Todd, A Chorus Line, and, more recently, Rent, Wicked, Spring Awakening, and Next to Normal. France, on the other hand, has been less appreciative this genre. In fact, their best musical composers flopped in France but scored big in the US and the UK.  Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schöneberg wrote the hit musical adaptation of Les Misérables followed by another success, Miss Saigon.

When I began studying French at university, I stumbled upon an English version of another French musical adapted from a Victor Hugo novel, Notre-Dame de Paris. Once I found the original French version, a new world of musical theatre opened up to me. And with the purchase of a region-free DVD player, I have been able to enjoy performances that 15 to 20 years ago would not have been available this side of the Atlantic.

So, to celebrate La Fête de la musique 2011, here are some clips from my favorite French musicals.

Notre Dame de Paris – Condamné

Roméo et Juliette – On dit dans la rue

Les Dix Commandements – Liberté

Le Petit Prince – Puisque c’est ma rose

 Mozart l’Opèra Rock – Tatoue-moi

In Search of a Loving God

Posted on by
Reply

Sometimes words are not enough.  Sometimes emotions, ideas, and concepts are best represented through music, pictures, and spoken word.

Many years ago I made a mixed tape for a friend of mine.  This was back in early 2003 when my emotions were going haywire and I hadn’t the knowledge to interpret them as anything but a religious experience.  In my mind, I believed God was using these songs to reach out to me and call me in my agony and despair.  To me, the extreme emotions were a gift enabling me to experience compassion in the true sense of the word.  The emotions helped me to share in the world’s sorrows.  Thus, in a very real sense, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders.

The recipient of this very bold and vulnerable collection of songs never received a detailed description as to why the music was sent to him.  The distortion of my thoughts led me to the belief that I didn’t have to tell him why these songs were important to my story.  That was going to be conveyed to him through the power of the Holy Spirit; through the power of God.

Since my friend was French, he also received a collection of French songs that, though secular in nature, still contained the hidden spirituality that somehow links humanity.  I sealed the packages, left them in plain sight on the table at my apartment alongside my journal which was opened to my last entry.  Later, after my whereabouts were discovered, the person who collected my belongings for me also mailed the packages.

My French friend received them, along with a French translation of the Bible, but I don’t know what thoughts crossed his mind when he did.  I am a rarity amongst my friends, particularly my international friends, in that my heart is readily exposed, vulnerable to great joy but also to great pain.  But then I hear music that often appeals to the masses and seems, at any given moment, to speak everything I wanted to say but could not find words for.  Then I think, I’m really not alone in all this.  Why else would the same songs that move me move others as well?

The spoken part of this was recorded roughly six months after my return from France.  I was twenty-three at that time and France was my only hospital experience ever.  I was very close to finishing school, but I still didn’t feel I had all the answers.  A few months later, my friends would be rushing me to the emergency room a watching me tearfully be admitted into the psyche unit for attempting suicide.

I didn’t know my emotions were tied to bipolar disorder and, after I received the diagnosis, I didn’t want to believe it.  I wanted, instead, to believe I was following a loving God who really was and is in control.

Mania, I heard someone tell me once, manifests itself from the very essence of your being.  If you crave love and believe that God islove, you might set forth on a journey in which you believe you can help heal the pains of this world.  You might even go so far as to develop a savior complex.  But when the doctors cut those ideas down little by little, you begin to feel an unbearable emptiness as your life is drained of meaning.

American “hugs” vs. French “cheek-kissing”

Posted on by
1

So, my friends, I have begun work on a novelization of my story.  I feel compelled to make it fiction as opposed to memoir due to the fast that fiction offers much more artistic freedom!  Here is a brief excerpt from my first rough draft.  But let me begin with a synopsis of the story.

The main character, Colleen, finds herself in a dilemma.  She has been home from studying in France for a year and has been an inpatient in the psyche hospital twice, once in France and once in the US.  She feels lost and confused, floating between two worlds.  In this scene, she’s reflecting on her time before France and before she was told she had a mental illness.  This is actually one of the light-hearted scenes.  Guy, Tristan, and Elise are the three French students mentioned here.

I loved the Frenchies!  And what better way have we Americans to express our love than to give each other hugs?  I mean, I’ve seen those people carrying around the “free hugs” signs at carnivals and such.  It’s like we love our hugs so much here, we’ll even risk hugging complete strangers!  But the Frenchies were less willing to be won over by the “American hug.” 

I learned this the hard way.  Guy came over to my dorm for a party and I was so happy to see him that I impulsively hugged him.  As I did so, I could feel him stiffen.  In response I backed away, assuming I’d just caught him off guard but otherwise had done no harm.

Shortly thereafter, Guy and Tristan pulled me aside and explained why they found the “American hug” so uncomfortable.  I gulped, lowered my head in humiliation, and listened.

“Colleen,” Tristan began.  “We do not like this thing you do where you embrace us in your arms.  How do you call it?  A hug?”

“But I hug everybody!” I argued.  “It’s just what we do here in America!”

Guy remained silent as Tristan continued.  “Sorry but we don’t like.

“Why?” I firmly demanded.

This time Guy spoke up.  “It is too close; too personal.  That’s all.”

“Serious?  That’s so sad!” I lamented.  “I love to get hugs!  And I love to give hugs too!”

“As I say, it is too personal for us.  Too bad for you.  That just how it is.” Guy stated matter-of-factly.

“So what you’re saying is, when I hug you, it’s an invasion of personal space?  Then how am I supposed to greet you when you come over?”  A legitimate question, I thought.

“Shake hands,” they both kind of blurted out together, nodding to one another in agreement.

“Shake hands?  That’s too formal!  Don’t you do that kissing on the cheeks thing in France?  You know, “la bise” or whatever you call it.  I mean, as an American, I think that’s way more personal than a hug.  Would you like me to give you that instead?”

Victory!  I thought.  How are they going to maneuver around that one?

To my dismay, they both shot that idea down sans hesitation.  So I surrendered: no hugs and no la bise from that point forward.  Except, of course, on the last day of school just before Guy and Tristan left the States for good.

Elise, on the other hand, loved the “American hug” and vowed to introduce it to France and improve the French culture with it.  The stark contrast in her reception of the hugs and that of the French guys threw me for a loop.  The French students rationalized it all by informing me they weren’t really like the French stereotype or they weren’t really French.