Last week was a pretty crazy one, for me. Not only did I sign with my wonderful new agent (I’m still on cloud 9) but I also had my administrative interview that will eventually (hopefully) lead me towards French citizenship, over the course of which I somehow became Napoleon Bonaparte’s biggest fan.
Let me explain.
Applying for citizenship in this country that has slowly but surely become mine is a strange sort of thing. I’m asking for external validation for something that already feels true: I’m asking for the right to call my home my home. And as with most tasks having to do with the French administration, the beauty of what I’m attempting is somewhat outshone by the sheer volume of bureaucratic paperwork necessary to make naturalization a reality.
In my case, I sent in my application nearly a year ago; for months, it was something I thought about rarely, but there was nothing more to do – not even a number I could call to check in on the status of my application – so I just kind of forgot about it and went about my business. Then about two weeks ago, I got a letter in the mail inviting me to the interview (and asking me for yet more papers to prove various things about myself).
After a week of manically assembling papers (and talking to an actual person at the préfecture via e-mail – a brand-new and very pleasing development), I took the metro to Cité and had my interview.
The meeting started, as most of my “green card” renewals do, with the Great Paperwork Assembly, whereby the person in front of me (in this case, the very nice woman who I had already spoken to via e-mail) asks for new papers, and I present them. But after assembling the missing papers into my file, and with no transition, the lovely woman assigned to my case asked me,
“So, what do you and your husband like to do together?”
I was immediately aware that this was a question to make sure that my relationship (of eight years) was secure and real, but for some reason, I drew a blank. I couldn’t think of anything that the Country Boy and I liked to do together. Zip. Zilch. My mind was an empty cavern.
The longer I waited, the more aware I was that I was making her doubt my (very real) marriage, so I finally blurted out.
“Travel. We love to travel. Oh, and watch TV. But that’s banal, I guess.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll put travel.”
It didn’t get better from there.
I defined liberté using the word libre; I choked so badly explaining what fraternité was that she fed me the answer. The first and only date in French history I could come up with was 1789, the year of the French Revolution.
Cool, a little voice in my head said to me. She’s going to think you know nothing at all.
So when the interviewer asked me for the name of a famous French person, and I heard “Napoleon” come out of my mouth, I knew I’d need to provide context, to offer something that showed that I belonged here, that I knew things about France, about the French.
“I think,” I said, “Napoleon is rather misunderstood.”
Where are you going with this? The little voice in my head asked, but it was too late to back out now.
You’d better commit, said another.
“Abroad, we kind of portray him as a tiny tyrant.”
But. But! Say something else, damnit.
“…But he is actually the person who institutionalized many of the values that the French Revolutionaries demanded.” I was talking way too fast. “He opened the Louvre to the public for the first time in 1793-”
“Ah, yes,” said my interviewer, saving me from myself. “I suppose he is rather misunderstood.”
I immediately felt as though I had been transported back in time, to the moment during my DALF C1 fluency exam when I – for some reason – told the examiner that I thought the government should be “like a parent” to the people and realized, in horror, that he was the French equivalent of a libertarian.
“I think that’s enough,” the interviewer said, smiling. She didn’t kick me out. She assembled my papers, told me I should hear back within a year, and escorted me to the door. She gave me a firm handshake; our meeting was over, and for some reason, despite all of my choking and blabbering and use of strange, overly literary words (including autrui), I left with a feeling that things had gone well.
A few days later, I went to a party for a friend who had recently received her French citizenship and heard yet another naturalized American expat call herself “Franco-American.”
Franco-American, I thought. That’s what I would be, if I were to be naturalized. Somehow, with all of the bureaucracy and red tape, I had managed to forget this essential fact. Franco-American. It didn’t feel like me.
Despite the fact that I’ve lived here for eleven years, that I’ve been working towards naturalization for one, that I’m married to a Frenchman and have no intention of ever leaving France… that’s the part of naturalization that, I think, will be the hardest to come to terms with. No matter how long I live here, I think I’ll always feel like an American – a Francophile, yes, but an American nonetheless.
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
Marinate the salmon fillets in the marinade.
Meanwhile, place the carrots and white and light green portions of the scallions in a bowl, setting aside the dark green for garnish. Bring the white vinegar to a boil and whisk in the honey. Pour over the carrots and scallions and set in the fridge.
Toss the Brussels sprouts, olive oil, and salt together. Arrange on a baking sheet and roast for 15-20 minutes, until nicely charred. Set aside.
Remove the salmon from the marinade and allow the excess to drip off. Cook in a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet for 3 minutes per side over medium-high heat.
Assemble the bowls: line the bowls with a layer of greens, then top with the Brussels sprouts, salmon, beet, and quick-pickled vegetables. Sprinkle with sesame seeds and scallions.
