Sweet Home Alabama

"Singing songs about the Southland, and I miss Alabama once again..."-Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Sweet Home Alabama"

"Goooodbye, Ah-lah-bama!!"-Drunk French students, upon our parting ways.


I've now been in Nantes for over 3 weeks, and although the title of this post seems to point explicitly towards homesickness, it's rather a reflection on how I don't feel like I've truly left it (I have begun to miss my highly diluted Milo's sweet tea and my dog, two things I've found unwilling to talk to me on Skype). In fact, being in a foreign country has allowed me to appreciate more fully my own cultural identity and better understand the whole "You can't take the South out of the boy" adage, a formidable contender on the list of "Quasi-Philosophical Things Southerners Say." (Sadly that list also includes "Heritage not hate" as well as the perennial contradictions "Love it or leave it" and "Not my president").  So while I'll leave the anthropology to Andrew Bradshaw, my former classmate, current roommate, and loyal anglophone ally, I do want to take some time to share--in brief---how national identity has stood at the forefront of almost all of my social encounters in France.

First, I must say that the French seem to think I'm Irish; perhaps it's my beard, perhaps it's the cadence of my voice, or perhaps they just wish I were Irish. Whatever the case, I've had 4 different people make that mistake, so I take it that it's a common first impression. That said, once I explain that I'm from America, the next question is always "Where?" For a one word question, this is surprisingly difficult to answer. Why? The French map of the "United States" tends to include only New York, Florida, Texas, California, and Louisiana (mostly, I'm sad to report, because of the HBO show True Blood). The rest still looks about like one massive "Lousiana Territory" in their imagining. In light of that, I stick to saying "I'm from Mobile, Alabama, to the west of Florida, on the Gulf of Mexico (so it's near Mexico?)...it used to be a French colony (blank stares)...and there's a song about Alabama; do you know it?" Then the smiles appear, followed quickly by accented humming of the first notes of Van Zant's anthem and one or two people insisting they can play the song on guitar (which receives a surprising amount of playtime in French bars).  My driver's license proves my claim, and the crude map of the region I've sketched in my notebook confirms that Mexico is not actually a ferry ride away. Soon everyone in the entire extended group wants to demonstrate his or her pronunciation of the state (and sometimes buy me a drink, a kindness and I'd argue universally-appreciated diplomatic gesture). In one encounter, my name became "Alabama," and after some anemic protesting, I accepted it with a strange mixture of frustration and pride.

For my English-speaking friends, my accent is something of a novelty, much the same way that theirs are to me. Indeed, our lecteur group represents a variety of following accents: Jamaican, English (Coventry), English (Bristol), Scottish (Inverness), Canadian (Nova Scotia), American (Oklahoma), American (Maryland), and mine, American (Alabama). For the record, I could listen to Our Scottish lectrice, Mhairi, read the dictionary if that gives any indication of how lovely I find her accent. As for mine, when I was asked if I could speak without it, I quickly realized that--short of imitating one of theirs--I couldn't. Much like my practice of to holding open doors, wearing "class dress," and never taking a seat on the tram, my accent is an outward manifestation of an essential part of both who I was raised to be and who I really am, and as Mr. Isbell's narrator would agree, some things "ain't never gonna change."  Ha, and while the closest I'll get to eating Alabamian food might be Cassoulet at Nic and Elvire's, I don't worry much about "uprooting" myself these days. (Cassoulet is a traditional dish from southern France consisting of variety of meats mixed with white beans served, in our case, with Dutch beer, American Music, French wine, and some of the world's best of company, haha).

Anyway, I suppose it's appropriate that I've found myself in what many Bretons consider the heart of Bretagne (even if departmental maps disagree), a part of France typically considered "too religious," "anti-government," "plebian," and "backwards." I suspect that after this year I'll be rearing to defend another misunderstood region against geographic stereotypes. On a more practical note, classes start this week, so I'll first be trying to come up with clever ways to trick French students into learning my language; any help would be much appreciated! Ha, I have half a mind to play "Sweet Home Alabama" during the first 30 seconds of my first classes. We'll see...

Pictures will follow soon along with any amusing anecdotes I think y'all might like to hear. Here's to hoping that I pick up the French accent quickly and hold on to my Southern one faithfully.

Most cordially (my favorite French epistolary closer, "cordialement"),

John

P.S:

1. Although the Breton flag flies proudly over the Castle, "Bretagne Will Rise Again" has yet to catch on in Nantes. Still, the French military has traditionally been concerned about the loyalty of troops levied from what used to be an independent realm.

2. Elvire's younger brother, Clément, consoled me with the following Game of Thrones reference when his friend Geoffrey drunkenly made fun of my French accent: "His name's Geoffrey, and when he drinks he belongs on Game of Thrones"

3. Thanks again to Nic and Elvire's generosity, I now have a fouton that fits perfectly in my apartment. Andrew can confirm that it is rather comfortable.