Francophile, Mais Oui Say that Again?

So, I've mentioned in the previous blog that I read a book called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. I guess I didn't read it, I listened to it on CD, but that's beside the point. It's an awesome book and I completely recommend it, however, when I read the back cover, I was baffled by a word that I was very unfamiliar with.

It described the main character, a nine-year-old boy who lost his dad in the World Trade Center attacks, as a "francophile." He was a precocious child and a collector of many things, but what was a "francophile"? Disillusioned by what I thought it might mean, since the only word I could think of that resembled it is "pedophile" and I didn't think they were the same thing, or at least I hoped not, I did a little research.

I grabbed my husband's Blackberry, too lazy to go to the computer, and typed "francophile" into the Google search engine. Wikipedia came to my rescue and answered some questions about this very peculiar word. Apparently, a francophile is a person who has a deep love and appreciation for France and the French culture. I can appreciate a person like that and I think they would have a deep love and appreciation for me.

I'm not an egophile, a person who has a deep love and appreciation for oneself--I just made that word up--but I do have a lineage of French in my system, in fact, half of me is French. I think it's all the smelly parts and the parts that love high fat and carb-infested foods and I'm pretty sure the mysterious parts of me that don't like Americans. My dad came from two parents that had pure French blood flowing through their veins and passed no love and appreciation for the French culture down to my dad and his 11 siblings. They were not francophiles, therefore leaving their descendants to fight for their Frenchness on their own.

They did leave behind their complete devotion to the Catholic religion and apparently my grandmother also had difficulty with the NFP concept and planned or unplanned she produced 12 children like a good Catholic woman should. Child #8 was my dad. These children went on to have children, too, and by 1981, out came me, grandchild #32, the final one to round out this modest sized extended family--cough, cough.

Knowing that my birth would probably be the last among his siblings, he had a duty to fulfill. I was a cousin born into a family of Ryans, Patricks, Michaels, Marys, Michelles, and Shannons. These were nice names and all but none of them carried with them a French flair. In fact, it seemed as though the family was leaning towards a bit of Irish. The nerve! What happened to cultural pride and loving our heritage? We had an exhaustive French last name that was consistently mispronounced and frankly, my aunts and uncles spared their children a first name that was equally as confusing.

Enter me. I took the hit. I was given a name that had a beautiful French sound that would roll off the tongue of any Parisian and was chosen carefully by my very fickle father. However, in small town Minnesota, the Scandinavians we were surrounded by butchered not only the complicated, yet exotic sounding last name, but my first name went down in the massacre, too.

I went through childhood pronouncing, re-pronouncing, then writing and pronouncing again my name. As the youngest of three children, I thankfully had two siblings that sorted out the last name for all the teachers before I came, but I was truly on my own when it came to my first name. I resented them for having names from the "Popular Boy/Girl" name list printed each year in the paper or being able to find their names on key chains when on vacation at Mt. Rushmore. I didn't even try to look for mine...only reassured by my mom that we would find one with my name on it if we were vacationing in Bordeaux, France. Big whoop! Our Ford Aerostar wasn't crossing the Atlantic Ocean any time soon. Pouty face.

Another assurance from my mother was that if I got married to a person with a popular last name (Anderson, Johnson, Peterson) that my first name would set me apart from the rest. She was right, how many Kelly Andersons are there? It makes me sick to think about it. I prayed that I would find a husband that would provide a name that I could blend in with, something that I don't have to clarify when pronouncing. Ha! That DID NOT happen and I am back to square one with another confusing last name.

But, I think I have found it, the people that I have been waiting for all my life. The francophiles! People who will not ask for a re-pronunciation, but a mere questioning on the the accent aigu. The "J" sound won't have the harshness in the word "jar" but the sophistication of "zsa." There is even a website completely devoted to people who are completely devoted to France and the French culture cleverly addressed http://www.francophilia.com/. I have been actively searching for a support group on their site who caters to those whose French names have been wrongfully abused in pronunciation for a large portion of their lives.

Je suis si heureux avoir trouvé les francophiles! Au revoir!