The Glass Ceiling

"Do you consider yourself French?" I was lunching with a friend and posed this question, curious as to how she viewed herself. Born in Glendale, California, Madame C arrived as a college student over 30 years ago, met and married a dapper young Frenchman, and settled in her adopted country. They had three children together, who have married and started families of their own in France. Madame speaks perfect french (according to my sources), even if with a distinct American twang. She has worked in France for many years, attended her community church and sang with the choir, holds duel citizenship, and voting privileges. She has even been called to serve jury duty! "That's a good question" Madame C mused. She sipped her tea slowly as she took her time to think it through. "Well, I am almost french" she slowly, as if she didn't quite believe it. "My accent gives me away" she added, "and come to think of it, I do say things in a way that is American. So, I guess I would say no!" I was surprised (and yet, not). "That's amazing" I laughed, as I read the laundry list of her qualifications, "In America, if an immigrant has lived, worked, raised a family, learned the language, voted, and paid taxes for 30 years, he is an "American"! If you have lived there for 10 years you would be considered "American"! WTF France?" But interestingly enough, all of these things don't add up to a hill of beans in the minds of les française. Apparently, one must think like a Frenchman (a task more daunting than finding Jimmy Hoffa), have a lineage that excludes African ancestry, (second generation Algerians born in France are still considered "Algerian"), and learn to truly appreciate the aroma of unpasteurized cheese. Later that day I was speaking with a mutual friend, a Frenchman who has known Madame C for 20 years. "Would you consider Madame C to be french?" I asked, as I listed all the reasons she should. J.M. paused, scratching his nose and rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger, his other arm crossed over his chest. "Hmmm" he was searching his mind carefully. This was a loaded question, a difficult one to answer. "She has made a success here in France" he admitted, raising one eyebrow as well as his index finger, "but she is not exactly french". "What would make her french?" I asked. My friend shrugged, his lower lip jutting out just a bit, his eyebrows changing to resemble Shaggy's (from Scooby-Doo). "I don't know" was his answer.