Growing Up French-American

My father came to America from France on an exchange program through his university when he was 22. Thirty years earlier, my mother’s mother had come to America from France on a boat when she was 20. She was born during World War II, when the Germans occupied France. One family story that has been told several times is the story of how, when my grandmother was a baby, there was a shortage of food. On Sundays, her parents would have to push her in a baby carriage for four miles outside of town to get vegetables from friends. Because the food was rationed in town, they would hide the vegetables underneath the blankets, which were under the baby. On their way back in town, German soldiers would stop them and look at the baby, but they never knew vegetables were hidden at the bottom of the carriage. Hearing this story several times reminded my siblings and I of our French heritage and taught us about French history. It gave us a deeper connection to France, and an even deeper appreciation for life. So many French towns and families were destroyed during that time, and we are all so grateful that our family survived.

Although I am the third generation of immigrants on my mom’s side, I am the second generation on my dad’s side, and I often feel like I’m juggling two cultures. When I’m in America, I’m “the French girl,” and in France, I’m “the American girl.” I always try to stay in touch with my French side when I’m in America. I eat French food, I speak French, and I watch French TV. I stay in touch with my French family through email and social media. Sometimes it’s hard work to keep my family’s French culture alive in the United States, but it’s very rewarding, knowing I can call two separate countries home.