Roots (Guest Post by Dana)

My dad’s nickname for me is Roots.

It comes from my oldest cousin who used to call me “cute” but as he couldn’t say his “c” sound, his “cute” became “toot.” So I was “toots” for awhile, until my dad eventually adapted it to Roots.

Roots. It’s an interesting word in the English language with a variety of meanings. It refers to each individual hair growing out of your body. It refers to the origins of a tree growing from the ground. It refers to the places we come from, to the place we decide to settle down in—to lay down roots.

I used to hate everything about my roots.

Because you see, I used to want to be French.

I used to want to speak flawless French, spend my summers on the beaches of the Mediterranean, eat baguettes for breakfast, and sip cafes on the restaurant terraces of Paris.

I used to want to fly my French flag, present my French passport, and have a French husband and bilingual children.

I used to want to be French.

I used to want to belong to a country who believed in accessible, affordable healthcare and education for all its citizens; a country who took religion out of government; a country known for its rich history, culture, and cuisine.

I used to want to be French.

I used to want dark, silky straight hair, a tall, slim, perfect body, and wear just the right amount of makeup with the most put together outfit.

I used to want to be French.

I used to wish I wasn’t American; I used to wish I had come from somewhere different. I used to curse my US passport and my US nationality. I used to hate being stateside; I used to resent everything about America.

I used to want to be French.

And then I moved to France. And I loved France. And I stayed in France. And I didn’t want to leave France.

But the longer I lived in France, the more I began to realize that France has its flaws, too.

And the longer I spent in France, the more I was able to see a newer, clearer me and the more I came to appreciate my roots.

I came to learn to appreciate me, and all the quirks that come with me.

I began to appreciate my American-ness, from the foods I eat, the beverages I consume, the films I watch and the music I listen to.

https://instagram.com/p/y-q_oDNnhB/

I began to like my big, unruly, American curly hair. I began to appreciate the life experiences I’ve had. I began to appreciate my country, my language, my culture, my passport, and my education. I began to love and appreciate where I was from, and how my country influences the world in which we live. I began to appreciate my roots.

I still love France. I still want to be in France.

But I love my roots just as much.

Even 25 years later, I think the name still sticks.

This is why Dana and I are friends. We share a love for all things French, but we’re proud Americans too.

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