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French-American

Let me get extraordinarily intimate with you for a moment:

After dealing with the bureaucratic consequences of an extremely inefficient postal system, I am finally on my way towards becoming a bonafide American citizen.


While I am delighted to be offered a new wealth of opportunity afforded by American citizenship, I am struck with a minute but very distinct sense of loss.

I have become wholly Americanized over my time spent here. I treasure the language and gorge myself on the frivolous and charming excess that this society has offered me. I credit my wit to its formative influence. The television shows and magazines- the comedians and the music.

But I always saw my lack of authorized paperwork as the last testament to my French loyalty. My passport is my link to an identity casually buried by cultural necessity. It defines my introduction. While I am unofficially American, I am still officially French. A brazen demonstration of unexpected character dimension to be flaunted at the disbelief of strangers. Proof of the existential wile genetically born, authorizing the exotic exception. Special.


But now... I will be French(Croatian)-American. It seems less spectacular to be colonized by the expatriate nation.

It's incredibly stupid because I'm barely French in anything but name. It's like having dinner with someone you still love with to tell them that you're engaged.

Well, America, let's ride into the sunset. I'm ready. Even if you have to raise France's child, I know you will do it with love and toys.


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