Paris, Mon Amour

Violence: it’s been called the last refuge of the incompetents.
 
I have been asked to submit something for a book about our years in Paris. I could have written about the food, or the friends, or the travel. In fact, I assumed those would be my primary topics. So, I found it strange that my thoughts kept creeping back to a few incidents of violence that occurred in the almost seven years we lived there. I didn’t understand why, and thought perhaps in investigating them, I would gain clarity.
 
While gun violence has taken center stage in the United States in the 21st century, there was already an undercurrent of violence in the 1980s. My most vivid memory is from January 18, 1982. I was in 8th grade, my final year at Marymount, and my sister Pauline was a sophomore at the American School of Paris (ASP). That night at dinner, Pauline mentioned that Mark, a boy in her class, had been told that his father had been killed that day. At 9 o’clock that morning, Mark’s father, American Colonel Charles Ray, had walked outside their apartment on the Boulevard Emile Augier in the upscale 16th arrondissement. Ray was walking 100 feet to his car, which was parked on the street, when a middle Eastern assailant shot him once in the forehead at point blank range, killing him instantly. Ray’s wife had been in their apartment at the time of the shooting; his two teenage children were already out in St. Cloud at ASP with Pauline. My parents tried to downplay the tragedy as an isolated incident. What else could they do? It’s not like parenting books advise you on how to discuss the assassination of a classmate’s fathers. There was a state funeral for Colonel Ray at Notre Dame, shortly after which Mark, his sister Sharon and mom moved back to the States. The Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Faction claimed responsibility for Ray’s death, while in the New York Times the following day, the American Ambassador Evan Galbraith said there was no way to ensure the safety of all embassy personnel or Americans.
 
My parents dealt with the stress of this by keeping us focused on the dailiness of our lives. For me, that meant finishing middle school, complete with drama club and Girl Scouts. Ah, girl scouts. An American woman, who lived out in the suburbs by ASP, had married a Frenchman, and lead a Girl Scout troop. With two sons and two daughters, she wanted her daughters to experience American life, and figured what’s more American than scouting? I was the youngest troop member, and didn’t feel comfortable amongst the older scouts. I felt a lot of the requirements for earning badges were tedious and frankly, beyond me. I couldn’t sew. My family didn’t camp. Lacking both skills and friends, I wanted to quit, but my mom encouraged me to stick with it, hoping that with time my confidence and comfort level would grow.
 
Five months after Colonel Ray’s murder, our façade of calm was once again demolished. At 1:31 AM on Friday June 4th, a bomb exploded at ASP, shattering windows and blowing out doors. Graffiti was written on the wall, saying “American pigs out of San Salvador.” The terrorist group Action Direct claimed responsibility for the bomb, saying they were protesting President Reagan’s visit to Paris for the 7-nation Versailles Economic Summit. Since no one was hurt, ASP would resume classes that Tuesday, once Reagan left.
 
But before Reagan left on Monday, Sunday was June 6th, the 38th anniversary of D-Day. First Lady Nancy Reagan helicoptered from Paris to Normandy for ceremonies at the American Cemetery, as many of those involved in the invasion were still alive. Our Girl Scout troop had been invited to meet her, so early that morning, we drove up to Normandy in a caravan of cars. One of us would be chosen to give Reagan a bouquet of flowers. When we arrived at the manicured lawns of the cemetery, our names were put in a hat. To everyone’s surprise, my name was picked. I felt a chill settle upon the group, as one of the girls requested a redo. “Why her?” I overheard one of the girls ask the troop leader. “She’s not even a good scout.”
 
As if on cue, to prove what a lacking Girl Scout I was, a woman approached me and very slowly, as if speaking to a mentally challenged person, said, “Do. You. Speak. English?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m American.”
Without missing a beat, in the same slow and loud English, she said, “Good. The. Hem. Of. Your. Skirt,” here she mimicked the hem of a dress collapsing, “is falling.”
 
The Girl Scout leader whipped out a safety pin and fixed my hem. This, of course, only increased the incredulity of the troop, that such a poorly shod member would be selected for such an honor.
 
My immature and foolish mind said, “One day, they’ll regret the way they’re treating me. One day, they’ll realize that I matter.” But life, of course, does not work that way. Those “one days” never come, and in their minds, if you were to ask them about the incident today, they would probably still begrudge my being chosen to give flowers to Nancy Reagan.
 
Mrs. Reagan, wearing a red raincoat, came down the line of scouts, shaking each of our hands. I was surprised at how petite, almost fragile, she was in person. My 14-year old self remembers thinking that she looked like an elegantly dressed toothpick with a huge helmet of hair. Of course, I never shared this with my scouting companions.
 
It was Mother’s Day in France, not America, so I surprised Mrs. Reagan by wishing her a happy Mother’s Day. She embraced me. The troop was gratified I made them look good, and the ride back to Paris was a peaceful one. But I never returned to a Girl Scout meeting after that. I figured that meeting the First Lady was the greatest experience I would have as a Girl Scout, and I might as well go out on top.
 
All of that was 39 years ago. The Reagans have passed away, as have my parents, as have all those who participated in D-Day.
 
Now that my kids are nearing the ages that I was during all this, I look back at my parents’ response to the violence with both incredulity (how did they normalize their kids’ school being bombed or classmates’ parent assassinated?) and pride (they refused to let Fear win).  I wish I could talk to them now.
 
As if in response, in a box in my garage, I find a diary my mom kept. It’s from 1984, which is two years after the above events. I open it, remembering 1984 as a calm and peaceful year. I don’t remember any violence. My sister graduated from ASP that year, and I was a sophomore.
 
Mom’s first diary entry reads,
“Dimanche, 1 janvier-  Cloudy and grey. We sleep in. There were 2 bombings on trains last night – one on the TGV itself and one at the Gare de Marseilles. Six in all were killed, lots wounded. I am tired.”

​Lundi 2 janvier - Polly received a call from (drama teacher) Ted Miltenburger. ASP received a bomb threat and police were at the gates. I drove out with a casserole that I had to pick up at the Schultz.”
 
The rest of the month is filled with French lessons, cooking classes, travel and wine tastings.
 
Then 31 janvier - Lunch at the Embassy with the Shedlicks. Get home to an urgent message to call (Marymount Principal) Sr. Diane back no matter what time. L. (a teacher) was attacked in the main (68) convent building at Marymount at 5 PM by a black man. She received 4 stitches in her ear. Lips are bruised. Everyone is upset. Oh Comforter, where’s your comfort? John calls from the States.
 
9 fevrier - At French conversation, Francoise told a gory story about a man she saw on the metro yesterday with a bloody hand inside his shirt. Pork chops for dinner. John brought me home flowers – nice surprise!
 
16 fevrier - Jake (in 7th grade) brought me home a rose! He and Ken were slightly mugged at La Defense. Went after Jake’s Olympic bag and his money. Polly, staying with her friend Maria, calls to say hi.
 
25 fevrier - Sr Diane and I have coffee at Angelina’s. While we were parking, a woman is ripped off by gypsies. I must finish reading “the Butcher of Lyon” as we are meeting the author Brendan Murphy soon.
 
The whole year is like that. The diary is a pattern of everyday events punctuated with violence. Mom never reflects on the violence or even comments on it, which *almost* makes it humorous. This nonchalant recording of frequent violence explains why my mind went to violence when I thought of the 80s in Paris. While I had erased most of the violence from my consciousness, surely I was aware of it at the time. The mind is an incredible world.
 
We were fortunate that although in a sea of violence, somehow we were never harmed. My final memory of violence comes two years after mom’s diary, in May 1986, my senior year. Although most seniors drift through their final semester, I was determined to do well on my IB exams, modern European history in particular. I remember nervously taking our seats in history class, when the fire alarm sounded. Our principal Mr. Cohan had rung it to evacuate the school. Apparently, a bomb threat had been called in to the school. There would be no test that afternoon.
 
We all filed out onto the field, and, rather than feeling scared, I was annoyed. I just wanted the exam to be over. We lounged in the sun as the French police combed through the school, their bomb dogs sniffing everything, leaving nothing unturned.
 
A bomb threat was called in the following week. Same drill. And it happened a third time. Perhaps because the faculty and staff were by now irked, people started talking. We deserved to know if we were in danger. Interpol was on the case, but they didn’t believe it was a terrorist organization this time.
 
They thought it was a student.
 
In fact, through voice recording identification, they determined exactly which student it was. We were told it was the son of the leader of my Girl Scout troop.
 
He didn’t want to take his final exams. So, he called in bomb threats.
 
Is this how violence is perpetuated? Had violence become so normalized that it was a logical resort to get out of an unwanted situation? Or was it more that in the undeveloped mind of a kid, violence was a plausible deterrent, with little comprehension of how serious a bomb can be?  I suspect it’s both, the last refuge of a boy who felt incompetent to sit his exams.
 
Paris, City of Lights, playground of terrorists, muse to the soul. It's been Hemingway’s moveable feast, and Hitler’s prize. If we were listening, Paris was teaching us to embrace life’s simultaneous contradictions that are always at play. It was showing us the importance of embracing the constant paradoxes of life, in this case to feel at home in a poetic place of violence. Paris was encouraging us to accept both life's beauty and its brutality. I missed the lesson then, but I welcome it now. For when I next return to Paris, I will be perceived as old, in fact older than my parents were when we lived there. Yet paradoxically, when I next walk Paris' paved sidewalks, I will feel like a teenager once again.