Living in Paris, I’m Just Another American—and the French Don’t Seem to Mind
My life as an American in Paris is a far cry from what the glamorous direct-to-DVD movies make it out to be. Still, that’s the story I tell.
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My relationship with my French teachers became more like the ones I had with my therapists: I desperately wanted them to like me.
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There is a part of me, even after so many iterations of faith and years of living in an adult body, that is waiting for punishment, waiting to be banished from the Garden.
What saves these lost mothers is different in every fairy tale; often they’re brought back simply by virtue of being recognized. For me, coming back to life took time.