Hyphens'R'Us
MY FATHER IS FRENCH, pure French. He could not be more French. He's so French he was born in Champagne. He learned to make champagne, just as his parents made champagne before him, and their parents before that, as far back as the paper trail goes. He’s French, that’s all there is to it.
The word 'French' is understandable to everyone, no matter what you feel about it. France is a country, that much is a universally-accepted fact. An old and proud country – overly proud, perhaps, but proud all the same. That much is clear, undeniable, irrefutable. It’s good to have some certainties, because this is where they end.
My mother is Armenian. There are many different kinds of Armenian. My mother was born in the Republic of Armenia when it was a part of the Soviet Union. But her parents are Turkish Armenians, from near Istanbul. My grandfather’s family origins, as far as we can tell, seem to lie further back in Romania, when it still a part of the Ottoman empire. My grandfather himself, however, was born during the genocide in Odessa, where his parents had taken refuge. My grandmother was born in Istanbul after the genocide to parents who had survived the death marches in the Syrian desert, but had left an infant daughter there. After World War II, my grandparents emigrated as newlyweds to France. Almost as soon as they arrived, they joined a boatload of French Armenians who had decided to emigrate to Soviet Armenia. As soon as they arrived there, they knew they’d made a terrible mistake. My mother was born soon after they arrived. It would take them 17 years to get out of the Soviet Union again, ten of which were spent in Odessa.
I was born in the hospital nearest my father's village. But I was never, strictly speaking, French. I barely knew my French grandparents, whereas I was the apple of my Armenian grandparents’ eyes. So I got to know and love them better, as well as the city they’d finally settled in, Marseille, which could not be more different to the country I was born in. I never learned to speak Armenian, so my grandparents and I conversed in their pidgin French. When my grandfather spoke to me, he spoke like a child. When he spoke in Armenian, he told long, funny stories. I didn't understand them, of course. I knew they were funny because everyone who could understand them would listen, rapt, laughing often along the way.
In my father's village, people owned little parcels of vines here and there. French law dictates all children should inherit equally, which meant that it was rare to inherit enough vines to be able to earn enough of a living to bring up a family. If you didn’t marry someone who also stood to inherit some vines, your prospects of earning a decent living were dim. But my father had married outside the village, and thus he became a winemaker for hire. Eventually, when I was almost six, we moved to Australia. This is how I became French-Armenian-Australian.
My two sisters were born in Australia, and they were still children when my parents moved again to America, so technically speaking they're French-Armenian-Australian-American. They're probably the only two members of the French-Armenian-Australian-American community, although the year I become a naturalized citizen that community will grow to three. That year, we will undoubtedly be the fastest growing ethnic community in America.
In our family, each of us has a different accent. My father’s accent is unmistakably French. My mother’s accent is a weird hybrid that I can’t pigeonhole one way or the other. My own accent, when I speak English, is a soft Australian accent, but when I speak French I’ve been told—by an Algerian taxi driver in Marseille—that I have a Turkish accent, presumably from spending so much time with my Armenian grandparents. My brother, who was practically an infant when we arrived in Australia, has a harder edge to his Australian accent. The third in the family is the elder of my two sisters, who has a southern American drawl mixed with recognizable hints of an Australian accent. The youngest, my other sister, has a softer accent, without the drawl.
My brother eventually moved to Britain and married a Chinese woman. This means their daughter is French-Armenian-Australian-Chinese-British. Not to be outdone, I’m looking to start a family now, with someone with a long line of genetic hyphens. I’m imagining a woman who’s half Fijian-Indian and half Arab-Israeli, so that our children can be French-Armenian-Australian-Fijian-Indian-Arab-Israeli-American. Scientists will study their DNA for resistance to super-bugs, they'll be offered diversity positions to colleges and fellowships they never applied for, and they'll have their own category in the Guinness Book of Records: 'Most confused humans ever born.'
The word 'French' is understandable to everyone, no matter what you feel about it. France is a country, that much is a universally-accepted fact. An old and proud country – overly proud, perhaps, but proud all the same. That much is clear, undeniable, irrefutable. It’s good to have some certainties, because this is where they end.
My mother is Armenian. There are many different kinds of Armenian. My mother was born in the Republic of Armenia when it was a part of the Soviet Union. But her parents are Turkish Armenians, from near Istanbul. My grandfather’s family origins, as far as we can tell, seem to lie further back in Romania, when it still a part of the Ottoman empire. My grandfather himself, however, was born during the genocide in Odessa, where his parents had taken refuge. My grandmother was born in Istanbul after the genocide to parents who had survived the death marches in the Syrian desert, but had left an infant daughter there. After World War II, my grandparents emigrated as newlyweds to France. Almost as soon as they arrived, they joined a boatload of French Armenians who had decided to emigrate to Soviet Armenia. As soon as they arrived there, they knew they’d made a terrible mistake. My mother was born soon after they arrived. It would take them 17 years to get out of the Soviet Union again, ten of which were spent in Odessa.
I was born in the hospital nearest my father's village. But I was never, strictly speaking, French. I barely knew my French grandparents, whereas I was the apple of my Armenian grandparents’ eyes. So I got to know and love them better, as well as the city they’d finally settled in, Marseille, which could not be more different to the country I was born in. I never learned to speak Armenian, so my grandparents and I conversed in their pidgin French. When my grandfather spoke to me, he spoke like a child. When he spoke in Armenian, he told long, funny stories. I didn't understand them, of course. I knew they were funny because everyone who could understand them would listen, rapt, laughing often along the way.
In my father's village, people owned little parcels of vines here and there. French law dictates all children should inherit equally, which meant that it was rare to inherit enough vines to be able to earn enough of a living to bring up a family. If you didn’t marry someone who also stood to inherit some vines, your prospects of earning a decent living were dim. But my father had married outside the village, and thus he became a winemaker for hire. Eventually, when I was almost six, we moved to Australia. This is how I became French-Armenian-Australian.
My two sisters were born in Australia, and they were still children when my parents moved again to America, so technically speaking they're French-Armenian-Australian-American. They're probably the only two members of the French-Armenian-Australian-American community, although the year I become a naturalized citizen that community will grow to three. That year, we will undoubtedly be the fastest growing ethnic community in America.
In our family, each of us has a different accent. My father’s accent is unmistakably French. My mother’s accent is a weird hybrid that I can’t pigeonhole one way or the other. My own accent, when I speak English, is a soft Australian accent, but when I speak French I’ve been told—by an Algerian taxi driver in Marseille—that I have a Turkish accent, presumably from spending so much time with my Armenian grandparents. My brother, who was practically an infant when we arrived in Australia, has a harder edge to his Australian accent. The third in the family is the elder of my two sisters, who has a southern American drawl mixed with recognizable hints of an Australian accent. The youngest, my other sister, has a softer accent, without the drawl.
My brother eventually moved to Britain and married a Chinese woman. This means their daughter is French-Armenian-Australian-Chinese-British. Not to be outdone, I’m looking to start a family now, with someone with a long line of genetic hyphens. I’m imagining a woman who’s half Fijian-Indian and half Arab-Israeli, so that our children can be French-Armenian-Australian-Fijian-Indian-Arab-Israeli-American. Scientists will study their DNA for resistance to super-bugs, they'll be offered diversity positions to colleges and fellowships they never applied for, and they'll have their own category in the Guinness Book of Records: 'Most confused humans ever born.'
