30. do you have people of different nationalities in your family?
lmao dude were the Whitest Family Ever like…. i might have a great-great-great-uncle who was half Swiss (and like. from the french-speaking part of Switzerland) and were not even sure of that.
but my uncles on both sides of the family married non-french women! one married a Canadian, another one a Belgian, and a Mexican-German… my parents are the only ones who stayed in france
27. favourite national celebrity?
im a big fan of Simone de Beauvoir tbh
22. what makes you proud about your country? what makes you ashamed?
well. im proud of our language because its a mess, but still pretty cool. also our culture is interesting, and we have a lot of art and literature, so thats nice! not to forget the union culture and the 1936 elections won by the far-left. thats really awesome. how could i forget??? public universities and a lot of schools are practically free, even tho our schools are falling apart lmao
now………………. oh boy. colonialism???? like,,,,, we still have this colonialist dynamic towards several African countries. We had human zoos with Black people forced to act like monkeys, in the Exposition universelle de 1900. Were also the worst in europe concerning LGBT (particularly trans) rights. Racism is thriving, and some of our “”””””intellectuals””””””” (im thinking Zemmour, Finkelkraut…) are just disgusting racists and misogynists. i hate the harsh frontier there is between paris and its suburbs, and the segregation of poor people. I hate how we treat immigrants and homeless people. I hate how rape culture is considered “french seduction” or what they call “gauloiserie”. Were about 30 years late in comparison to a lot of countries concerning psychiatry. Were also super elitist and xenophobic. so,,,,, yea
this is such a pretty country i cant choose!! but im really fond of Brittany, and some villages in Alsace are the cutest haha
5. favourite song in your native language?
well i mostly listen to french songs because im internally a 50 yo white dude. A song i really love is “Semana Santa” by Dominique A (dont be fooled by the title its actually in french). im also a big fan of William Sheller, Thomas Fersen, Alain Bashung, Juliette… Basically dark intellectual french singers lmao
10. most enjoyable swear word in your native language?
well, not exactly a swear word (im a big fan of medieval ones tho) but i LOVE how french ppl will stuff literally any swear word we know in sentences. like youre dropping your keys and go “PUTAIN DE BORDEL DE CLEFS DE MERDE MAIS SALOPERIE VA TE FAIRE FOUTRE SALOPERIE DE CLEFS AH BORDEL JSUIS EN RETARD MAINTENANT FAIT CHIER”
were like super vulgar. how can americans think french is the language of love???? have they really heard actual french ppl?????? were the WORST.
18. do you speak with a dialect of your native language?
nah. i understand some idiomatic sayings from the east of france, and tend to have an Alsace accent when im angry (fortunately im not angry often), and i can mimic the local AAVE bc i grew up with ppl who used it but i speak like a parisian!
7: three words from your native language that you like the most?
id say, obviously, “réverbère” which means streetlight but is, actually, a specific kind of streetlight invented in the 1700′s using mirrors to reverberate the light; “crépuscule” (twilight, but the vampires ruined this word for me lmao), “interdit”, because it means both “forbidden” and “silent with surprise”. but i love french words so much aaaaa
11: favorte native author/poet? if were talking about ppl who write in french, id say Jaccottet, but hes from Switzerland, so if were talking about french poets, Apollinaire for sure!
13:
does your country (or family) have any specific superstitions or traditions that might seem strange to outsiders?
oh, there are plenty of those in my mother’s side of the family. theyre farmers in the east of france but were not really in touch, because theyre not really fond of intellectuals and gays lmao
but ive been raised as a rationalist catholic so the only superstition that survived in my close family was that it was a really bad omen to put the bread upside down. like i did it once and my mother started screeching and i thought she was gonna kick me out lmao
given how Americanized this site is, it’s important to celebrate all our countries and nationalities – with all their quirks and vices and ridiculousness, and all that might seem strange to outsiders.
1. favourite place in your country?
2. do you prefer spending your holidays in your country or travel abroad?
3. does your country have access to sea?
4. favourite dish specific for your country?
5. favourite song in your native language?
6. most hated song in your native language?
7. three words from your native language that you like the most?
8. do you get confused with other nationalities? if so, which ones and by whom?
9. which of your neighbouring countries would you like to visit most/know best?
10. most enjoyable swear word in your native language?
11. favourite native writer/poet?
12. what do you think about English translations of your favourite native prose/poem?
13. does your country (or family) have any specific superstitions or traditions that might seem strange to outsiders?
14. do you enjoy your country’s cinema and/or TV?
15. a saying, joke, or hermetic meme that only people from your country will get?
16. which stereotype about your country you hate the most and which one you somewhat agree with?
17. are you interested in your country’s history?
18. do you speak with a dialect of your native language?
19. do you like your country’s flag and/or emblem? what about the national anthem?
20. which sport is The Sport in your country?
21. if you could send two things from your country into space, what would they be?
22. what makes you proud about your country? what makes you ashamed?
23. which alcoholic beverage is the favoured one in your country?
24. what other nation is joked about most often in your country?
25. would you like to come from another place, be born in another country?
26. does your nationality get portrayed in Hollywood/American media? what do you think about the portrayal?
27. favourite national celebrity?
28. does your country have a lot of lakes, mountains, rivers? do you have favourites?
29. does your region/city have a beef with another place in your country?
30. do you have people of different nationalities in your family?
what we’re really missing from the Detrans Discourse, i think, is the nuclear option that detransition or “misdiagnosis” stories are only sad if you already believe that a trans body is a bad thing to have and that as few of them as possible should exist in the world
the detransition stories we should be sad about are the trans people–especially women–who lost access to transition resources through poverty, and those who’ve been victimized and harassed into detransition by reactionaries or those they love.
incidentally, these stories are almost definitely the most common.
You’re walking in the middle of the paved street. Any paved street. The streets are all the same. They cross and turn, the old, Haussmannian buildings leaning over as titanesque small-windowed walls, and soon you find yourself at the big, dark green door where your journey began. You frantically search for the round, glowing M, your sole beacon of freedom. The maze has no exit, and the M still doesn’t show.
You know this is your end. A sea of contradictory signs and colors lies before you, silhouettes swimming desperately not to drown. You had heard the rumors, yet you did not suspect the RATP would build huge underground stations to trap people in and feast on their flesh. You catch a name. You’re in Châtelet-Les Halles.
You have heard before of the dark side of Paris, where overpriced buildings are visited by middle-aged Catholic families and boys who are exact clones of the singers from One Direction, eagerly waiting to ensnare you into their trap. Your mother makes you promise never to go in the 16th arrondissement.
Your friends from Rive Gauche hate your friends from Rive Droite. Your friends from Rive Droite hate your friends from Rive Gauche. You remember, then: no one has friends from Rive Gauche. Rive Gauche doesn’t exist. Rive Gauche is Mount Olympus.
The people around you all seem to have the same, blank face, tall silhouette framed in black clothes and suits. They all walk fast, slaloming between others with practiced ease that reminds you of a ballet. A lost soul asks you where the closest Métro is. You don’t want to admit you’re as lost as he is. You show him the opposite way.
You often wonder how long the cars around Place de l’Etoile have been driving. You wonder if they know they’re going in circles, and that there is no escape.
You see them, watching you greedily with round eyes as you eat your overpriced ham-and-cheese sandwich. Pigeons, everywhere, grey spots over greyer pavements. You hated them at first, always kicking them when you had the chance. You don’t mind them that much now. They become company. Some even have personalities. Some have atrophied or missing limbs. They eat the same overpriced ham-and-cheese sandwich.
You rush down the stairs of the Métro. Someone else rushes alongside you, pushing people around and breaking necks on the stairs in his murderous rage to enter the next train. You step on the platform as the man passes the automatic doors. They close on his body, pressing into skin, crushing bones. The passengers don’t try and pry him out.
The doors to the train open, and a man with an accordion makes his way in. The people around you slowly turn to you. Their smiles show rat-like teeth.
It is a beautiful, late summer afternoon. You sit on the terrace of a café, which serves the same 3-euro espresso as any other. The terrace, as the people, all look the same. A woman smokes an extremely long cigarette under sunglasses that cover half her face, but you can still feel the disdain in her missing eyes as she sips on her happy-hour mojito.
None of your neighbors owns any instruments, yet you still hear the distant sound of piano keys every night when you come home from work. They always play the same song.
Just like a virus, they spread, green and white as Pestilence. Teenage girls with the same Longchamp and sequined Vanessa Bruno handbags come out with glasses full of ice and milk as they idly light a cigarette. When you tell someone to meet you there, they ask you “which one?”. You remember. There are six Starbucks Coffees at St-Lazare, and all of them are a trap.
A wall of tourists block the path, walking excruciatingly slow in front of you. You feel the wave of rage building in you before you have time to control it, and you know the Parisian brainwashing takes over. Your shadow moves, and you hear bones breaking.
You reach the exit of the Métro. The stairs coil around like snakes, and you begin your ascension towards polluted air. You climb and climb and climb, yet you do not seem to ever reach the top. You wonder how much time you’ve been stuck in the loop of stairs.
You walk through a wave of tourists in Montmartre, and you see it. Starbucks has spread even through immune arrondissements. A woman screams.
July in the city is hot and sunny. Clear blue skies contrast with the dark green of the Seine and the pale yellow of sand dumped on the quays. Children play in bathsuits and women tan in bikinis, while someone sells expensive ice cream. Paris-Plage is in full bloom, yet you still stare at the murky water. A diver comes out, oxygen tank on his back and what looks like a decaying arm in his hand. You see the arm wave at you.
You hear it. Melodious and still deeply uncanny, the repetitive clinking of metal against metal, as you reluctantly elbow your way through the Champs-Elysées and the overwhelming mass of tourists, sad pile of consumerist bodies. You see it then: the illegal seller, and in his hand, the hundreds of pocket-sized, golden Eiffel Towers. You turn your head away, yet the Eiffel Tower is still here, always finding its way into your field of vision. There is no escaping the Eiffel Tower.
Some people tell tales of what lies beyond the périphérique, but they all come from an aunt’s second cousin. You heard no one has ever come back from there. You hear the RER is a one-way train towards miles and miles of stinky rapeseed fields. Your brother tells you he leaves today, for the flea market in Saint-Ouen. You tell him goodbye one last time.
“
You know this is your end. A sea of contradictory signs and colors lies before you, silhouettes swimming desperately not to drown”
