A long about this time every year, as Independence Day approaches, I pull an old American flag out of a bottom drawer where it is folded away—folded in a square, I admit, not the regulation triangle. I've had it a long time and have always flown it outside on July 4. Here in Paris it hangs from a fourth-floor balcony visible from the street. I've never seen anyone look up, but in my mind's eye an American tourist may notice it and smile, and a French passerby may be reminded of the date and the occasion that prompts its appearance. I hope so.
For my expatriated family, too, the flag is meaningful, in part because we don't do anything else to celebrate the Fourth. People don't have barbecues in Paris apartments, and most other Americans I know who have settled here suppress such outward signs of their heritage—or they go back home for the summer to refuel.
Our children think the flag-hanging is a cool thing, and I like it because it gives us a few moments of family Q&A about our citizenship. My wife and I have been away from the United States for nine years, and our children are eleven and nine, so American history is mostly something they have learned—or haven't learned—from their parents. July 4 is one of the times when the American in me feels a twinge of unease about the great lacunae in our children's understanding of who they are and is prompted to try to fill the gaps. It's also a time, one among many, when my thoughts turn more generally to the costs and benefits of raising children in a foreign culture.
Louise and Henry speak French fluently; they are taught in French at school, and most of their friends are French. They move from language to language, seldom mixing them up, without effort or even awareness. This is a wonderful thing, of course. And our physical separation from our native land is not much of an issue. My wife and I are grateful every day for all that our children are not exposed to. American school shootings are a good object lesson for our children in the follies of the society we hold at a distance.
Naturally, we also want to remind them of reasons to take pride in being American and to try to convey to them what that means. It is a difficult thing to do from afar, and the distance seems more than just a matter of miles. I sometimes think that the stories we tell them must seem like Aesop's (or La Fontaine's) fables, myths with no fixed place in space or time. Still, connections can be made, lessons learned.
During a period of early experimentation with truth and untruth Henry became fascinated by the tale of George Washington's chopping down the cherry tree. Several years ago a thoughtful godparent gave the kids a series of wonderful short biographies of various American figures: Amelia Earhart, Jackie Robinson, Abraham Lincoln. The books have allowed us to trace a little of American history and to preach the virtues of American-style courage.
"A Revolutionary Itinerary" (April 2001)
An Englishman tours historic battlefields in Massachusetts and New York. By Geoffrey Wheatcroft
Last summer we spent a week with my brother and his family, who live in Concord, Massachusetts, and we took the children to the North Bridge to give them a glimpse of the American Revolution. We happened to run across a re-enactment of the skirmish that launched the war, with everyone dressed up in three-cornered hats and cotton bonnets. This probably only confirmed to our goggle-eyed kids the make-believe quality of American history.
Six months later, when we were recalling the experience at the family dinner table here, I asked Louise what the Revolution had been about. She thought that it had something to do with the man who rode his horse from town to town. Ah, I said, satisfaction welling in my breast, and what was that man's name? "Gulliver?" Louise replied. Henry, for his part, knew that the Revolution was between the British and the Americans, and thought that it was probably about slavery.
As we pursued this conversation, though, we learned what the children knew instead. Louise told us that the French Revolution came at the end of the Enlightenment, when people learned a lot of ideas, and one was that they didn't need kings to tell them what to think or do. On another occasion, when Henry asked what makes a person a "junior" or a "II" or a "III," Louise helped me answer by bringing up kings like Louis Quatorze and Quinze and Seize; Henry riposted with Henry VIII.