Bastille Day
Bastille Day commemorates the Storming of the Bastille on July 14, 1789, which was a turning point in the French Revolution. For those of you who were not paying attention the day they taught the French Revolution in school, it was sort of like a family squabble, as historical events so often are. You may recall in my post about Canada Day that the U.S. is like the oldest and Canada is like the youngest. It should therefore come as no surprise that poor, dear France is like the middle child. I know you middle children out there – Norah, Lizzie, Celia, Danielle, Madeleine – are rolling your eyes, but stereotypes are not created in a vacuum. The role you play in the family dynamic is important, if for no other reason than that you provide a separation between the oldest and the youngest.
Remember that the oldest child, the U.S., threw a hissy-fit in 1776 and demanded her own apartment so she could shack up with her philosopher boyfriend. After that, the middle sister, France, said, “If she can do it, then so can I.” Now at this point, Momma, aka The Monarchy, hadn’t softened to this rebellion business yet, so things would not be as easy for the middle sister as they would eventually be for Canada, the youngest. So Momma said to France, “Wait just a darn minute. Just because your older sister pulled this crap doesn't mean you get to. You need to pay your dues and do the work that is required so that your little sister will have an easy time of it when her turn comes.” But France said, “It’s not fair. Everyone else gets more than I do. I must be adopted because why else would you treat me so differently?” Momma replied, “That’s just not true, honey. Here – have some cake.” But France knew better than to fall for the old let-them-eat-cake trick, and she just slid that cake under her bed. This act was very rebellious because the cake was German chocolate cake, and that was her favorite. France continued to push the outside of the envelope, eating pizza for breakfast, wearing boots and midi-skirts, and dating long-haired musicians who drove dilapidated sports cars. She had a string of car accidents and eventually her grades started to drop, though never as low as Canada’s. Prickly and arrogant, poor misunderstood France just put on her fanciest accent and declared that she was obviously the smartest because she got a Letter of Commendation on her SATs, to which Canada said, “J’en ai rien a foutre.”
Eventually France got so out of control that Momma sent her to her room, aka The Bastille. But France liked to read, so she just said, “Haha. Some punishment. I’ll just sit here and read.” And she did that until July 14, 1789 when she got tired of reading. On that day, a whole bunch of her friends got together and stormed the Bastille, setting France free, along with her moldy cake that was under her bed. Momma didn’t know what to do, so she got together with Daddy, aka Napoleon and said, “What should we do?” And Napoleon said, “Just let her go honey.” Now, having Napoleon speak up like this was a big event, as no one had heard his voice in about 15 years because, living in a house with four women, he couldn’t get a word in edge-wise. The room was quiet for a minute, as they all waited to see if he was going to tell France, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.” But he wouldn’t actually say that for another 78 years, when Canada moved out.
In honor of Bastille Day I like to sit in my pied à terre and enjoy an aperitif, amuse-bouche, hors d'oeuvres and entrée followed by bonbons and a gateau while listening to “Bon Anniversaire.” Because the most noteworthy thing about Bastille Day is that it is my birthday. Happy Birthday to me.