Here's the Project Example for the first project, "Relationships." This will also be scanned into the course webpage.
Patricia Roy
"Relationships”
Final Version
"Pepere"
“Ba, ba, ti bébé á Papa . . ..” Pepere used to chant these words to me, as we rocked on that obligatory rocking chair in the kitchen. He’d pat my back; I’d tell him what was wrong. Even though I resisted it like I resist all correction, I was always lulled by the soothing sound of his raspy voice, the smell of the kitchen, and those French words I never could understand.
Now that my Pepere has passed, I’m reminded of these words, perhaps because I’m looking for comfort again, something to pull me into a sense-making embrace. I have this gnawing guilty feeling, a vague sense of regret. I should have learned French. I should have been more sympathetic. I should have read my eulogy to him at the funeral. Do the other members of my family have these feelings? Probably, but somehow knowing that doesn’t help. I wish I could say this is between Pepere and me, but it really isn’t. It’s about everybody else.
First, there’s Mom. As a non-French Canadian, she was always the outsider in the family: she couldn’t speak French; she was from that “rich” town, North Andover. Even if Pepere liked her, he was intimidated by her, with her snappy sarcasm and English-only wit. I’m just like her – witty, irreverent, English-only. I look like her, laugh like her, sound like her. To my pepere, I think I was her, only smaller. Pepere called me his “fille intelligente,” and he would say it with awe. I never really knew how to take it. All I knew was that I was different, and it had something to do with Mom. My mom and I would sit there while my father translated conversation for us, and I knew that it would always be like this – my mother and I in a sea of French.
I might have been the smart girl, but I wasn’t the favorite. That place of privilege belonged to my cousin, Jen. She remembers the rocking chair, too. She also never spoke French – spoke even less than I did, in fact. But when I talk to her about Pepere, she tells me about how they found weird little ways to communicate with each other through gestures, grunts and bits of “franglais.” Her stories always make me laugh because I can just see him standing there arguing with her and having no idea what she’s saying and the both of them just giving up and laughing.
Pepere and I tended to exchange a few clumsy, hesitant phrases and smile and nod at each other. Oh, there was the time he taught me to cheat at 45’s with him, making rather obvious hand signals for “hearts,” “clubs” and so on. But in no way could I say we shared the same closeness that he shared with Jen. It hurts me. I feel as though I was “one of the many”.
This feeling was actually reinforced by the funeral. Jen was asked to write a poem or eulogy to be read at the funeral. It would be the only part read in English. Jen made a big deal out of it, claiming that she just couldn’t think of anything to say. She certainly did not want to get up and read anything in the church. As an English teacher, I was the logical choice, it seems. I encouraged her to write something and promised her that I would read it. With that decision, it seems we assumed the roles we had been in all along: I might have been saying the words, but Jen got to have the conversation. I was simply the mouthpiece of her grief.
Additionally, I chickened out of reading a piece I had written the day before. In it I had expressed my sense of loss but also my relief that Pepere was free from suffering. This is a very important concept for me; bound up in suffering is the fear of it, and I’m so glad that Pepere – a lifelong smoker, drinker and unhealthy eater – had managed to live a full life and escape a protracted illness. His cancer took him quickly, quietly and almost painlessly. Is it wrong to feel glad it wasn’t worse?
I had intended upon reading the piece after Jen’s sentimental prose. However, after speaking her words, I had no breath for my own. I felt the sadness in that church and could not, dared not, read my words. They seemed disrespectful. How awful it would have been if I had offended anyone. Standing there, I had a palpable fear of sounding like a cold philosopher, and I just shut down. I was my mother again, the intelligent girl, praised, but on the outside of emotion.
Somehow amid all this, what I truly believe Pepere would have wanted became lost. I should have read that piece, despite some crazy fear of correction/rejection. Oddly enough, it was my mother the outsider who helped me see this. When I told her about my piece and the content it contained, she said, ‘Oh, you should have read it. It sounds as though it would have fit with Jen’s so nicely.” Well, that just about killed me. The realization that I had let my pepere down sunk in, and it was a terrible shame to me. I had had a chance to talk to him and have my voice acknowledged by the family, and instead I let my own pettiness interfere.
So, here I am, longing for a rocking chair. As I think about that rocking chair chant, after writing and crying over this all over again, I realize Pepere and I have in so many ways gone back to the beginning. It’s not all about anybody else, and it never was. I stand corrected, but I miss the comfort that once accompanied that correction. I miss my Pepere.
Please respond to the following questions in your comments:
What are the different languages, both national and familial, discussed in this essay? Is language an impediment or an assistant to personal expression in this piece? Explain your answer.
