MARIE LECRIVAIN

international relations

The ex-pat Frenchman with his buffed nails,
Chevalier hair, Gallic gestures and malodorous cologne
doesn't recognize our common ancestry.

He doesn't greet me in French
as many of his countrymen have done;
he is blinded by the assumption
that I'm nothing more than a dim-witted American
sporting an ill-fitting, espresso-stained, yellow apron.

He refuses to acknowledge the same inborn arrogance
that for now – by me – is wisely kept under wraps,
but deigns to toss off his coffee order
in a sibilant whisper at eight decibels
which obviously can't penetrate
my thick capitalist skull.

My ex-pat great-grandfather Emil,
a gentle depressive and draft dodger,
brought his wife, Marie Justine and
his small son, Julien, to America.
The labors from a decade as a milkman,
with nothing but a draft horse and a dairy cart,
were transformed into an agricultural dream:
Acres of lettuce, onion and cabbage
now rented out to tenant farmers.

I don't expect Mr. Ex-Pat Frenchman to understand:
I can still hold my head high
the way Emil did when his customers welched on payment,
or blamed him for their occasional curdled milk and sour dreams,
and made the usual milkman jokes at his expense.

I don't expect Mr. Ex-Pat Frenchman
to give a damn... but he should be grateful
I'm neither American
–nor French enough –
to spit in his cappuccino
when he is not looking.