The Confederate Charente

To my previous post, I would like to amend the list. As it turns out, sadly, racism makes the cut.

The past week has been one of the most bizarre of my life. Last Friday night the 19 year old twins, Tobias and Luke, resident kings of the farm I'm currently working on, took myself and the two other helpers to a country bar. It's in a barn and is also home to the local Harley Davidson Club. It was crowded, I was drunk--real cognac is delicious, by the way--and perhaps for these reasons, I did not notice the unusual decorations. As a side note, I should explain what I mean by real cognac. The French (I think like Italians with cheese) are very particular about their alcohol. It is only cognac if it comes from Cognac, and 'champagne' that is not from Champagne is merely "mousseaux," or sparkling wine.

In any case, the following evening was Toby and Luke's last nite in town before they returned to university in Bristol, so we went out again. I had not yet been treated to taste the very fine Cognac yet, as I had the night before, so I was feeling just a bit more alert and intellectual. The numbers 1, 9, 4, and 7 were written in succession on the side of the limestone barn. Observation number one: whoever built the barn must have been proud to have done so post-war. There were seven or eight Harley's parked in the lot, and a few were vintage--we admired them briefly before entering.

It was five euros to get in and see a just-less-than-mediocre rock band and freeze to death. The barn-bar was not heated: I shivered with cold, and then with something else. Just behind the drummer's head was a confederate flag. To the left was an American flag with the Harley symbol in the middle. My bones were chilled. As sickening as the flag itself was, it's mantra was even more gag-worthy: "The South Will Rise Again." In the center of the flag was an illustration of a rough looking soldier struggling under the weight of his own confederate flag.

My mouth dropped. I looked around me: it was early and the bar wasn't yet full. Make the scene mute, take away the French lyrics, and we could be anywhere in the rural US. People wore sweaters, nondescript boots, and jeans. There were a few bikers in leather, and a few young women who had compromised their warmth for attention. The crowd made room for a wild dancer: the local Erik Starchild, burnout extraordinaire.

I grabbed Luke's shoulder. "What is that doing here? Who put it up? Who owns this place? An American?" Toby came over. They were baffled. People stared, and I realized I was speaking English. Loudly. The boys genuinely did not know what the flag meant. I explained what it was, and asked them to help me get it taken down. I found that I wasn't upset only by the racism (although chiefly this). I was also mortally offended that the French had appropriated American racism of a specific context, now out of date by several hundred years. Something inside me shouted, "Get your own racist flag!" I know this is ridiculous: racism of any order is out of order. But I was not better than the situation: I was ridiculous too.

Luke told me he would talk to someone later, only it "wasn't right" to do so now, as people were partying. I considered walking onto the stage, reaching over the drummer, and ripping the flag off the wall, but took a more cowardly route instead. I went outside and cried out of anger. I continued this way until Lisa, a British woman, (also working on the farm) came out to check on me. And, if half of England is like Lisa then I will consider it a very wonderful, forward thinking country. She lit me a cigarette, held my hand, and convinced me to get out of the rain (me being wet, she explained, was accomplishing nothing). I went inside and made Luke promise to follow through. Sometime after that, we went home.

The boys are very sweet, generally, and seeing that I was upset, tried to comfort me. Toby told me: "people have different opinions in the world...and you have to accept that." This, coming from a 19 year old boy who's never left home, was the icing on the patriot cake. I launched into a passionate history lesson (probably a tirade, from his perspective), which concluded with something like "Confederate flag equals Nazi flag." Now they have gone back to university to party and study, in that order, and for me the thing couldn't be less resolved. I saw the flag on Saturday nite, and haven't had a good nite's sleep since.

I dream of Holocausts: sometimes I am watching from a hiding place, sometimes I am the one hiding. I have been a Jew, and I have been Palestinean, but I have never been a Fascist. Last nite I dreampt I was the twin of the little girl in Pan's Labyrinth. We were two, and we were one. But she died in the morning; I did not. I fear complacency.

I spoke with Carla, my host here, and like her boys (or they like her), she doesn't quite get it. She said that "people just aren't like that here," and whoever put the flag up certainly didn't know what it means. It's possible they didn't. But she also told me that I can't do anything about it, which made me wish I had yanked it off the wall that night, consequences whatever. It also made me like her less. Now, I am in the process of trying to hunt down someone who has some influence at the HD club, is on my side, and who I can communicate with. The lack of solution is as much my fault as anyone's. If I could speak French, I could step forward. I would also like to cut and run.

So, I've decided to stay another week in Ruffec to see if I can put that thing where it belongs: in the asher. Friends, send your prayers this-a-way.