what is a joj
I’m a joj. I’m THE joj. I wasn’t born the joj but the joj always lived inside me. I was named something else. Something hard to pronounce and easy to make fun of. I was “illegitimate” so when asked to choose a last name in elementary school, I took my grandfather’s name. When I was nine, I changed schools and started going by my middle name but eventually I grew to hate the way it sounded in other people’s mouths. When I went to college, I changed it back to my first name. College people have more subtle ways of making fun of you so I was fine with the first name. When I married, to honor my grandfather, I kept his name and tacked onto it with a hyphen my French husband’s last name—it was hard to write and even harder to pronounce. That was fine because in many ways, I was hard to pronounce. In many ways, I still am.
When I turned forty, I went through the rite of passage commonly called a Midlife Crisis but which I recognized as just Being Done. For a long time, I had ignored things I needed and wanted. Most were immaterial. Some seemed superficial but were pregnant with emotional labor. I chose to ignore those things and I didn’t regret doing it—I was proud of the sacrifices I had made for the sake of the people I loved. It just so happened that when I turned forty, most of the people I had sacrificed for needed to start learning to meet their own needs.
I had long grown some hair for some people and shaven other hair for others. I ate things I did not like and abstained from things I did. I denied my body and mind and heart. But, at forty, I was finally okay with Being Done.
And then I had a heart attack.
In the years following the heart attack I made small changes in celebration of being alive and Being Done. I began to decide. I shaved or let grow hair to suit myself and played with colors. I wrote things into my skin that remind me of the things I love. I tore free from the invisible corset binding my body and mind. I accepted and adopted words that, although far from perfect, come closer to describing and representing who I am in my heart—they/them/their.
I chose my name. Not one given to me by someone before they knew who I was. Not one designated for me by tradition or government or law or history. I chose the name my closest friends had been calling me since my early twenties. I chose joj.
That’s who I am.
Frantzy Pantz
I’ve been living in France off and on since the fall of 1998.
Before that, I spent over a decade dreaming of coming here. I didn’t know that I didn’t know anything about what France truly was. Like many (most?) Americans, my knowledge of France was limited to what I saw on TV or in books, movies, magazine ads and songs. Those images and messages were enough to convince me that France was good. No, France was better. My upbringing was meager and itinerant. I got it into my head that all I needed to do to be truly better was go to France and that once there, the French would share all their secrets. They would transform me into someone new and shiny and sparkly! (Or, at least someone who could look and act and talk right.)
After a treacherously meandering road, I got to France! It was everything I thought it would be and more… For the first three weeks while I was in Normandy. Then, I moved to a part of France you don’t see in many movies or magazines (in essence, the Scranton, PA or Dayton, OH of France—the industrial north). Intent on becoming natively fluent in French (and the full transformation I expected came with that), I mostly shunned my American cohort, immersed myself in the French community.
It almost killed me.
I don’t want to give away the rest of the story (yes, I’m writing the memoir so stay tuned *wink*), but I’m obviously still here, alive and fighting.
My goal in writing about my life in France is to expose that it ain’t all wine and perfume. I want to show y’all that what you think you think is cool about France is really media smoke and mirrors. The truly cool stuff about France (in my hillbilly opinion) are things people never really know about until they get here. THAT’S the stuff I want to tell you about.
come for the mustard, stay for the free drinking glasses?
Ever drink out of a jelly jar when you were a kid? A lot of people I know used to collect whole sets of one character or show or another. Some would even go yard sale hopping looking for jelly jars they were missing from their collection.
Well, France has the same sort of thing except instead of jelly, it’s little jars of nose-burning Dijon mustard. Grey Poupon’s got nothin’ on this stuff. It’s like eating wasabi. So, you’d think that kids wouldn’t eat it, but they do—on meat and sausage, in mixed salads and dressings. During salad “season,” our family of six can go through a jar like this every 1-2 weeks whereas a jar of Grey Poupon (or even Maille as I’m convinced the French dilute their exported Maille mustard) might sit in an American fridge until it gets crusty and thrown out.
But it’s not only for the kids. There are smaller, undecorated ones that can be used as water glasses (or whiskey, if that’s your poison) and larger, swankier wine glasses for the more seasoned and refined.
“i thought this was a blog about you”
Kinda. It’s a conversation. Yeah, it’s about France but I can’t speak for every American expat living in France, right? What I see and feel and think and say is filtered through who I am (and am becoming).
I’m no expert. I’m just going to tell you about France as seen through the eyes of someone who has lived half their life in the U.S. and the other half in France. And I can rattle on about that stuff all day long. I’d LOVE your guidance so I welcome your questions and comments to help direct the conversation.
For now, though, here’s the rundown:
L’Organisme (or what’s up with the bod)— I’m 100 pounds overweight (put on 25 since lockdown, 15 of that since my hysterectomy in November). I’m not dieting but I’m working out at least an hour every day with a combination of treadmill, stationary bike, hand weights and yoga/exercise vids on YouTube. In fact, this is my daily arm routine and I DARE YOU to do it without dropping your arms:
Info-Brico (compound improvements)—The Hairy One (my partner) has been building a carport for what seems like eons (but has really probably only been a month?). He painted it over the weekend. I’m assuming he’ll put a roof of some kind? Grape vines, maybe? This IS Provence.
Why aren’t we just extending our current garage? Because it—including the converted studio apartment in it—are on a separate tract of land not zoned for construction. That’s right, we own two separate pieces of land, the one our house sits on and the one where our garage is (the piece of land that is our driveway is still owned by our neighbors—long, family story). That piece of land on the other side of the fence behind the new “carport” where all the olive trees are growing is owned by our neighbors and also zoned for agriculture. There is a beautiful two-story stone building there that is not allowed to have electricity and running water—neither was our studio when our great-grand-owners turned part of their garage into an apartment, but since it’s been 10 years, the city now recognizes it as legal. Go figure!
Rouspéter (to grumble…in other words: what I’m bitching about)—Tonight, on the French news, Nicolas Sarkozy was judged guilty of corruption (and “traffic of influence”) and sentenced to three years of prison, one year “ferme” meaning that he’ll have to serve that one year but because there’s a law saying that any sentence under two years “ferme” can be served from home, Sarkozy would be allowed to be on house arrest for that one year (and probably probation for the other two). BUT, because his lawyer has filed an appeal, Sarkozy’s sentence is suspended as an appeal means you’re still presumed innocent. You can read about it more in English here, or in French here, if you can stomach it.
All my life I’ve heard “a sin’s a sin” and even more recently, someone close to me (and French) said “a law is a law and if someone breaks the law, they should be punished.” I’m going to do more research on it and report back here, but something tells me if the man breaking the law weren’t white and wearing a suit (Sarkozy), he’d be sitting in jail right now. This just makes me think about Kalief Browder. I wonder if there’s a French Kalief.
Boulot (work)—I’m writing! I’m making great strides on my braided memoir entitled HOW I LEARNED FRENCH. I hope to “finish” it by the end of the year. I’m also writing essays and pitching them to publications. I celebrated my first ever pitch rejection yesterday! It was tempting to take it personally but I just have to keep the faith that we’re all doing our jobs well—editors know what will work for their publications. There’s a place out there for my words.
Bouquin (book)— I’m still reading Barack Obama’s A PROMISED LAND. His writing voice is so strong it’s like having him hang out here at the compound. When I get a little time to go read, I say, “I’m gonna go spend an hour with Barry” and everyone knows what I mean. That said, it’s over 700 pages long. I started it in December. I love me some Barry but my “to be read” (TBR) pile is starting to teeter.
La bouffe (grub)— We had an overnight teenage guest this past weekend. Lily bragged about how good my Canard à l’orange is and so, requested I make it for her FRENCH friend. I did and it was praised and I was flattered, of course. But Lily’s other request was that I make an American “wedge” salad with my homemade ranch dressing (Lily says there should be a religion dedicated to ranch dressing). After the French teen’s reaction to the duck, I wasn’t terribly optimistic about the coming reaction over an American salad.
She took one bite, looked around the table and with her mouth still full said, “This is freaking good!” When the salad was gone, she took another spoonful of ranch just to soak it up with her baguette. That, my friends, is a true American victory.
Merci.
Thanks again for hitting that subscribe button. In next week’s episode of the joj show, find out what makes shopping carts in France so freakin’ frustrating! Until then, bonne semaine et au revoir!
I finally made it here and got all caught up! I bailed 1/2 way through the arms video. :)
the joj show.... I'll write it as... Intriguingly curious, not so typical day-in-the-life, warm, funny, sexy (maybe...show us some skin!!! kidding...not kidding) and contagious (the good kind). 😉