When Good Americans Die, They Go To Paris

 

 

I am a cliche. I am a cliche of the lost, confused, and a bit too worldy for their own good of the writers who leave America to go to Paris. That quote in the title? Oscar Wilde. Though, I had it in my mind that the quote was attributed to Hemingway (and I can’t say I’m not disappointed now, it seemed to make sense that Hemingway would say or write that. I digress). Ernest Hemingway, one of the most famous members of the Lost Generation (the group that included Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot..among others) came to Paris to write after a stint in WW1. Back then, writers came to Paris not only for its aesthetic, but for its inexpensive way of living that allowed writers to not feel pressured to clunk out works that weren’t of their best quality in order to pay for room and board.

I am that cliche. Oh, but how times have changed. Paris is not a writer’s haven in terms of cost. Cheaper than London, Paris is still very expensive. This idea of the Lost Generation has fizzled away with the passing of the great authors; are writers today even held to the same reverence as those in the 1900s? I’m not sure. But what has not changed is the aesthetic writers sought in coming to Paris. Every little detail of this city gives you a reason to write, a reason to continue, a reason that inspires a spark for a new story.

Hemingway ended up committing suicide. Does the cliche end there? It may. Writers also are also said to be alcoholics. Ah, though I am definitely not that, I won’t admit I am enjoying a nice glass of wine while letting the thoughts pour from my head. As I hear the pitter-patter of a nice Sunday night rain, the wine lets me punch my keyboard with words. It’s very soothing and encourages me to let loose my inner monologue.

I decided to take a blog post away from my normal focus of fashion to dedicate to July the 4th. This day commemorates the day my soul died, hence the title. For the past three years, I have rain away to Paris (or Europe) to escape my own fears and reality. “When good Americans die, they go to Paris”, Hemingway said, probably referring to himself, but unaware of how the phrase would refer so closely to my life. As a writer, Paris seems a natural place to find refuge in. But for me, apart from the writer, Paris offers me rehabilitation for a wounded soul.

 

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I should explain that July the 4th, 2016, marks the three year anniversary of my mother’s passing. I am sure many of you who are reading this may know that, but for those who do not, this day was and continues to be very touchy for me. How is a day that is known in the United States as a joyous celebration be a day of such dread for me? It’s a little ironic. The phrase “Don’t mourn death, celebrate it” seems to be a little too on the nose for this day. Her death landed on a day of national celebration, and I just can’t get away from it. Unless I go somewhere else. That’s what I’ve done.

It’s easier to escape my reality, if just temporarily. Why should I have to face my fears? Running away to Paris is easier. No one knows me here. No one knows my story. I am nameless, faceless. The best part is that July 4 is just a regular day here. No fireworks, cheering, happy faces smiling with a big flag. It seems apt that tonight is cold and rainy as if it forebodes my day tomorrow.

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What has happened in these long three years since my mother left this Earth? An entire lifetime has happened. Yet, I still believe every detail from the day I got the call, down to the time my phone rang. Maybe it was necessary for her life to end for life to began. For so long, my life had lived for her. She was my rock. The only parent I knew and truly had. I did everything to please her. I wonder if my existence was solely for her sometimes. Then, she was gone as quickly as I came into it. These last three years have been crucial for the rebuilding (or building) of my life, the one that exists without her. It has been a long, hard journey and when I think I’m finally better, I realize that I have much longer to go until I feel better. Yes–there have been good days and memories that flood back of how many wonderful times we shared. But at the end of the day, I realize my life exists because of her. I don’t go one day without thinking of my mother. I want so badly to tell her of all the great things she has done for me. How she has given me this life and these opportunities—even if the opportunity is running away from the sadness and pain–and I can’t tell her.

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I wonder often if Paris seemed to naturally be the right refuge for me or whether its beauty and charm attracted me. Did the city give me the chance to find solace in my own whirlpool of a mind? Or did Paris remind me that everything is beautiful, and even in the worst of times and days and people…it is still beautiful.

And it still always is.

Who am I after my mother? I am afraid I don’t know. The writer in me could dedicate an entire essay to who I think I am and who I want to be, but I’m afraid the Olivia, the one who exists physically, is not quite sure of her existence. I sometimes catch myself drifting off, wondering who I am and what I will do and where am I going, as if lost in a daydream between real and fiction. I yearn for my mother and her guidance to tell me what the hell to do. The option to do anything is intimidating. I need her sternness and hardness. What once intimidated me about her is what I long to have now.

I have come to accept that her death gave me life. That life is still in its infantile stages and has yet to full accept and blossom into its full potential. I don’t think I will end up like Hemingway or Sylvia Plath, they who could not find solace in their minds, but I think I’ve got a long time of rehabilitation and realization to find out my purpose.

Whatever my purpose is and wherever that purpose exists, I shall get to it. For now, I must try and give myself time to exist in the present, though as hard as that seems. I’ve always looked ahead, to the future, by my head towards the past, revisiting my errors and mistakes. I’ve never been in the present. I believe this is the time where I bid my old self adieu and focus towards the life I am living now.

 

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What would my almost 23 year old self tell my almost 19 year old self?

I’d say for starters that it never, ever gets better. It gets easier, sure. But it doesn’t get better. Your heart will long for what you once had. The days will get bleak. Cold and gray. Some days you won’t want to get up. Life, for a short time, will becoming meaningless. But don’t let yourself go. Don’t forget the woman your mother raised you to be. If you sit in your own mind, the reality you live in becomes distorted.

You will be hurt. There will be lots of pain, some not even because of her death. But listen here, my dear, you will be given the opportunity to see the world in new colors. You will go places far, far away where no one knows your name. Yes, it’s scary, but you can do this. You will be given the world in the palm of your hand. Don’t drop it.

Most importantly, I would tell her that life has a meaning even though it seems like right now, in this instant, in this moment, in this second out of millions and billions and in a moment so insignificant filled by much more important moments, that the reason you believed you were there to exist for, has disappeared—you’re still here, baby.

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Lastly, before I go, some words to my mother.

Though the times we shared were strained, difficult, tense, you were my rock, the mother who guided me through the good and the bad, the parent who let me cry after my first heartbreak, you let no bully push me down, the one who brushed my hair after a long day. Though your loss was just that–a loss– you have given me the greatest pleasure and gift when I got the “family”. They became my family after you died, and I am eternally grateful for their unconditional (if four legged 🙂 ) love. The best part about being in pain was being felt like someone still loved me.

 

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Thanks for reading my inner monologue of self-deprecation, fear, sadness, but one of perseverance and how the chance to move on after the world you lived in has crumbled.

(P.S.—I wrote this as it came from my mind to the keyboard. No spell check, no editing, nothing. This is me, raw.)