#TBT: As a lazy, unorganized perfectionist, it has been difficult for me to make posting to this blog a regular event. Therefore I’ve decided to fluff up my blog with Throwback Thursday posts, featuring stories or editorials I’ve written in the past.  If they are edited, it will be minimal.

In belated honor of Bastille Day, I am proud to present (a very slightly modified version of) the essay I submitted in response to the question, “Why do you want to study abroad in France?”

May 2011:

When I was told to write “a short history of your life and why you wish to study abroad,” my first instinct was to write a long-winded account of my strengths and weaknesses, tragedies and triumphs.  I could absolutely characterize that in a way that would convince my readers of my desire to go abroad. But as an avid writer, I despise convention. I don’t think that would do it justice.

Nobody’s life story could ever be properly translated in 1000 words.  The million and more complexities of the human experience are unique to each person.  So instead, I’ll give you an impression of the sentiment of my life’s adventures.  To do that, I’ll tell you a story. It’s a tale of tempers. It’s a tale of family dysfunction.  Most of all, it’s family-friendly. Presenting the Nasif Family Trip to France, A.D. 2002.

If you have siblings, you can understand how a long car trip may sometimes facilitate or exacerbate disagreements.  This can happen on the shortest of excursions.  However, on a six hour flight to London, plus another six hour drive to Paris, then another three hours back to Normandy, arguing is more than exacerbated.  My oldest brother Matt and I were ready to kill each other.

The main disagreement appeared to stem from my older brother Matt’s idea of bottling sand off the beaches in Normandy, where Allied troops landed at D-Day, June 6th, 1944.  In a family of history buffs, this was a great idea, so I wanted to do it too.

“No, you can’t do that Greg.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my idea. You can’t copy me.”

“It’s not your idea, I thought of it too!”

And repeat. Except louder.

As time passed, my mother’s inability to foster a lasting peace was evident on my father’s face.  Already frustrated with the unusual prospect of driving a British car through France, my Dad’s hair seemed to be graying by the hour. Our arrival at Omaha Beach in Normandy afforded everybody an opportunity to escape the confines of our rental car and get a good stretch in.  It did not help.

“Stop bottling sand Greg!”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up and stop copying me!”

“YOU – ”

I’ll cut it there; what ensued could be described as my first mega-tantrum.  I never shouted so loudly and angrily in my life. Twelve years of brotherly oppression burst forth in an obscenity-ridden tirade, and I would argue that it was the loudest event to ever take place on Omaha Beach. Definitely. Maybe.

It was certainly loud enough to silence my older brother. But my mother was disgusted, and she began chiding my father into establishing some level of discipline into their sons.  She succeeded in making my father lay down the law, but not on Matt, my other brother Chris, or me. Not even on her.

“WHAT THE HELL WERE THEY THINKING?”

One hundred yards away from anybody, my father was screaming at the cliffs lining the other side of the highway.

“HOW COULD THEY SEND THOSE BOYS INTO THOSE CLIFFS? NO WONDER THEY WERE SLAUGHTERED!”

Like his third son, my father had unhinged – he was shouting at history.  And as we started driving back to Paris, it only got worse (better).

Indeed, the drive back saw a return in Matt’s provocative rhetoric, for he was clearly displeased with my having avoided punishment.  Matt was ranting.  What happened next was documented somewhat accurately in the 1995 film, Tommy Boy.

“THAT’S IT!” roared my father, slamming the brakes. He didn’t have to pull over – by virtue of driving a British car in France, he was on the side of the road as soon as he hopped out of the car. To this day, I wonder if he planned that.

Dad came around the car and ripped open Matt’s door.

“Let’s go Mister, you and me!”

“Dad, I don’t – “

“OUT OF THE CAR, I’M TEACHING YOU A LESSON!”

“You really want to go, old man?”

Suddenly, Matt and Dad were out of the car.  Stutter stepping, trading aggression, they seamlessly drifted to the low ditch off the highway.

“Dad, stop!” said Matt. He wasn’t pleading, he was controlling.  It was only now that I realized Matt had somewhat outgrown my father. I pondered whether it was a fair fight.

“YOU’RE A BULLY!” roared my 50-year-old father, following that up with one of the slowest haymakers I had ever seen. He continued:

“YOU LIKE BULLYING YOUR BROTHERS? YOU LIKE BULLYING YOUR FATHER, HUH?”

I would write about how ironic it was that my father accused his son of bullying while simultaneously swinging at him, but my Dad was too uncoordinated.  He didn’t land one punch. He kept swinging at the air five feet in front of Matt, whose look of shock and fear slowly shifted to amusement as my mother screamed at nobody in particular: “STOP IT, YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HIM!”

And with that, my father took one last swing, which carried his weight beyond his capacity.  He fell flat on his face, right into a huge puddle.

While Matt looked towards the car in shock, my Mother shrieked, “Somebody call 911!” And instantly the question wrote itself on everyone’s face, including my mother’s herself, which I put into words – “Can you call 911 in every country?”

The answer was unnecessary.  Unnoticed by anybody, my father got up, soaking wet, and walked back to the car.  Matt had already retaken his seat silently, but my father sat down with a triumphant declaration:

“That’ll teach ya!”

The utter incredulity that everyone felt silently reverberating throughout the car was punctuated after only a minute, by a whimper from the front seat.  My middle brother Chris, silent since Paris, had finally entered the discourse – by crying.  Many would fault me for what happened next, but I couldn’t help it.  I laughed.  Holding in my amusement at such a spectacular display of family dysfunction would have made me a part of it. I couldn’t let that happen.

This highly unconventional experience taught me one thing – the cost of moving out of our element, into a new world, is not family love.  It’s monotony.  Our family was forever changed by our trip to France, and though this story may not illuminate that, I assure you, it was in a positive way.  My brother Matt learned a little bit about sharing.  I learned a little bit about controlling my emotions.  And my father learned a little bit about… Everything? I’m still a little lost on that one.

I want to go abroad because I believe that challenging the monotony of our lives, even as college students, can bring out the best in us.  It can also bring out the worst – but it’s through those challenging moments that we learn and develop.  I can tell you I’ve grown a lot since that unusual day in Normandy.  And I can tell you I want nothing more than to return to France – this time, on my own. Take me!

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Thanks for reading!