#43 Freedom Shampoo

I heard this ad for a new shampoo. “Garnee-ay Frook-tis.” Sounded kinda special. A little elegant. A little mysterious. A little...foofy. Of course, without hearing the name pronounced I never would have got it. It’s spelled Garnier Fructis. But when you pronounce it the way they do, you’re willing to pay quite a bit more for it. Why? Well, because it sounds French of course. Hmm.
Is it just me or do Americans have a conflicted position when it comes to the French? We really want to like them it seems, but we really want to hate them too. It probably goes back to the revolution. We really appreciated their help but, after all, we kinda had to beg for it. And no self-respecting American likes to beg for anything. Much less a dandified pre-Napoleonic French navy. How dare they criticize our uniforms? Things were tough at Valley Forge; we didn’t have a lot of time to worry about accessorizing thank you very much. Maybe we feel a little guilty because later we got such a wicked deal on the Louisiana Purchase. For a supposedly progressive populist, old Jefferson was a righteous real estate wheeler-dealer. France definitely took it in the pantaloons on that one.
Still, we did kind of give them their country back on a couple of occasions. They gave us a nice statue for New York harbor. And originally lent us an architect for designing our capitol, but he was fired cause he couldn’t get along with the powers that be. Go figure. Seems to be the nub of our problem. French folks and American folks, on a person to person level, usually get along just fine. But when their respective mother countries get involved; watch out! Like the country song said. Love builds the bridges but pride builds the walls.
In any event, when we had the last go-round in our international catfight with that whole weapons of mass destruction thing, Americans in government and red states jumped in with a frenzy to deplore all things French. There is not a little irony in the fact that many of the red states were acquired in the aforementioned Louisiana real estate boondoggle.
But the truth is, excising everything French from our national vocabulary would be pretty tough. All “avenues” and “boulevards” would have to be changed to “streets” and “roads.” Bouillabaisse would have to be called fish soup. What would we call Bouillon cubes? Gravy nuggets? Good old American Bourbon was named after the ruling family of France. What would you give your lover, if not a bouquet? Here Hon, have a bunch of dead flowers. And what would we do without that quintessentially American condiment? Mayonnaise. Hey you, pass the egg-white-sauce.
So before we start talking about freedom fries and freedom toast, we ought to consider the consequences (a word from the Old French, by the way, meaning to follow after—as in one congressman after another getting on the fry-the-French bandwagon.)
Personally, I’m a red-blooded American tried and true. Last night me and my wife engaged in a patriotic and rather steamy session of freedom kissing.
America, Ya Gotta Love It.