“To Be” is an Action Verb – Sunset Observer #35, by Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture | @MDWorld

October 22, 2014 Whitney Farmer 3 Comments

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#iLoveGypsies

We had only been settled into the Gypsy camp for a few hours when the gendarmes arrived and told the community we all had to leave in the morning.

They were encamped this year in Grenoble at the base of the French Alps.  When we had arrived late the night before from the train from Madrid, it had been raining. Not enough to make us worry about our supplies getting damaged before we were able to transport them from the train station to our hostel. But it rained enough to let us smell the scent of softened earth instead of dust.

We had planned on staying with the Gypsies hopefully five days. It is never enough, but a heart has the capacity to always come back for more love…even if it will include a goodbye. The hope for a future ‘Bon Jour!’ is what had brought me back again each year.

Our tents had been set up near the crossroads of the two main trails that the caravans used to enter the wide meadow before fanning out and encamping. There were perhaps 100 white trailers – representing maybe 400 people. So this wasn’t a large ‘reunion’, as they call it.

As we were setting up our area, the children began to arrive. They wanted to practice the English they had been learning from our friend Carla, a former software engineer and teacher from the Santa Ana school district who is traveling with them for fourteen months and giving them free education. We had arrived with school supplies for her as well as with the intention to give her some help and rest. The kids are often prohibited from going to school by officials. To get an education is their heart’s desire, and they are eager for any chance or circumstance they have to learn. A teacher’s dream…if the teacher can ever have a day off or privacy to use the bucket and bag in the toilet tent without interruption.

We wanted to give Carla a bit of a vacation. And we couldn’t wait to get those kids into our arms again.

They arrived beautifully dressed for company, with their hair combed and with ribbons. One arrived dressed as a cheerleader to celebrate our arrival, carrying a princess umbrella to shield us from either brutal sunshine or rain – depending on the moment. Kirsten arrived. I hadn’t seen her in almost two years, but I watched her walk through the crowd and I knew she was looking for me. I went down on my knees in front of her and saw her brown eyes and her dimples for only a moment before her arms were around my neck. Later in the night during the evening service under the church tent, she would sit on my lap and let me squeeze her and braid her hair for about two hours.

Sometime as we were setting up and the children were jostling for attention, someone got hurt on her leg and began to cry. She limped towards me so that I could bear witness. Out came the first aid kit. I used chilly alcohol pads to wash away the dirt and – despite seeing no evidence of any broken skin – I blew gently on her wound before applying some ointment and a bandaid, giving one last hug for bravery.

Soon an epidemic of clumsiness broke out amongst the Gypsy children. They were dropping like flies and we were in a triage crisis. All care was done with kisses. And when our supply of alcohol swabs was exhausted, we still blew on shins and knees, (just in case), before applying bandaids that were worn like Olympic medals throughout the camp and into the community meeting tent that night.

The next morning, we woke and began to pack. We had wanted to do so much but could do nothing. With no car, we decided against migrating with them. It would have required one of the leaders to drive forty miles, unpack his family, and return to transport us. And then we would have to reverse the process again in a very few days to catch our train. I couldn’t reconcile their willingness to let us become a literal burden that needed to be carried. We offloaded our supplies, helped our host pack up their site, and settled onto the grass near where the two roads intersected. From there, we could watch everyone drive away until they were gone from sight.

At first we were quiet. We had never seen how a migration works. I joked with our host that now I am one step closer to being a professional Gypsy instead of just an amateur. Logistically, there are professional Gypsy skills that we watched in full display. Their small white town began to rapidly disappear. That they had paid for lawful rights to encamp there never was mentioned. They simply complied with the authorities when they were asked to leave.

Soon a traffic jam developed as vehicles waited for the highway light to change to green. As the vehicles idled, I saw a tiny silhouette in one of the cars. It was one of the kids, still and sad. I waived at her until she saw me. And then she began to wave and to throw me kisses. This was something I could do. I threw kisses and smiles until she was out of sight.

At this crossroads, we began to create a goodbye that was as enthusiastic as the hello they had given us. Soon kids were hanging out the windows as we called out “Dieu te benisse!” and “Merci!” and “Je t’aime!” while throwing smiles and waves and kisses. Kirsten was one of the last I watched leave.

All this time, from then until now, I haven’t cried.  Until this moment.

In French, when you conjugate a verb, it is paired with either avoir, “to have”, or être, “to be”.

As in, “I have learned.”

The distinction is whether it is an action verb, and whether that action can be connected to a real event or object or place.

As in, “I went to France to see the Gypsies.”

In French, you say, “I am gone to France to see the Gypsies…” rather than, “I have gone…”

If a verb is an action verb, it is not something that you possess, that you ‘have’. It is something that you become. It is what you…are.

I am going to love the Gypsies. Always.

Photo of me looking at Kirsten’s hurt leg before applying a bandaid, in the Gypsy camp outside Grenoble, France. Courtesy of Jesse Vail.

For the archive of my previous Un Pop Culture blogs, click here:

https://mdwp.malibulist.com/category/un-pop-culture/