Lafayette & the Language of Oppression

I've never given much thought to the "why" of my language. I've always marked it down as the natural outcome of Britain defeating France in the French-Indian war. This assumption was verbally attacked by a pious Catholic gentleman a few weeks ago when Morgane and I went to visit the grave of General Lafayette at Picpus Cemetery.

A guillotine was set up on what is now Place de la Nation, just a few minutes from the cemetery. An average of fifty-five people a day lost their life at the guillotine from mid June to late July in 1794. Over 1200 bodies were dumped in a nearby garden. Three years later this garden was secretly purchased by a princess whose brother was interred in one of the mass graves. Another group of families bought additional adjoining land in 1803 to create the cemetery that stands today. Burial in the cemetery is, I believe, wholly reserved to relatives of those interred in the mass graves.

Overseen by the sisters of the Sacred Heart, Picpus remains the largest private cemetery in Paris. There is also a fairly large church attached to the cemetery that houses a small station of Vierge de la Paix (virgin of the peace) that supposedly cured the Sun King from an illness and now attracts devout pilgrims. The sisters only open the graveyard in the afternoon but with some convincing (it was my "last day" in Paris) and a few extra euros, Morgane was able to get a caretaker to let us in.

It was on our walk across the courtyard towards the cemetery gate that the caretaker began his discourse on how strange it was that Americans spoke English. Instead, he insisted, we should be speaking Cherokee or even French. My feeble attempt at telling him that I'd speak French if they had been successful in the Seven Years War was met with a confused look. Shaking off my counter argument, he then went on to inform us that America was the only country that spoke the language of the oppressor. He evidently wasn't privy to the fact that the vast majority of the "original" inhabitants/colonists were native English speakers. Nor, I suppose, was he familiar with the categorical extermination of the native population whilst "subduing" them--hence no Cherokee. Declining an opportunity to educate, I sensed the easier route was through acquiescence. I smiled, nodded, and stepped into the graveyard.

The graveyard itself turned out to be a vast spot of quietude, the antithesis of the verbose man who watches over it. Perhaps visiting Lafayette's grave is an odd thing to do in Paris but, he has long been a favorite of mine (having historical "favorites" is one of the perks of being a history geek) so it was something that I had been wanting to see for quite some time. As a result of his military and monetary support, Lafayette and his descendants were granted American citizenship in perpetuity. As a way of illustrating his eternal support of America, Lafayette was buried in American soil.

Despite his continued dedication to the struggle of equality, despite the fact that throughout the U.S. there are at least 50 towns and counties named in his honor, he is largely a forgotten entity as a freedom fighter. Instead, it has become "hip" to revere a practitioner of torture and brutality thanks to an iconic photo. I know it's not going to look as cool on my key chain but I'll take the former marquis any day.