One,

Two, I had no idea, at only two, but had I, I would have said “eff you.”

By ten, I knew. As I was being whisked away, I wrote you “eff you.”

By fifteen, as I was being whisked away again, I wrote you “eff you.”

At twenty five, when you made a surprise appearance when you had someone for me to fix for you but nothing for me, I told you “eff you.”

At fifty, when you sent an emissary to convince me to invalidate my very existence for you, I called you and gave you my final “eff you.”

See that face gazing back at you? It’s me, saying “eff you.”

I first heard Georges Moustaki’s “Le Métèque” when I was six or seven. I couldn’t possibly have understood the lyrics in their entirety without an adult’s life experience, but there were parts, however, that struck me viscerally, as I heard it for the very first time. I knew the “metic” was me, too, even before I fully understood what it meant to be me. Continue reading The Metic ( Le Métèque ) →