The French Naná

She passed in the year of 2020 still alone, her French quieted. Her story remained unbeknownst to her, maybe even her mother, not knowing why they hid their language, not knowing why they had layers of shame undefined by acknowledgment.

She passed in the year of 2020, still alone, her French quieted. Her story remained unbeknownst to her—maybe even to her mother—not knowing why they hid their language, not knowing why they carried layers of shame, undefined by acknowledgment.
There were 7 grandchildren to which I was the youngest, I followed her around the home watching her closely, sometimes I heard her speaking French in her quiet whispers, I asked why I couldn’t learn, hushed away by my mother without an answer, I settled with calling her the French Nana,(hyphen over) instead of the American Nana the others called out.

There were seven grandchildren, of which I was the youngest. I followed her around the home, watching her closely. Sometimes I heard her speaking French in her quiet whispers. I asked why I couldn’t learn but was hushed away by my mother without an answer. I settled with calling her the French-Nana—rather than the American Nana the others called out.
I asked endless questions, of heritage and trinkets. Who is this, where did they come from, what is this what is it used for. She would entertain me for a few and then ask, “why, why do you want to know these things” until again I was rushed away, hushed, or even yelled at for inquiry.
I asked endless questions—of heritage and trinkets. Who is this? Where did they come from? What is this? What is it used for? She would entertain me for a few, then ask, “Why, why do you want to know these things?” until again I was rushed away, hushed, or even yelled at for my inquiry.
The questions from childhood lingered in the background, never fading but I got comfortable not knowing, or knowing just enough.
The questions from childhood lingered in the background, never fading—but I grew comfortable not knowing, or knowing just enough.
Looking back, I see clearly know how I was reading the things unsaid, the energy that no one had words to articulate. I still can’t explain it thoroughly, the lingering internal sensation wordlessly whispering to look closely, that there was more to the eye.
Looking back, I see clearly now how I was reading the things unsaid—the energy that no one had words to articulate. I still can’t explain it thoroughly: the lingering internal sensation wordlessly whispering to look closely, that there was more to the eye.

What she did not know—and what her mother could not tell—was that the silence had been carried for centuries, across oceans and exiles.
It began in the green, windswept lands of Brittany and Normandy, where the Celts once fled from Britain, taking with them their language, their stories, and the rhythm of the sea.
From those shores, generations later, their descendants would sail again—this time to Acadia, the edge of a new world.

They built homes on the tidal marshes, spoke in soft French vowels, and lived in peace until the world turned against them once more.
The Great Expulsion scattered them, families torn apart, languages silenced, names changed to survive.
Some were taken south to Louisiana. Others made indentured servants in the violent towns of New England, later passing as French Canadians, their ancestry rewritten and lost in whispers.

My Naná was born from that lineage of quiet endurance.
The hush around her language was not forgetfulness—it was protection.
The layers of shame were not her own, but the echoes of a people who had been made to disappear, as safety, survival.
I, listened through the silence, felt what they could not say.

The questions I carried, I still carry are their memory—trying to find its way home.