There is debate among etymologists about the origin of the word June. Some say it comes from “junior,” making June the month of youth, a time to celebrate all that is new, fresh, and strong. Showing due respect to its elder, June follows May, the month of “majors,” all those age 21 and above.
Another theory sees the name as a tribute to the goddess Juno, wife of Jupiter and guardian of the Roman Empire. Her birthday was celebrated on June 1st and on that date the Romans honored the warlike traits of this goddess who, with perfect ease, combined youth, fertility, sovereignty and military power.
In France, in early June, farmers keep a careful watch on the sky. Rain on June 8th, the feast day of Saint Médard, patron of farmers and vintners, means a bad harvest will follow.
In June 2016, bad weather, war and youth came to a head in France. June came in like a lion, with weather conditions closer to those of early March. On June 3rd, we Parisians were still wearing winter coats and wool scarves as the Seine rose to critically high levels, threatening the city’s infrastructures and underground transport system.
On June 4th, the waters began to recede, but not before having caused over a billion dollars’ worth of damage throughout France. That day, I joined the crowds along the Seine to gape at the fast-flowing waters lapping the belly of some city bridges and engulfing the riverside walks where French and foreign lovers like to stroll.
The month got off to a bad start and the farmers’ patron saint proved powerless to stop the torrential rains that continue to fall. May 2016 was France’s rainiest month on record since 1873. June is bound to break some records as well.
And as if the rain were not enough, we’ve had transport strikes, gas shortages, protests marches and the European Soccer Championships, marred by bands of Russian and British hooligans streaming through the streets of major French cities. They provide proof that soccer, like war, is politics by other means.
There’ve been garbage strikes as well. Walking among the mountains of trash piled up along a major Parisian boulevard on one of the only warm days we’ve had this month, I realized how clean and efficiently run this city normally is. On a day without a strike, you’d hardly know that garbage exists.
Striking sanitation workers returned to the job just in time to clean up for the Euro, as the international soccer championships are known. Parisian streets were made pristine to welcome soccer fans from all over Europe. Based on some of the behavior I’ve observed above ground and below, I’m not so sure many of them cared.
The day following the June 10th kick-off, I shared a metro car with a crowd of Irish fans. These young men were not hooligans, but they were supporting their team by getting drunk. Frankly, I don’t think they could have told the difference between a mountain of trash and the blarney stone.
That same Saturday night, above ground, in the Pigalle neighborhood home to the Moulin Rouge, Irish fans dressed in green were spilling out of Irish pubs (Paris has quite a few) into the streets, blocking traffic, improvising cheers, songs and line dances. They were a rowdy bunch but, well after midnight, I felt no danger as I milled among the crowds and the alcohol fumes.
What was I doing in Pigalle after midnight? I guess you might call me collateral damage of the soccer championships. Earlier in the evening I’d been on the metro line that stops at Stade de France, the French national stadium, among fans, tourists, and pickpockets.
And guess whose pocket was picked? Not the drunken fan’s, not the innocent tourist’s, but mine, the savvy Parisian who should have known better.
Actually, someone slipped a hand into my purse and got away with my wallet: driver’s license, national identity card, my civil service card stamped “bleu-blanc-rouge,” my debit card, an unsigned check, and a prayer to Santa Rosalia whose grotto I visited with my nephew Louis when we travelled to Palermo during summer 2015.
“Santa Rosalia, proteggimi,” protect me. Well, I guess she did. I got my wallet back. A transport worker found it and did some detective work to find my phone number. Once I got the call, I headed back into the metro to a suburban station where my wallet, minus about twenty euros, was waiting for me.
Nature has been unkind to France this past month and fate did me a nasty, though not very serious, turn when it sent that pickpocket’s hand my way. More serious is the violence humans have been doing to each other during this tragically bloody month.
On June 12th, 49 died and 53 were injured in the Orlando attack, making it the deadliest mass shooting in US history. The assailant used an A-15 semiautomatic rifle, readily available in Florida. There may be between 10 to 12 million in circulation in the US—though why anyone outside the military would want or need such a deadly assault weapon simply boggles the mind.
In France, a day later, a couple of policemen, parents of a three-year-old child, were brutally stabbed and murdered in their home.
In each attack, the assailant was a troubled young man with few chances of ever landing a good job, a nobody of sorts, who, after committing his heinous act, pledged allegiance to ISIL. Each young man had previously been under investigation for terrorist activity, but there was not enough evidence against him to warrant arrest.
On June 14th, hundreds of thousands of protesters across France marched to demand the withdrawal of a bill proposing a major overhaul of French labor law. For the most part, marchers were peaceful, but here and there, outbursts of violence reached unprecedented levels.
In Paris, bands of masked, hooded young men used metal bars to break the windows of a children’s hospital. By a deeply sad twist of fate, it was to this hospital that emergency health workers had earlier transported the small child of the murdered policemen.
One of the roles of the goddess Juno is to warn us of the dangers of violence and war. In a month of June marked by natural and human violence, we lowly mortals should heed her warning and not give in to hate or despair.
