Driving home at the end of election day, the first round in the 2017 French presidential elections, I noticed, flapping in the breeze, a hand-written note stuck beneath my windshield wiper. Was there a problem? Had someone put a dent in my car, parked since early morning on a public lot? Worse still, had I done something wrong?
I pulled over to the side of the road, got out and grabbed the note. Unfolding the paper, this is what I read: “Es-tu sûre, Nancy, d’avoir bien voté?” (Nancy, are you sure you made the right choice at the polls?) No signature, just a message, and though I had a hunch who wrote it, I read those words as if they had been beamed down by a ghostly oracle watching me from the sky.
Did I make the right choice, did I use my vote well? The morning after, I have to answer, I don’t know.
I voted. I made the effort to get up early on a Sunday morning and travel to Paris, where I am registered to vote. I crossed the city by metro to get to my polling place, an elementary school located a few steps from my Parisian apartment.
Voter registration card in hand, I crossed the threshold and immediately got in the wrong line, the one for those who had already been inside the ballot booth to cast their vote. I had forgotten to “pass go,” to stop at the table where volunteers check my name on a list and then invite me to pick up a small envelope and 11 rectangles of paper, each one stamped with the name and party of one of the 11 first-round presidential candidates.
Once I did that, I stepped into a voting booth, stuffed one paper in the envelope, and threw the other ten in a waste basket at my feet. Then I opened the envelope and peeped inside, afraid I had made a mistake. No. The “right one” was there. Closing the envelope again, I accidentally tore it. As I joined the line of those who had already voted, I tried to smooth it to make my vote look respectable.
When I arrived in front of the transparent ballot box, a woman checked my name in the ledger of those registered to vote and I signed. Then I dropped my envelope into the box and the official observer pronounced, “A voté” (she has voted).
It was over, my duty done. Eleven o’clock was chiming at a nearby church. I was free for the rest of the day. I headed to the outdoor market at Aligre Square, one of the best in Paris, where I met my dear friend Nathalie and we shopped for lunch. We also roamed through the flea market, and I bought a pair of cashmere and flannel trousers for a song.
By one that afternoon, too busy cooking and talking non-stop, we’d forgotten all about the elections. After eating, we sat on the floor and talked some more, warmed by the brilliant sun streaming into Nathalie’s top-floor apartment. Later we strolled along the Seine, joining a dense crowd, stopping to watch couples dance the tango on a platform near the water.
A lovely spring day that would have been perfect had it not been for the unshakeable doubts and anxiety lurking in the back of our minds.
Once back in le Perche, a region faithful readers are getting to know, first I found the note, then I returned home and turned on the TV. The names of the two front-runners were on the screen: 23.9% for Emmanuel Macron, representing the movement (and not the party) En Marche (which could be translated as “moving forward,” besides being the initials of the candidate’s name); 21.4% for Marine Le Pen, the candidate of “the people,” member of France’s far-right dynasty and president of the Front National, the party founded by her father Jean-Marie in 1972. On May 7th, voters will choose between the two—or for many, not vote at all.
But what about me? Up until this point, I’ve been tight-lipped about my half-hearted vote. Let’s just say I voted like a typical Parisian. Like 35% of the city’s voters, I chose Emmanuel Macron, a young man (age 39) who has never held an elected office and comes from the world of high finance, a neophyte to politics, a complete unknown three years ago, at the head of a movement he founded only a year ago. Macron came in first place in the city; Marine Le Pen did not even garner 5% of the vote.
This morning, first thing, I checked the results in my village. I was not so happy with what I discovered, but I was not surprised. Le Perche is a region that has traditionally voted socialist. In the 2012 presidential elections, François Hollande came in first place, but in five years things have changed. In the first round of the 2017 presidential elections, the far-right candidate Marine Le Pen is leader of the pack with almost 30% of the vote (out of 1503 votes in a commune composed of three small villages and adjacent hamlets).
The local papers have been saying it for weeks: when Marine Le Pen travels to this corner of rural France, she is entering friendly territory. Here people work hard and many are self-employed; unemployment is slightly below the 10% national average, but among young people, rises above 25%. Many are angry and feel forgotten by those who govern them. If only there were fewer foreigners, which—let’s say the words—means Arabs and Muslims, there would be more work, more opportunities, finally, more money for the “true” French.
And who am I to judge? I’ll admit, I do not share their fear or rejection of “foreigners.” After all, a majority of my students are of Arab or Muslim origins and for me, they represent the future of France. I better understand their fear of poverty and the feeling that things are getting worse. Though I constantly worry about money, I always manage to pay the bills, and compared to my country neighbors, I am one of the “haves” among many “have-nots.”
Finally, this is why I am not happy with my vote. I voted cautiously, choosing my interests over theirs, deliberately rejecting both far-left and far-right, yet still unsure to have made the right choice.
In a week, France will have a new president. As goes Nancy, so goes the nation? We’ll have to wait to find out.
