Hello Everyone,
In gathering information for another assault on my likely DeFord ancestry
(Isle of Wighty Co, VA:>Wake Co NC), I came across the following article
pasted at the end I collected a while back.
It is a humorous piece on the Huguenots written for Sports Illustrated by
sportswriter Frank DeFord in 1998 after (I guess if I read it correctly) the
French won the soccer World Cup in 1998. I found it at a Fetty website,
which also has a short historical statement. I thought all of you with
Huguenot ancestry would find it amusing (or hope you do!).
http://www.fettywww.com/Fetty_Huguenots.html
Best Regards,
Janet (Baugh) Hunter
07/27/98
Sports Illustrated
By Deford, Frank ; McCallum, Jack ; et al
Magazine: SPORTS ILLUSTRATED July 27, 1998
Section: Scorecard
World Cup
=========
PAS DE RESPECT
--------------
The author's French forebears were paid no heed before the final--or
after
it
People are always b______g about being stereotyped because of their
heritage. But let me tell you: Just wait till you're not stereotyped.
Then
you'll be sorry. Then nobody grants you quaint genetic characteristics
that allow you to get away with stuff. Nobody says, "Well, no wonder he
acts that way. Hey, it's O.K. because he's a -----." No. If you're not
stereotyped, then you're just stupid all by yourself, laughed at
strictly
on your own hook.
How well I know this. Because, unlike most Americans, I've been
deprived.
Like Peter Pan without his shadow, I have no visible heritage, no
direct
connection to the land of my forefathers. Instead, I've had to slog
through life simply as American. No hyphen before that. No qualifying
I.D.
The World Cup made me think about this. You see, I am from a forgotten
tribe. Not lost, you understand. That's romantic: lost. My tribe is
simply
forgotten. I am a Huguenot. A French Huguenot. Who remembers us? But
hey,
we remember the Incas, and who has even seen an Inca? As Tom Brokaw, a
lapsed Huguenot, once declared when he attended another ethnic
celebration, "There are very few songs that start When Huguenot Eyes
Are
Smiling."
At one time we Huguenots were among the noblest of all immigrants,
among
the first to come to the colonies in search of religious freedom. Paul
Revere was a Huguenot. But as time went on, we were assimilated. My
original family name was Dufour, which is so lovely and ethnic, but
some
d__n ancestor anglicized it to bland old Deford. And there's no
Huguenot
homeland to vacation in. No Huguenot newspapers, no Huguenot food, no
Huguenot expressions. Not even any Huguenot jokes. No "There was this
atheist, this Jew and this Huguenot, and...." Hardly anybody can even
spell Huguenot, and the British pronounce it HYU-ghe-no, as opposed to
the
way we say it (HYU-ghe-naht). How can you stereotype a people you can't
even pronounce? Besides, what red-blooded American believes that
Protestants could be discriminated against?
But, you see, we Huguenots were the minority in France, and it was the
majority who gave us something of an option: Leave or get burned at the
stake. But still: I am (was) French, and--Hallelujah!--here were my
people
(my bloods) in the World Cup final. At last I knew what it was to feel
like an Irishman or an Italian or a Jew or a Puerto Rican! Ich bin ein
minority!
Of course, there was a certain amount of angst, of conflict. After all,
it
was the forefathers of Les Bleus who wanted to burn my ancestors at the
stake. Besides, nobody likes the French. All my life, because I
cleverly,
deceitfully pass as non-French, people have dissed the French right in
front of me, unaware of my deep, wounded feelings. For everybody who's
insecure, the French are fair game to kick around. And I have had to
put
up with this cruel slander. Of course, I don't much like the French
either. But it's the principle of the thing. It's the only heritage
I've
got, even if they did want to burn me at the stake. Nobody's perfect.
Every now and then I have met another Huguenot--but it's not easy to
tell.
It doesn't say Huguenot on your driver's license. There are no Huguenot
bars. But: Frank Perdue, the chicken man, revealed to me that he is a
fellow Huguenot. So did Pete Rozelle, the late pro football
commissioner.
Then there's Brokaw--although he does not seem to have come out as a
Huguenot.
Then...last week: France trois, Brazil zero. At last, my country of
origin
had won the World Cup. Everybody was trilling, "Vive la France!" The
nouveau fans were climbing on the Gallic bandwagon. Now, for the first
time in my life, I could be one with my glorious heritage. I could
stand
on the rooftops and belt out La Marseillaise. I could be Dufour again.
"Bonjour, mes amis!" I cried down at the Sunoco station.
Moreover, much was made of the French being so heterogeneous, so
tolerant.
It was Frenchmen of Algerian descent, Frenchmen from Guadeloupe who had
won the Cup. The tricolor was, suddenly, a veritable Jesse Jacksonian
rainbow.
Of course, for all the patriotic speeches in Paris, all the
self-congratulation--nowhere any apologies to the Huguenots. Nowhere
even
a mention of Huguenots. No room in the rainbow. All my hopes for
financial
reparations or for being allowed to build a casino on the French land
that
used to belong to my family--dashed. After a lifetime of waiting to be
taken back into the embrace of the land of my fathers, the World Cup
had
shown me that, alas, Huguenot eyes can never smile. I'll never be
stereotyped like all those Americans with another past, an alternative
persona. I'll never be a Dufour. I'm stuck as old Deford. Anglicized
name,
Americanized body. Forever.
~~~~~~~~
By Frank Deford
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