Category: Uncategorized

On being French and Vietnamese, and the issue of Vietnamese immigrants.

Inspired by the Humans of New York platform, first year student Jason Trinh interviews Lucas Lam. He intends to write down the stories of our students on campus, and connect them with the bigger relevant issues in society.

You have heard of Vietnamese Americans. Their stories are everywhere, some of them best sellers like Thanh Nguyen or Ocean Vuong. But what about the Vietnamese French? Today I will tell you the story of Lucas Minh Duc Lam.

When I first arrived on the Sciences Po campus, the most commonly asked question, both by other students and by me when greeting new people, is “Where are you from?”. I answered the question easily, and admittedly I even felt a little bit proud of the answer I could offer, knowing that I was the only Vietnamese student going to the Le Havre campus this year. I was born in Vietnam to a Vietnamese family, speak Vietnamese fluently as a mother-tongue, had a Vietnamese upbringing and attended Vietnamese schools. It’s the life of an average Vietnamese. However, my I was surprised once when I answered the question with the same answer. The person went, “I think there is another Vietnamese”.

It turned out that the Vietnamese mentioned was Lucas Minh Duc Lam, but unlike me, he is not the “average Vietnamese”, or at least that was my impression when I saw and talked to him at one of the first social events. His vibe let me know immediately that there was some familiarity; he is humble, a little bit shy (maybe because we spoke in English?); he even looks like one of my cousins, who is really thin with slender hands and a short, carefree haircut. I couldn’t help but feel extremely curious: being in Vietnam for my whole life and surrounded by other typical Vietnamese, I did not really understand the life of Vietnamese abroad – those who are originally Vietnamese, but officially some other nationality. I have heard of the Vietnamese-Americans: they are easy to recognise as most of them call themselves Vietnamese, most of them migrated to the United States after the Vietnam War by highly dangerous ways such as boats, hence the birth of the term “boat people” which is often used to describe first generation Vietnamese-Americans. Some of them are very widely known authors such as Viet Thanh Nguyen and Ocean Vuong. But I have never heard of the Vietnamese French. I decided to interview Lucas directly, and this article is the recap with some reflections with the talk I had with him.

***

We had our talk in the library, one Friday afternoon right before the Fall break. I texted and asked for Lucas’ participation before, with his first response being, “I’m afraid I’m not an interesting person”, reaffirming my impression of him as a very humble one. I started the conversation with some very basic question: his childhood, his upbringing, his parents, etcetera. Lucas’ parents are of Vietnamese origins. Officially, Lucas is French. He was born and raised in France, around Paris, speaks French fluently as his mother-tongue, had a French upbringing and attended French schools. He was even named a French name, with his Vietnamese middle names rarely used. Spiritually, he is… also French. Lucas does not speak Vietnamese well; he does not identify as a Vietnamese, not because he is not proud of his origins, but rather because his parents raised him as an integrated French citizen, and now he just feels more French than Vietnamese. “It seems to me that there are two types of Vietnamese here” – Lucas told me – “The first type is the very patriotic one. My friends from secondary school, some of them have Vietnamese parents,and they were raised in France. Whenever somebody asks for their identity, they say they are Vietnamese. The second type is me.”

However, he also expressed that his parents helped him appreciate his culture and reminded him of his origin: they “only cook Vietnamese food” for him when he is home (which he admitted that he enjoys very much) and sent him to a school that had Vietnamese in his subject choices (there are only two of them in Paris). Lucas still identifies as French not Vietnamese, because other than the food and some of the basic spiritual or celebratory rituals like the Vietnamese New Year festival Tết or the famous Vietnamese food phở and bánh cuốn, he admitted that he doesn’t know much about the Vietnamese life. “My parents don’t want to erase my origin, but they wanted me to integrate into French society, to feel like a French person. After all, Vietnamese is just my origin; French is my nationality.” He also told me that among the Vietnamese community in France, it’s not always the same, but in his case, even his parents feel very French nowadays, as they have lived in France for more than thirty years. “I think it’s very nice to be allowed to be a part of French society and at the same time respect your own origin.”

I asked him more about his parents and their political opinions as the discussion moved to a more political sphere. His parents, from small provinces of Vietnam in both the North and the South, came to France as a result of the Vietnam War; but unlike most first-generation Vietnamese Americans who are highly anti-communist, his parents are said to be neutral in Vietnamese affairs. They just wanted to maximize their opportunity abroad, he said. I asked him if the community of French people whose origin is Vietnamese holds the same political position. “It depends, really. Many of them are very anti-communist, yes. But many are just like my parents who feel more French than Vietnamese, therefore they now only care about French politics.” He also admitted to me that his parents do not talk to him much about Vietnam.

He spoke of his experience as being “the only Asian in the whole school” back in the time when he lived in the countryside near Paris. He was mocked at school, but fortunately he was backed and defended by many friends. When he moved inside Paris which is a melting pot with many different people, he and even his friends never experienced racism again. He told me that there are many stereotypes – or “cliché”, to use his word – about Asian people, but most of them are good ones, such as Asian people are hard-working, intelligent and good at math. “I think the racist, bad cliché targets black and Arab people, so it’s much harder for them.”

***

At the end of the conversation, we talked about Sciences Po, about why we chose Sciences Po, about our future occupations. When asked about his plans for his future kids, if any, he told me that he would try to teach them about Vietnamese culture, about Vietnamese food, but it will be hard to teach the language.

I said goodbye to Lucas and went home to prepare for the Fall break. But the conversation with him has stayed in my head for a while, until now, whilst I’m writing it down. I have always felt like the serious conversation about the Vietnamese abroad is rarely had among the Vietnamese at home; if they do exist, they are mostly offensive jokes on the internet made by the Vietnamese at home about betraying and leaving the motherland, about refusing the identity. On the other side, the Vietnamese abroad (many times the Vietnamese Americans) talk of the Vietnamese staying as the “commies”, as uncivilized and uneducated, authoritarian-loving people. The Vietnamese at home and the Vietnamese abroad, mostly Vietnamese Americans, are even divided by the version of Vietnam they identify with. The Vietnamese at home identified with the Socialist Republic of Vietnam and the red flag with a big yellow star in the middle. The Vietnamese abroad identified with the Republic of Vietnam (the old South Vietnam regime back in the Vietnam War) and the yellow flag with three yellow stripes. The division is deeper than anything non-Vietnamese people can imagine. Many people are surprised when I tell them that I could not walk into a Vietnamese-owned phở restaurant in the United States and speak Vietnamese, because then my Northern Vietnamese accent would be exposed, and Vietnamese Americans might behave badly as a response.. The understanding between the Vietnamese at home and the Vietnamese abroad is almost non-existent. That is why when President Donald Trump decided that he could deport Vietnamese migrants from the Vietnam War back to Vietnam if they have any criminal offences, it hurt the Vietnamese community abroad in an unimaginable way: the Vietnamese government wouldn’t recognize or accept those people into Vietnam, and the Vietnamese people also wouldn’t sympathize with the deported people.

Maybe because of the strict censorship in Vietnam. Maybe because of the deep, penetrated hatred inside the people abroad who fled the country out of fear. But the conversation has never occurred, and I’m just very glad that I had the chance to talk to a Vietnamese who has grown up in a Western country, from the other side of the world, the other side of the conversation. Maybe the Vietnamese community in France isn’t as hateful towards the current Vietnamese regime as the community in the States, but there are undeniable differences in our mindsets, our lifestyles, our upbringings, and our opinions.

The current event in which 39 bodies were found inside a container in the United Kingdom, most of them suspected Vietnamese nationals trying to immigrate, sparked conversation among Vietnamese people. Vietnam nowadays is not having any wars and the economy is growing very fast, but the trend of immigration is still visible because many (mostly poor) people dream about the Western life and then follow the smugglers to migrate to Western countries. Is it illegal? Yes, but one thing that rather privileged people like you and me don’t understand is the desperate feeling of having no choice, of wanting to be better and to provide better for your family.

It is important to remember that not all immigrants’ stories are warm-hearted stories. People like Lucas and his parents can be said to be very lucky, to not only successfully come to France but also to successfully integrate into society. But somewhere out there, there are immigrants who die in freezing containers at -25*C, with their desire to have a better life unfinished, and we shouldn’t forget about them.

Photos: author.

Ouest Park Festival: What makes Le Havre a city and what makes Le Havre a home.

As the fall break passes, second year student Shivani Ekkanath takes a minute to contemplate a popular LH festival, and her time in our beloved city.

Think obscure artists, all manner of techno, pop, and indie, paired with seizure-inducing lights, deafening cheers, cheap beer and an overall, great weekend? C’est l’Ouest!

We always believe that Le Havre is quaint and small, yet there has always been more to this maritime port city that so many of us SciencesPistes call home. Owing to the thriving youth population, Le Havre has steadily transformed over the years. Ouest Park Festival is an excellent representation of these dynamic changes as well as the vibrant cultural wave that is overtaking the city as it transitions from its old roots to form a new cultural identity. One of the venues, Le Tetris, a gentrified establishment as well as an important cultural project, is proving to be the melting pot of Le Havre’s growing hipster and artistic culture with its melange of live performances and acts. The festival is also a great way to support and give local artists from Normandy a platform and an opportunity to share their music with a large mass audience, especially because prices for tickets are nominal and the last day is free of cost and people often come in big groups with their family and friends.

The weekend of Ouest Park witnessed dozens of artists, both established and up and coming, across France and beyond, making their way to Le Havre to share their latest music with avid and eager Havraises, among them many of us Sciences Pistes! The sixteenth edition of Ouest Park proved to be yet another breath of fresh air as we finally bid farewell to the summer and welcomed the colder but colourful and crisp months of fall. This year featured artists such as Daysy, Cadillac, Hocus Pocus, Taxi Kebab, Hellios Collective and others, each bringing with them a distinct and unique sense of style. Many of the Ouest artists this year explored and experimented with different types of music within genres like electro and groove. For example, the band Helios Collective riled up audiences with their haunting yet powerful tribute to the city. Born and bred in Le Havre, they conveyed the feral and wild nature of Le Havre’s cliffs, rough seas and beaches through their experimentations with different kinds of techno music, while also drawing inspiration from Le Havre’s industrial roots and evolving modernity in some of their pieces. Similarly, acts like The Jungle and Sentimental Race also featured a lot of music incorporating techno, percussion and other elements like rave and gabber.

Moreover, one of my first experiences in Le Havre was in fact, my visit to Ouest as I climbed the steps to Fort de Tourneville breathless but excited to see Therapie Taxi in concert and engage with my strange but fascinating new environment. My second time at Ouest not only took me back to this first few weeks of the first semester last year but also made me reflect on how fleeting time is indeed as we come to the second half of the semester. A large part of my love for Ouest over the past two years has also been other aspects of the festival, from the hype and the introduction of the acts on the Facebook page to its atmosphere, not to mention the free crepes. Apart from that, this is obviously the best opportunity to discover and explore new music as well. One of my personal favourites was a band called Daysy, I have even added a lot of their music to my playlist. They incorporate a lot of pop, soul and urban touches with their powerful vocals and deep lyrics, both in English and French. I now realise that the festival is also one of the only occasions where we truly see Le Havre in its truest form and essence. It is a great lens into the local culture, as we temporarily leave the everyday hustle and bustle of the Sciences Po bubble and engage and experience the liveliness and life of the city.

Perhaps, when I look back at my time in Le Havre during my 3A next year, I will remember my time at Ouest, which marked the beginnings of the two years of my university experience as well as the beginning of my concluding year. It remains one of those transitory phases, where I am finally at peace with my environment and bask in the comfort of what I can call home in my own way before I await the next phase of what is to come.

Photos: author.

On being ok, mental health, and regrets.

For Alexis.

1. “Are you okay?”

I am often stumped by this question, despite the simplicity of its earnest demand – there are only so many responses to it. Yet it is precisely this simplicity that stumps me: I can only be either okay, or not okay. Oftentimes, I lie on a spectrum of okayness; there are shades of okays and not-okays. My often complicated situation, my complicated feelings towards it, and my inclination to honesty all makes it harder to respond to this question.

I might be inclined to respond with an affirmative – “yes, I am okay” – or negative – “no, I am not” – followed by a caveat – “but…”. I could tentatively reply with a prefix “maybe” to the typical response, already indicating the slippery feelings that escape the neatly defined responses. I could also opt for a more obstructionist response; I might defensively or aggressively demand why I was asked that way – “why do you ask me that?” – deflecting the question and the intention of the questioner, trivial though it might be. Etcetera, etcetera.

But what makes it even harder for me to answer it, beyond just a surface linguistic examination of the question, is that often, I am compelled to say that I am okay, while in fact, I am flat out not okay. Within the possible answers the question purports to have, there are certain expected answers. Imagine for once, the question was asked when I just stepped onto campus, or while waiting in line for my turn to the microwave, or as I was just seated for a lecture in the grand amphitheater. Given the fact that there is too little time for an elaboration of my feelings, and that everyone is around me, and maybe that I don’t quite know who the person asking is, it simply is more practical to answer yes, perhaps an indifferent “yea, I’m alright.” Even a “maybe” might be inviting too much attention; they might follow up with a “why?” and then there is no time nor space to properly address it. God forbids me saying “no”, then out of their assumed kindness and care for others, they might have to ask why, when they themselves most likely lack the time, nor the space, nor the real intention to care about it, given their busy lives. I would not want to bother anyone with that; you would not expect to listen to struggles from strangers, nor do you know whether you could do it effectively. So out of sheer practicality, or perhaps, more precisely, the pressure to be practical, I answer yes. And nothing happens; life continues, undisrupted.

But we can push this a bit more. Let’s assume, whatever the context is, no matter how impractical it could have been, I say no. And let’s assume also that they followed up with a why, expecting, genuinely, some concrete answer. Now, my answers to this might differ, depending on who I am talking to and the situation I am in. If, at the time, I am only facing something mildly annoying and short-term. the answer could be similarly short, followed by a brief and inconsequential exchange of dialogue. But if I am facing something more drastic, something – or multiple things – fundamentally problematic, that causes me significant distress, I am stumped again, because there is no time for a proper elaboration. The best compromise, one that conforms both to a need to express myself honestly and the lack of time and space, would be a truthful but short, reductive, and unsatisfying answer. A recent example of mine was “I’m depressed, and I can’t muster the effort to study or doing anything else” (some more unfortunate individuals encountered a “I’m suicidal”). Now it’s their turn to be stumped, probably uncomfortable; the effect only amplifies if the answer is longer, obliging them to listen for longer, straining their limited patience.

2. Mental health, but for whom?

The heart of the problem is that no one really expects to see others’ dysfunction in life, especially in the workplace or on campus. We carry on living with a facade of functionality: Here I am, punctually, I work, consistently and without problems, therefore I exist. We might care about others, genuinely or not, but in all cases, it is difficult to go out of our way to assist them. We have distanced ourselves from that task and rdelegated it to professionals, their improficiency notwithstanding. We actively distrust ourselves in the task of handling emotions, disbelieving in our capacity to listen, to empathize, to determine when and what to advise. There is a certain vicious, self-reinforcing, cycle to this logic: by believing that professionals handle it better than us, we avoid further engagement with others, and thus place more responsibilities to the professionals, encumbering them in the process. Paradoxically, this occurs alongside the very recognizable and palpable fact that all we do is emotionally intertwined; everywhere we walk, we speak, we work – there are emotions that trail behind. Yet we cannot act – or more precisely, we believe we cannot act – upon them, despite our own lived experience with our own problems. In a strict sense, everyone is lonely, everyone knows everyone can be lonely, but no one does anything about it, a fact admitted to me by someone to whom I once talked about my issues. A case in point is the fact that everyone has presumed the cause behind our recent tragedy, and acted upon it without a moment of hesitation or suspicion despite no explicit official confirmation, seemingly already knowing why and how it has happened.

Ironically, it is here that professionals might fall short of effective help: they might lack the critical insight on how we go about our daily lives. They suffer from the same fallacy as we do. There is nothing but formality in their offices, evident in their degree hung on the wall, formal attire, notes and pens in hand, despite the fact that to our logic, all emotions are is informality. I find it unhelpful to approach my problems through speaking about my dreams, like psychoanalysis compels the professional to ask of me to do. I find it frustratingly difficult to convey my issues, be they my studies, my finances, or my inability to find fulfilling social experiences, to this professional psychologist but absolute stranger whose relationship to me I have to start from scratch. The communicative labor falls not onto the professional, but rather on me who, already in distress and need of help, easily finds myself unwilling to exert much more effort.

This labor gets more difficult especially when there is a language barrier. I speak and express myself in English well, while the professional do so with only French. The linguistic barrier suggests a larger cultural problem: What if my ways of approaching mental health is different? What if I find more fulfillment in community engagement than individual exchange? What if I have never talked about dreams, ever, to express my problems? Professionalism operates well through processes of standardization, and standards perform poorly in intercultural conditions. But we can take it further: What if I cannot speak well? What if I stutter, or am mentally handicapped? Effective mental health assistance in both cases are then inaccessible to me; I cannot attain it unless I have acquired a certain language, and a certain way of speaking the language. I feel there is a certain exclusionary character of “mental health” as expounded in official discourse here on our campus: mental health is not only defined by your capacity to work well, but the paths towards it are limited by your ability to speak a certain language, in a certain standardized manner.

We often talk of inclusion and mental health, but to whom does this inclusion and mental health belong to?

3. Beyond a collection of individuals, towards a community

The writing here contains without doubt my very personal, emotional motives. I have felt too well my feelings of isolation and helplessness here on campus, and a lot of what I have written thus far seems like an indictment (I admit the process was very cathartic). Nonetheless, I would like to restrain myself for a moment, and say that I am not trying to accuse everyone of being callus (not entirely anyway, cheek-in-tongue-ly). In spite of my critical view, I know painfully well the fact that everyone has their own priorities in life – perhaps the rent is coming, the civic engagement project or presentations have been procrastinated too long, the papers are long overdue – and caring for others sometimes takes a backseat. To quote from my favorite writer in Vietnamese literature, Nam Cao, who luridly described the selfish nature of pained individuals during Vietnam’s colonial period: “A person with an aching foot could hardly ever forget about their aching foot to think of anything else? When one is in so much pain, one could no longer think about other people. Their kind-hearted nature is obscured by their selfish worries and pains…”

But I must remind you all that we do not live in the miserable hellscape of French-colonized Vietnam; our feet do not hurt as much, and our kind-hearted nature still shows and glistens at occasions, to friends more so than to acquaintances. We need not religiously follow the liberal, individualistic logic of caring for yourself first and having sole responsibility for your own problems – it is this logic that formed the baseline of the toxic internalization of my problems that drove me to destructive suicidal ideation multiple times before and during my studies. Such mentality prizes independence beyond all else, and, in the process, anathetimizes seeking help.

I find the mentality incredibly frustrating, toxic, and cumbersome, and we’d do better not to think of life that way. And indeed we say we do not for most of the time, but I could not help but feel that we do not do what we preach. At times, I feel myself dismissed by others when I express my emotions, superficially or deeply, either through a blunt dismissal or suspicion of my feelings, or through a blanket statement that I would be fine, more reassuring to the speaker rather than me. No, I am not fine, and neither are many others, I believe, who share my sentiment, at times or always. Perhaps the problem in those occasions is that, while they do want to listen and help, they simply do not know how to do so well. But my deeper concern resurfaces when I ask them to do better than that, to listen better, to empathize better. They would be likely to defensively respond by saying they do not have to, or that they could not, do that.

We would do best by recognizing problems as they are, seeing that we all have a stake in it and we have the capacity to address it as a community. This does not necessarily call for a rejection of professional assistance to mental health, but it does question an overreliance on such an approach. If we do treat mental health as seriously as we do with physical health, then we would not advocate for an overdependence on medicine. Treatments of both kinds should be reserved, applied when necessary, not whenever a sign manifests. More importantly, we should first look to a simple vigilance and attentiveness towards others, expressed through each person with a handful of genuine statements of care and wholehearted exchanges, and through the entire community, a network of active support and positive integration, beyond faux-functionality.

In striving beyond my casual cynicism towards a kernel of hope, I urge all of us to care more as a whole, truly, lest we find ourselves regretting what we did not do or pondering we could have done, a trope that should have been put to rest before we received our most recent tragedy.

Photos: author

Festival Ono’u: A Meeting of Colours

Edouard Pack from our editing team writes about an important festival happening in Tahiti this month and what it means to him.

SETH and HTJ

I didn’t grow up in a particularly cultured household- we didn’t go to museums or exhibitions every weekend nor attend the opera or theatre on Friday nights. But art does exist around us, and learning how to find it and appreciate it under its different forms is enhancing and satisfying to me. Through the tahitian festival Ono’u, I had the chance to discover street art while seeing the face of Papeete being modified progressively year after year.

The name of the festival, “ONO’U”, is inspired by the fusion of the two Tahitian words “ONO” (action of joining one thing to another) and “U” (colors) to express the action of connecting a color to another and “the meeting of colors” in Tahiti through the art of graffiti.

The festival was created in 2014 by Sarah Roopinia, a young Tahitian entrepreneur who discovered Street Art while studying in Paris and Berlin. After four editions and dozens of international and local graffiti artists, Ono’u has become an important event in the world of graffiti. It is also a popular festival that has helped change the somewhat sad face of Papeete, turning the city into an open-air art gallery.

ASKEW

Since 2014, the festival has attracted numerous artists each year, but also a charming crowd; gathering workers stopping by during their break, students coming after school, or simple passerbys. During those ten yearly days of reshaping, the festival has often turned into a seeking game for my friends and I, walking through the city to witness the new pieces that pop up around corners, on the shop walls, or near our high school.

At a first glance, we used to gaze these ten meter high walls with artists lifted in front drawing some abstracts forms. But as days went by, the advancing street art started to take shape, the pieces of the puzzle coming together until the final work is completed. The initiative of the festival was very controversial at the beginning, with the local population being afraid of the normalisation of graffitis that would allow small “gangs” and youngsters to draw freely wherever they feel like.

TNG

But one of the announced objectives of Ono’u? To bring a form of well-being, joy and poetry into the everyday lives of Polynesians through art- a gentle escape that takes them out of their sometimes dull immediate environment and routine.

The challenge for the 6th edition of Ono’u, specially created for social housing in partnership with the Polynesian Office of the Habitat, is to transform one thousand square meters into works of art in less than 10 days. Four social residences are involved in this operation which takes place from October 15th to 25th 2019 and will allow the transformation of 7 large social housing wall façades with a selection of 9 international and local artists.

Students residence “Paraita”, by OKUDA & RIVAL

Comparing the festival Ono’u to “un été au Havre”, I am thrilled of the ephemerality of both events, attracting people because of their limited presence, but at the same time leaving the remaining works of past editions which continue to adorn the cities, giving a charm to them.

On the occasion of the celebration of Le Havre’s 500th anniversary in 2017, Jace, a Le Havre-borned street artist called on Thai artist Alex Face to create this collaborative work. The piquant meeting of two emblematic characters of street art, the gouzou and the famous childish character in the costume of rabbit and the third eye.

During the floods in Tahiti on January 22th 2017, one of the graffitis has been photographed flooded, gaining a mystical yet realistic perspective, giving life to the Va’a (Polynesian canoe, ndlr) and the Vahine who navigates it.

SETH

The festival Ono’u is first and foremost a place of sharing colorful international artistic exchanges, and more importantly, a place of opening on contemporary urban art and culture in the heart of the South Pacific. I like to think that street art is crystalizing the essence of art, adding a more accessible aspect to it by mixing them with the architecture of the city.

KOBRA

My “favourite” theory

Our radio editor-in-chief reflects on her least favourite question.

When we introduce ourselves, when we do some primary school task or later when we learn a new language, there is always one question that keeps coming up: “What’s your favourite blank?”

I don’t have a favourite. Ironically, the only answer I could give you when you ask for my favourite is that my least favourite question is what is your favourite. I know. It gets confusing. You see, usually I can narrow myself down to a few favourites for certain things but getting the favourite – the ‘one and only’ – is my mission impossible.

When I was younger, I used to memorise which colour was my favourite. I felt this pressure coming down from somewhere – I needed to have one. For some reason I was also bothered by the inconsistency of my answers so I would try to come up with one and stick to it. Once I thought it was blue; I bought a pair of really bright blue glasses, which then of course I started to hate after a few months. Unfortunately, my mom did not understand my awkward teen embarrassment necessitating me to get a new pair, so they stuck with me (do not ask me to send you a picture with them on). It took me quite some time to give up on finding my favourite colour.

Let me explain where all of this is coming from. It is not that I am completely indecisive (even though I am close) or that I don’t like anything. I just haven’t found the answers to two questions: What is a ‘favourite’? And why do we need to have one?

What is a favourite?

Many people close to me have heard me go on a long rant after a question such as this one. Ask me any favourite-type question and I will deconstruct it for you. For example:

When you ask “what is your favourite food?”, are you asking me for the type of food I would eat every day for the rest of my life? Favourite food when I am sad or happy? My guilty pleasure or what I am always excited to snack on? Winter or summer food? For breakfast or dinner? Sweet or sour? Food is such a broad category which means every answer to a favourite has a different meaning to every person.

If a favourite can have such different interpretations, then does it have any meaning at all?

Once, my yearbook quote was “your favourite and least favourite Lithuanian”. It is easy to get a true favourite (with a least favourite) when there is only one of something to choose from. Two birds one stone, am I right?

Why do we need to have a favourite?

I hope at this point of the text you have lost at least one of your favourites. Maybe that song you swore was your favourite is actually your “Summer-2018-the-time-at-the-beach-you-spent-with-your-dog” favourite. That being said, I don’t want to say it’s not okay to have favourites. I just want to say that it is okay not to have one.

I love when people know their answer straight away, when their eyes light up as they get their answer ready: “My favourite number is seven!” Honestly though, why is seven such a popular favourite number? Their certainty is comforting. Their self-awareness is one to admire. However, I feel like it is often expected for us to have favourites. Faced with a-favourite-type question I start talking about why I dislike favourites but more often than not I just end up killing the conversation.

If I give you an answer when you ask for my favourite colour, that one colour will suddenly become very different to all the colours. It will become the colour. I won’t be even sure of what kind of the it will be. It almost feels unfair to all the other beautiful colours. I have no colour to embody that subjective feeling of favourite.

Maybe part of me is afraid that by choosing my favourite, I will be prevented from fully enjoying the alternatives. Once I settle that my favourite season is summer, will blooming springs ever look as beautiful as they did? In the end, what your favourite means does not matter as long as you stay open-minded. Keep the ability to change your favourites. Or if you change them too often like me, just don’t pick one.

Let’s call it – my theory of favourites (or my favourite theory?).