Oh d-d-d-d-dear

It is probably not a good thing for one to realize in the months leading up to one’s final year of college, the last leg before they receive their two Bachelor of Arts degrees, that they have no idea what they’re doing with their life.  Because, ladies and gentlemen, I am there.

I have changed career ideals so many times in my life.  From what I can remember, I have wanted to be a singer, a writer, an actress, a journalist, a paleontologist, a pediatric oncologist, a teacher, a NICU nurse, a translator, a professor, and a library archivist.  I would still love to be all of those things, however there’s only so much a degree in French and a degree in English can do for you, and when I say “so much,” I mean “hardly anything.”

Let’s be honest here.  What do I really, really want to do with my life?

It’s simple.

I want to live in Québec.

Honestly, that’s all I want.  If I never meet Monsieur le Prince Charmant, that would be okay, as long as I lived in Québec.  Maybe it’s a weird dream.  Maybe most women my age want to meet a guy and settle down with him.  Maybe they want to find a guy they’d be willing to follow to the ends of the earth.  But after five years of dreaming of a place and not a person, the ends of my earth stop at the border.  The only career dream I’ve retained throughout my life is to be a novelist, and, let’s face it, that’s not too likely.  However, now, the summer before my final year of undergrad, I’m starting to fear that living in Québec isn’t too likely, either.

I would do anything to live in Québec.  I would translate, which is the current goal.  I would teach, which is near impossible because I don’t have a B.A. in Education.  I would marry a wonderful man, be a mother, and be a housewife, never actually utilizing my degrees.  That’s all fine and dandy.  All I want to do is get there, and I can’t help but fear that everything is going to tumble down around me as I get closer and closer to finding out whether or not it will actually ever happen.  Why can’t this be easy?  Why can’t I just say I’ll be a translator and head north?  Because being a translator won’t make me a whole lot of money, plus it’s rather complicated to become a certified translator.

People have asked, “Why Québec?”  It’s not something that’s easily explained.  More and more as of late, when people learn that I’m a French major, the first question is, “Have you been to France?”  No, I have not been to France.  Would I like to go there?  Sure.  Is it a priority?  No.  I would love to go to France one day, just like I would also love to go to Russia, Romania, or Italy.  Hell, I just want to travel Europe someday.  But do I want to live in Europe or, more specifically, in France?  No.

So why Québec?  Well.  I have lived in six states throughout my life and have moved approximately eleven times, give or take.  I was born in Michigan and have since lived in California (two separate times), Utah, Kentucky, Georgia, and now Missouri.  I attended two elementary schools, one middle school, and three high schools.  Where am I from?  I don’t know.  When people ask that question, it takes me a second.  I don’t say I’m from Michigan because I only spent two years of my life there.  I only spent three years in Kentucky and four months in Georgia.  So that leaves it down to Utah and California, where I spent about six and seven years respectively.  Generally, I tell people I’m from California because that’s where I spent my adolescence.  Am I a Californian?  Maybe kind of not really.  Is California my home?  No, and it hasn’t been since I was seventeen.

But Québec.  I first traveled there in 2009 at the age of eighteen when my dear friends Sarah and Gloria were kind enough to take me with them to see Bruno Pelletier in concert.  I only spent a few days in Montréal, but it made a lasting impression.  Then, in the summer of 2013, I spent over a month in Québec City.  I cannot recall a time where I felt more complete.  I felt different in Québec.  I felt whole.  I felt like I was part of something.  I felt like I was, for the first time, in a place that loved me as much as I loved it.  I have never felt more at home in any place in the entire United States than I did in Québec.  And it was only a month.  A month out of almost twenty-three years.

I would do anything to go back.  Teach, whether it be in primary, secondary or Cégep; translate; work in the tourism industry, anything.  I just want to be there.  I would like to believe that I could just fly up there, get an apartment, and the rest will just fall into place, but I know that’s not the case.  I know I need to work hard to get there.  But right now, as my senior year approaches, when I’m worried about what to get my M.A. in, if I’ll even get in to grad school, if I should take a year off first . . . everything is terrifying.