Charlie and Nicole

Sincere and intimate, Charlie amicably recounts the isms and habits of his soon to be ex wife, Nicole. He lists particular instances where he has continued to admire and respect her, from her ability to play with their son to her abundant compassion. The love he has for her is evident, whether it is alive and thriving or outgrown. A Marriage Story directed by Noah Baumbach is an inexplicably, familiar and realistic depiction of divorce, capturing the eternal faint palpitation of love that is formed through the process of falling out of love. I watched A Marriage Story for the first time with my dad and in some ways, I felt like I was intruding. I was essentially watching the last couple years of my parents’ life through their lenses. The intimacy offered by the new angle was unsettling at first. It was almost as if I had an ear to my parents’ bedroom door, sitting on the hardwood floor with closed eyes, piecing together the scene inside, and suddenly, was given a live stream on a flat screen, walking me through every moment, every thought and action. My proximity to the situation undoubtedly aged me; I took a bite from the apple, I opened Pandora's box. A Marriage Story opened my eyes to the humanization of my parents. I was suddenly guilty for every intrusive thought, every pang of longing for another family; one more complete. Every tear shed, every rewatch healed more of my resentment little by little.

Coming full circle several years later, all of that empathy and understanding is undone just by a glance through a window. I am 11 years old again, staring through the window, watching a middle aged man and woman sit at their dining room table with their three children. I make up names and a storyline in my head: Robert and Marie have been together for 20 years and married for 15. Like the typical french family, they married straight out of university and kids followed shortly after. First Sylvie, then Pierre, and lastly Beranice. I ponder their hobbies and habits, who gets along more with who and how their parents' togetherness has affected them. I jump out of my fabrication and my feet slowly come back down to earth. I’m almost embarrassed by how quickly I unraveled, how fast I folded. My senses are regained and I harden, for love runs deep but longing is heavier handed in its persuasion.

The human brain battles in a world so complex, it craves simplicity. My instantaneous love for this family, for Robert and Marie, Sylvie, Pierre, and Beranice tied me to Rennes, as if every family in the city consisted of these five people I made up. I ignore the glass window and fence that separate us. I do not care that I can’t hear their words or their tone, see the lines on their face, or know what is hurting. I don’t want to see them as humans with faults rather than just puppets of my mind. The street name, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Rennes, sits proudly on the corner. I avoid its gaze. I don’t know enough to cast the bold label of ‘perfection’ upon Rennes family life, but it's easier that way isn't it? To attach the hope of togetherness to a place, to conserve the purity of the nuclear family, and to make sense of an idea that is just too foregin. To understand the beauty of hands in hands. Mother and father, son and daughter. Robert and Marie. Charlie and Nicole.

(*A creative personal narrative based on a prompt given in my English class while I was abroad in SYA. The prompt was to write about a neighborhood street we passed on the way to school)