ENG 5113: Migration Narratives: The Streets of Paris

Departure

We boarded the bus early, before day, full of excitement and anticipation for visiting a new city in a country we had never visited. A city known for its beauty, food, art, fashion and culture. We, my mom, younger sister, little brother and I were all headed for Paris, France. By the time we boarded the bus to France, my mom, little brother and I had already been in Germany for a couple of weeks. It was our first time out of the U.S. We were spending time with my younger sister whose husband was in the army and stationed at Mannheim, Germany. As one of our planned outings, we wanted to visit Paris. The trip would be cheaper traveling from Germany to Paris than from the U.S. and take only six hours. We could take a day trip on a bus service offered to military families to travel between European countries for really cheap. The morning of our trip to Paris we boarded the bus sleepy but excited. My sister had already been to Paris once before but was playing hostess to us.

Barriers

We arrived in Paris on a day when I don’t think it rained. It had been raining often in Germany that October and November. Unloading the bus in Paris that fateful mid-morning I felt a total culture shock. The city was beautiful but there was a barrier. Language. In Mannheim, the German people we had encountered always seemed ready and willing to speak in English or my sister spoke a little broken German. Trying to communicate was always like a mini adventure. The Germans we encountered were generally very gracious and somehow, we could make communication work. At the time, I even picked up some German words that I could understand. In France, the French spoke French. Period. They expected us to speak French. I felt awkward and lost. Like an outsider. A stranger. A foreigner. American. As a Black woman in America, periodically I might come across people in certain situations who judge me based solely on the color of my skin. It’s not often, but it happens. I recognize that there will be those in this world who judge me to be less than based on the color of my skin rather than my character. In Paris, it was different. I didn’t feel judged based on my skin, but rather on my nationality and my inability to communicate intelligently. In Paris, I was another American, come to France, that didn’t speak the language. I was recently reading an essay called “Stranger in the Village” by James Baldwin in which he talks about the commonalities and differences between the Negro in America versus Europe during the 1950s. At the time of his writing, Baldwin was spending time in an all-white village in Switzerland called Leukerbad. Baldwin shares the experience of being the first black man that the villagers had seen, an anomaly, a stranger. He spoke of being viewed as less than. A common feeling Baldwin highlighted between America and Europe. As I tried to process Baldwin’s thoughts, it brought to mind my family’s trip to Paris. To a certain degree we were treated as less than. Yet, it wasn’t based on the color of our skin, rather on our nationality and our lack of the ability to speak the language. Over the last few weeks, I have been exploring a lot of world literature, reading various pieces that explore the idea of foreigners, refugees, exiles, migrants, etc. As I read, I try to identify with the writer. One writer that reflects on Baldwin’s time in Leukerbad visits the same village to walk the path that Baldwin traveled. The writer, Teju Cole, a black man shares his experience more than 60 years after Baldwin’s in an essay called “Black Body: Rereading James Baldwin’s “Stranger in the Village”. Cole compares his experience in 2014 to Baldwin’s experience in 1953. At one point Cole relays an encounter Baldwin had being the first black man that the villagers had seen. The children would shout “Neger! Neger!” as Baldwin passed along the streets of Leukerbad. Cole muses on this reasoning that while the children or grandchildren of those kids Baldwin encountered might share the xenophobia of their parents/grandparents, they were now likely more familiar with Blacks and Black culture some 60 years later in the age of Drake, Beyoncé and Meek Mill among others. I mention Cole and Baldwin’s experience to say that I know I was not the first Black woman the Parisians had seen. That was not the barrier between us. The barrier or border that separated us was the fact that I was American. An American that did not speak French. This is what made my family and I foreigners. In my readings, I came across a statement from the book “Strangers to Ourselves” by Julia Kristeva. In the book, Kristeva talks about France and how if nowhere else, one feels one’s foreignness in France. Kristeva writes, “Nowhere is one more a foreigner than in France. Having neither the tolerance of Anglo-American Protestants, nor the absorbant ease of Latin Americans, nor the rejecting as well as the assimilating curiosity of the Germans or Slavs, the French set a compact social texture and an unbeatable national pride against foreigners.” I get that. I feel that. In Paris, it was definitely not my color that elicited the looks of curiosity possibly even disdain. It was that we were not French. We were Americans. Foreigners. And we had come to their country and didn’t event speak the language.

Hard Rock Cafe

Before our arrival in Paris, my brother had decided he wanted to visit the Hard Rock Cafe. So, after we received our instructions and warnings to be back at the bus prior to departure, we took off. We actually went to Paris to go to the Hard Rock Cafe. A distinctly American experience in a foreign country.

Embarrassingly enough, we spent all of our time trying to navigate the streets of Paris to the Hard Rock Cafe. None of us spoke a lick of French. My sister knew a little German and could ask if the Parisians passing us by spoke either German or English. We had a map that we tried to follow. It was frustrating and hilarious all at the same time. Each time we stopped someone; they would look at us as if we were foreigners. And we were.

As Julia Kristeva writes of the foreigner, there is a consciousness of difference between the foreigner and native. The fact that we could not speak French, didn’t know the city and were essentially lost aroused a consciousness of my difference from the people we passed on the streets. We were so out of place unable to communicate in French.

My sister had suggested that we ask the young people we passed on the streets. She reasoned that as part of their school curriculum, they likely had taken English. It didn’t work. Next, she suggested we go to the Disney store to ask the store workers how to find the Hard Rock. She again reasoned that the Disney staff likely had some familiarity with English dealing with tourists all day.

It was a great idea. However, the young worker we approached, looked at us and shrugged indicating that he could not help us. Thankfully a nice older French woman, a customer, in the Disney store offered to direct us. She helped us even though we were clearly foreigners. Strangers really who didn’t speak her language.

Foreigners

In Paris, I experienced the feeling of being a foreigner. If you asked me what it was like, all I could say is strange. It was awesome seeing the Eifel Tower, the Louvre, walking the streets in such an iconic city. But, being a foreigner in a foreign land is strange. Without being able to clearly communicate, you remain on the outside looking into an experience. What's worse, those on the inside are looking out at you as if you came from another world. There is a barrier between you.

Kristeva brought up an argument in her writing in reference to foreigners in France that I totally agree with. “Their [the foreigner’s] awkward use of the French language discredits them utterly – consciously or not in the eyes of the natives, who identify more than other countries with their beloved, polished speech.” We didn't even have an awkward use of the language. We had no use of the language discrediting us in the eyes of most of the citizens we stopped on the streets.

The kind French woman from the Disney store who helped us set aside any positive or negative feelings towards foreigners to extend a helping hand. We thanked her profusely recognizing her generosity of spirit. I learned a lot from her example. Before my experience on the streets of Paris, I always considered myself a helpful person. Now, I go out of my way to be helpful when I see someone who is clearly lost or having problems communicating.

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