Hungry Woman in Paris

by Josefina López

  When I was a young writer learning to put sentences together I always fantasized about being a starving writer in Paris. Paris is wonderful when you can share it with someone you love, but it’s torture when you’re alone and suicidal and see couples walking around making out like they’ve found their happy ending and women in wedding dresses strutting around as if they own Paris and are the only ones who know romance.

  I used to think New Yorkers were rude, and then I moved to Paris. Now I like New Yorkers. Even the pigeons in Paris have attitudes. I’m pissed and I’m walking and the pigeons don’t fly out of my way like regular pigeons. New York City pigeons step away, but the Parisian pigeons look at you like they’re telling you, “You move. You’re the tourist. I live here!” The Parisians hate tourists, but after putting up with Parisians for almost seven months I decided that the tourists were the best thing about Paris. Tourists are usually happy and moved to joy or tears at all the beauty that surrounds them. Parisians who are so used to beauty become ugly and jaded; nothing impresses them anymore.

  As much as I wanted to avoid taking a French class again, I broke down and signed up for one. The three-week intensive course was guaranteed to get me beyond the “tourist level.” So I paid the precious money I was earning posing nude and walking dogs and teaching old Frenchmen English, and thought this would be the best way to finally learn French.

  Surprisingly, I was the only American in my section. There were a few Mexican students in their early twenties, but they hardly showed up to class. They had a reputation of being the rich kids from the Mexico City bourgeoisie who only came to Paris to party. They had to sign up for classes to keep their parents off their backs, but they cared more about dancing the night away at the clubs at Bastille and on the Champs-Élysées than learning French.

  For the first few days we worked on the present tense and I could understand a lot of it because I spoke Spanish. The more French I learned, the better my Spanish got. I learned to introduce myself and tried to explain my life’s dilemma, but no one understood me, or my French. We were not allowed to speak anything other than French, so the memories of being a child all came back to me. I remembered learning English by watching TV, so I tried watching French TV, but I found it was mostly dubbed bad American shows that I wouldn’t watch in English.

  One day in class I made a comment about the sexism of the Romance languages and asked all sorts of questions about the status of Frenchwomen. The teacher, being a Frenchwoman herself, defended their social system; she felt that Frenchwomen were not like American women in the sense that they didn’t want to be men; rather they wanted to be friends with men. She also added that France had better child-care services and protection for women than the United States did. I tried explaining the feminist movement in my horrible French, but I felt like a two-year-old toddler who kept getting water instead of milk. The teacher said that she understood me, but that my thoughts were considered “feminist” in France. At first I was very happy when she said I was a feminist, but I quickly learned that being called a feminist in France is not necessarily a good thing. You see, Frenchwomen claim that they don’t want to fight with men, they want to get along with men, and that they love being seduced. Men are supposed to seduce, women are supposed to keep themselves beautiful and open to men’s advances. Yes, women are equal, but they are also different. They don’t want to be men. They see themselves as women and still have all the rights, like government-funded child care and maternity leave and the other great stuff feminists have fought for in the United States but haven’t been fully achieved there.

  During one of the exercises I tried explaining what it was like to be an American of Mexican ancestry. The students listened, but very few people could understand what it was like to be a hybrid person, living in two worlds. All the students described their countries of origin, and then we had the opportunity to bring up the stereotypes of each country. Of course, everyone complained about the United States and all the horrible things about the government. Even I added a few things that no one else had brought up. When it came time for each student to defend their country and shatter the stereotypes, I found myself really caring about the United States. I agreed with what everyone said, but I countered that the kind of life I got to live in the States was one that couldn’t have happened in any other country. I explained to them about the American dream and what that meant to people like me. I shared how I came from a poor country that offered very little opportunity, and how my parents had had no choice but to leave the country they loved and bring me to the United States. No, I was not welcome, but I found a refuge that eventually became a home.

  I explained to the mostly middle- and upper-middle-class students that women like me were supposed to have five kids and be chained down to poverty by their fertility, but that I’d been able to get the opportunities that had allowed me to educate myself. My education had eventually led to a career as journalist, which had allowed me to meet all sorts of fascinating people and write stories that tried to celebrate diversity and the contributions of Latinos to the United States. I challenged them, asking if someone like me could have had the same opportunities in their countries. An English guy said he thought it was possible in England, but no one else said anything. I continued telling them about how all the Americans I knew had voted against the war and George W. Bush.

  “As bad as you think we are, you have to believe me that there are so many decent Americans who fought and stood up and protested and yelled and were heartbroken when the war began. We feel betrayed,” I said. At that moment God had given me enough French words to speak from my heart at what felt like a United Nations tribunal.

  At the end of class I went to the Seine and sat on a bench. I fed the pigeons and thought about all the useless protests I’d attended and all the things I’d done and… it was just useless. I’d become a journalist because I’d always wanted to get to the truth. I’d been interested in truth ever since I can remember my parents being cheated on their rent or being taken advantage of because they couldn’t speak English. I’d wanted truth so badly because as poor immigrants all we were fed were lies about what a burden we were to the United States and how insignificant our contribution was.

  The truth was that I didn’t know what to feel; I didn’t want to feel anything. It hurt too much to feel the losses. I’d been in Paris almost seven months now and, because I was so lonely, losing Henry hurt like hell. I couldn’t believe Henry could be so cold to me, especially when he’d said he cared. I wondered what Henry was doing that minute. I wanted to think of a reason or an excuse to call him and get him to admit he really did care, but like a big ole idiot he had a fear of intimacy, like a typical male. “God, I’m so lonely and desperate for company that I want to turn a meaningless sexcapade with Henry into a relationship. Please send me a friend,” I prayed.

  CHAPTER 13

  Déjà Vu Again

  I arrived at the immigration center close to the Bastille and showed my letter to a guard. He told me to take the elevator to the fourth floor. When I arrived on the fourth floor it was already full with immigrants from Africa, also trying to get their carte de séjour. Many women wore colorful traditional dresses and had brought their children with them. We watched a video that welcomed us to France and explained our rights. The French was spoken slowly and clearly so that even I understood most of it. An energetic Algerian-French woman wearing a casual suit welcomed us and explained that we were going to be given a language exam and a medical exam. We were also expected to take a civics class that lasted an entire day. We could postpone it for another day or do it right after the medical exam.

  I forced myself to speak French and asked to get the civics class out of the way. I was escorted to a room where I was asked in French to talk about myself and I couldn’t really do it. The officer interviewing me was about to take notes and mark my application when I spoke up and said I was a journalist. I spoke in the present tense because the past tense is a bitch. I began t
o talk about how much I loved France and how I was studying cuisine and wanted to open a restaurant to share French culture—my prerehearsed packaged speech. He smiled and said my French was at a good level and he would give me the certificate necessary to get the carte de séjour. I smiled and gave a sigh of relief when I got out of his office.

  As I walked down the hallway I remembered my English conversation with the American INS officer to prove I could speak English well enough to gain U.S. citizenship. He dictated a few sentences to me and I wrote them down. He said, “America is a democracy that guarantees freedom to all its citizens.” I thought about the current state of the nation and the ongoing war that had nothing to do with democracy, and the memory made me want to cry. The second time I felt that way was when the “Terminator” got elected as governor of California, and the third time was when “W” got reelected. It felt strange to be an immigrant all over again, searching for an identity and a country to call my own. I felt so lost I just wanted to run into my mother’s arms, but I hadn’t spoken to her in months. If I ran back to my mother she would eat me up and try to shape my life as if I were a gingerbread woman or a pan dulce.

  I waited about fifteen minutes before I was called in for my medical checkup. A nurse examined my eyes and my mouth. Thank God no one looked in my hair for lice like they did when I was going through my checkup to become a U.S. resident. I returned to the waiting room and sat next to a poster warning immigrants that clitoridectomy was illegal and considered a crime in France. Meanwhile a Muslim man argued with an immigration representative about having the right to be present while his wife’s breasts were being examined and she was getting her chest X-ray. They informed him that his wife was supposed to be examined without him present. He found it unacceptable and refused to let it happen. They told him he could refuse to let her do it, but that meant she would forfeit her residency and be deported back to Algeria. His wife, hidden behind her veil, kept her eyes to the floor as though she was ashamed of herself for putting her husband through this indignity.

  It’s funny that my French sucked but I had managed to make out the situation. Shame was the same in any language. My name was called and I was escorted to a very attractive doctor’s office. The doctor told me to take off my blouse—none of the American protocols where they give you your space and a paper gown to hide behind. I hate gynecological and breast exams, but I especially hate them when the doctors doing the examinations are hotties. There should be a rule against it. He made me stretch my arms out and held my breasts as if weighing them. I did everything so my nipples wouldn’t get hard. I remembered being seven and covering my tiny nipples in front of a doctor in his fifties who was examining four of my sisters and me when my parents were applying for legal residency for us. Years may have passed, but I still felt the need to hide myself.

  Next the doctor made me stand in front of an X-ray machine and hold my arms to the side, as if on a cross. He was satisfied that I was healthy and signed the certificate necessary for my carte de séjour. I left his office and saw the Muslim woman going in by herself. I wondered how she would remember her experience. Would she be traumatized by the doctor’s touch or would she recall this moment as the one time a man besides her husband gave her breasts pleasure? None of my business, I told myself and went to the waiting room. I was given my chest X-rays and allowed to go in the civics room.

  A young, energetic Frenchwoman welcomed us and told us to help ourselves to refreshments and cookies. Several African, Algerian, and Arab men, along with an African woman, a Brazilian, and a few Filipina women, sat around the classroom.

  The French administrator lectured us about the history of France and about its laws with a PowerPoint presentation. I understood a lot of it, but I pretended to understand everything so she would give me that damn carte de séjour. I was fed up with all the hoops I had to jump through and wanted the class to be over. At the end of her presentation she asked for questions.

  “There is no equality in France,” an African man stated. He didn’t have a question so much as a heartfelt opinion.

  “In the eyes of the law everyone who is a citizen or a resident is considered French,” she tried to explain. An Algerian man practically laughed in her face.

  “I have family members who have been here in France for three generations and they still get discriminated against!” he shot at her. I wanted to tell him, “Try being Mexican-American, born in the U.S. before it was the U.S., and being told you should go back to your country.” But thank God I didn’t speak French well enough to get in the middle of it. The discussion got so heated that everyone was speaking too fast for me to follow all the details. By the resentment in their voices I could tell what they were saying. They were saying exactly what Latino immigrants and African-Americans living in the urban jungle say in the United States. How come if I am an American I am always treated like I am a foreigner/thug/criminal, and so on—not given an opportunity, discriminated against, on and on… Just substitute France for the United States and substitute Arabs for Latino immigrants.

  “Why is it that when a qualified and educated Arab man applies for a job he doesn’t get a call for an interview? How come you have to include a photograph when you apply for a job? It’s because they want to make sure they don’t hire an African man or an Arab for the job. So there is no equality!” exclaimed the feisty Algerian man with bravado. The young and optimistic representative of France defended her country and talked about the measures to fight discrimination, and the organizations in France set up to investigate discrimination cases. For every one thing she defended, they came to her from all sides attacking la France. I could sympathize with them, but I felt sorry for her for being punished for the evils of la France. They hated France so much because, for a lot of them, this was their only option; as bad as la France was, their countries were too corrupt or economically challenged to even discuss civil rights.

  When the Battle for Algiers was over in the civics classroom, I was glad to leave with my final certificate. I handed all three certificates in, and at last a real carte de séjour was mine. I could legally stay in France for a year. No need for my backup plan: marrying a French guy to get citizenship right away. Besides, I’d found out while I was in the waiting room that it takes four years of marriage to a French citizen before you can qualify for citizenship. I laughed. I couldn’t believe that it was harder to become a French citizen than an American citizen. Millions of people want to be American citizens, many more than French citizens, but it was harder to become a French citizen. Not even being born in France guaranteed you French citizenship, as it does in the United States. My neighbor, Marina, gave birth to her daughter in Paris, but her daughter has to turn eighteen before she can become legally recognized.

  I studied my carte de séjour and was happy to be out of the shadows. I was happy to be legal, but this moment didn’t compare to finally getting my green card. When it was handed to me I practically cried. I remember having to use a fake Social Security card for many years so I could get work, and how my heart would pound when my employer examined it closely. I remembered all the times I walked around like a shadow or a stain in downtown Los Angeles, hoping this would not be the day the raid would happen at the department store I worked at, despite all the rumors.

  I left the immigration center with my brand-new carte de séjour and thought to myself that at last I was almost French. Now I had three identities, Mexican, American, and French, but I was still as lost as ever, with not a clue about what to do with my life or who I really was.

  CHAPTER 14

  Not Without My Bag!

  I was passing by the Louis Vuitton store on the Champs-Élysées when a Japanese woman approached me and complimented me on my black leather bag.

  “I love it,” I told her. My purse had become more than an object to carry and store my things: it was a keeper of my secrets and dreams, a companion on my journey to my dark side.

  “Are you an American?” she asked me. I wo
ndered how she knew, but by her American-accented English I figured she had studied in the United States.

  “Yes,” I answered her.

  “Would you be interested in making some money?”

  “It depends on what you want me to do,” I said cautiously. The way she was eyeing me made me a little suspicious.

  “I just need you to go in and buy some bags for me,” she explained.

  “You can’t buy them yourself?”

  “No. They don’t like selling a lot of merchandise to Asian women,” she explained. “They limit how much we can buy, more than the average tourist.” She offered to pay me a hundred euros if I bought all the merchandise on the list.

  “Is this illegal?” I had to ask.

  “Yes. Everyone is allowed to buy one of each item, but no repetition,” she elaborated to diminish my suspicions. I didn’t think it was fair that Asian women were being discriminated against like this, and I desperately needed money, so I agreed to help her.

  “Thank you. My name is Hiromi,” she said, introducing herself.

  I introduced myself too: “My name is Canela.”

  Outside the store she told me what to say to the saleswomen so they wouldn’t hassle me. She handed me a stack of euros and I entered the store and quickly made my purchases, collecting them at the main counter without any trouble, while my new Japanese friend waited patiently for me around the corner. I told her everything had gone smoothly and they’d been very nice.

  “They are never nice to me,” she said. She turned to me, thanked me, and handed me a hundred euros.

  “Why don’t they like selling to Asian women?” I asked.