Edna’s Life-A satire in the making

I have arrived to the place that I call Hell. The humidity is high. The temperature is scathing. The people are extremely rude. I have left European civility for economic angst. I am in Miami, the city of magic. Yet, there is nothing magical about this place. Yesterday, I went to the beach with Dan. We sat on lawn chairs facing the pristine Atlantic Ocean. We gazed into the turquoise-blue water and sipped on Presidente beer. I wore my white bikini. Dan wore his red shorts. We resembled young professional black tourists. The beach for us, was a haven from the work that I would have to do and the vacation that he just began. La plage was heaven. La plage was an escape from the magic city. Today, I began work. Today is the last day of freedom for the next 6 weeks.

I had the wonderful opportunity to attend a conference on black France. This conference featured United Statesian and French scholars, writers, arists, and musicians discussing black presence in France. This conference is similar to the Black Conference in the 60s, attended by Cesaire, Senghor, and others. The panelists posed questions about black identity, race, racism, and French culture. I was given context about the historical relationship between race and racism.

Last night, I danced. I dance at a West African club near St. Eglise Pigalin. Most of the people were from the Ivory Coast. My colleagues and I traveled at midnight through the dark streets of Paris to this north Parisian neighborhood. The streets were filled with such ethnic cuisines as Kebab stands and friend chicken joints. When my party walked into the club, we stood out. Ther were six women, one man. The male was both an informant and security guard. He gave us access to a community that we would not ordinarily have access to. The club we entered is not featured in Parisian tourist guidebooks. Instead, it is the local hangout of the West African migrants. Renee and I danced at this club, among a sea of black faces. At first I danced alone in my section of the dance floor. Once more people started arriving at 2:00am, the men began to approach us. They were aggressive and glided their bodies against mine. They moved subletly, trying not to overpower themselves or the music. A slow wind. A soft embrace. The dance was seductive. Perhaps a courtship or a mating call. I prefered to dance alone. Although I liked to adminre the black body form, I did not want to be possess by it. So I danced, by myself with silly American moves.

I was one of the darkest women in my group. So of course, people presumed I was West African. They sa my black face and wide nose and thought, Wow-this girl is one of us. One male took me downstairs and attempted to court me. I told him I dind’t speak French. Then, in borken English, he wanted to know about my origins. When I asked hima about his origins, the bartender said he was from Paris. This statement was made to assert that Africans are Parisians. That they belong in the social space and incorporate French and Parisian identity. So I stopped myself from exploring more and accepted that answer. Blacks, or people of “foreign” origins, are French.

Black beauty, in my mind, was contradictory. Today, I traveled through the Louvre, with my group in search of European potrayals of blacks in 16th-18th century paintings. There was one that struck my eye. The “Portrait d’une femme noire”. This dark black woman wore a white dress and a white head wrap. Her dress hung over her shoulder, exposing her breast. She sat, facing the artist with a gaze as incomprehensible as the Mona Lisa. La femme noire is the only portrait of the black woman in the Louvre. She stands alone in a room of white portraits. She stands alone in the far right corner of the room. Your best view is from the right side, away from the wall that blocks her. Her presence in the Louvre, a sea of European art is juxtaposed to European aesthetics. Her difference represents the contradiction I spoke of before, black beauty. In general, black were represented as servents, nurses, and disabled figures. La femme noire is seductive because she opposes the ideas that black is evil, stupid, uncompossed, or violent. She defies stereotypes by assimilating to European dress. She has been labeled the black Venus. Several people in the group said that I looked similar to her. Does that mean that I, like the femme noire, am beautiful. That in itself is strange.

I have been socialized by the United States, Haitians, and white domination, to think of myself as ugly. My family confirms this by calling me a pig. My cousin questions my beauty by comparing me to an African slave. I have internalized white aesthetics so greatly that I can not see beauty in blackness. Negritude, as Cesaire speaks of, is absent from my social psyche. Although I would like to assert black empowerment and black beauty, I have failed to embrace it mentally. I am a product and of society that attempts to dehumanize me and portary me undesirable.

I am in the Saint Michel region of Paris. Several minutes ago, I made a phone call to an acquaintance, Mr. Smith*. He is a white American from the mid-Western section of the United States. He has resided in Paris for over 20 years. Although we have known each other for five days, we have had 3 separate excursions where we have discussed race, racism, and France. He is 52 and I am 24. He’s older than my parents and older than all of my friends. Yet, his perspective of the world blends two worlds. French culture and American identity.

I have had the ocassion of visiting his apartment, in the Marais, and drinking white wine on his balcony. From his deck, you can see the mercury angel monument in Bastille. Freedom is within his reach. This statue is gold, with a green tubular structure. It shines brightly in the dark.

I speak of Mr. Smith and not my black Paris experience. Yet, in many ways he has shaped my opinion on racism in France. This self-identifying American has traveled through the world, pays taxes in France, and acquired fluency in French. Although he is assimilated to France, he is not considered French. His belonging in this society is rejected because of his historical connection to the United States and Britain. His mannerisms and cultural background produce social exlusion.

Albeit unfair, his social exclusion is not the same as theat of ethnic minorities, Muslims, blacks, and Arabs who face discrimination on a daily basis. He recognized that West Africans, Arabs, and Caribbeans were oppressed by institutionally racism. Yet, he too was a victim of the French national identity. He made me realize that the France, as an institution, has marginalized blacks from attaining power. Power, as Weber says, is the capacity to control others who resist. Indeed, ethnic minorities who resist in this city still find no place in French identity. Their voices are muted, distorted, or rejected. They live in the banlieue. They work as civil servants. Their differences is supported by a perceived inferiority.

French identity creates a violence in the psyche of everyone is the the “other”.

*The name has been changed.

In France, I have discovered that North Africans are often discriminated more so that blacks. My excursions with Monty, a male from Tunisia has led me to believe this. As a theatre actor in France, he finds it difficult to find work or be respected in his field. We met while he was working on a photo exhibition in the Marais. The weather was grey. Very grey. Like a Portland grey. Like a Miamiam, I wore a short skirt. I walked into a photo exhibition with very little clothing. He was the first person I saw as I entered the gallery. He documented the number of people to enter the gallery. While he did this, he asked me if I were cold. In French, I responded that I would deal with it. When he noticed my accent was off, he asked me where I was from. This question led a a series of conversations we would have in both English and French about our origins, presence, and place in society. After he was done with teh gallery, we went to Saint Michel and drank coffee and wine. I had four glasses. He had seven. It was at this point that he described his true expressions about France. (Alcohol is the truth serum.) He commented on the fragility of people of color from being accepted into French culture. As a Tunisian, he would never be considered French. A French youth with “foreign” will be questioned by police and other French people about their origins. Their origins are confined to the Algeria, Tunisia, Senegal. They are never French in the eyes of the laws. So Frenchness, for Monty, is a white, secular, classist category that will never have a place for him.

For the past twenty-four years of my life, my mind has attempted to struggle with four languages: Haitian-Creole, English, Spanish, and French. I wade in a sea of words trying to figure out the best way to describe my thoughts and opinions of the world. I don’t think I have a place in any country, any society, any people. I float in groups trying to figure out who I am. I would like to exterminate racism, capitalism, classism, patriarchy, greed, white supremacy, and poverty, yet I feel that it will not happen in my lifetime.

In the United States, I am perceived as African American. In Haiti, I am perceived as Haitian or black American. In Nicaragua, I am perceived as morena. In Russia, I am called a nigger. In France, I am  perceived to be West African.  The instrument we use to measure our environment, language, alters that environment. When I wirte, photograph, or comment on the world, I am provided my distorted perception on reality. In France, this reality is marked by my experience as a black woman with Western roots. My experience is both privileged and oppressed. I have the freedom to travel, yet my presence in France is dehumanized. I am no longer Edna. Instead, I am the dark girl with an affiliaton to Africa.

Ernest Hemmingway wrote “A Movable feast”, an autobiographical account of Paris. He described
the cafes, La Seine, the Parisian, and art. In this book, he portrayed Paris as an living festival filled with life and culture. Although sixty years, race, and gender separates our experience, I still believe that Hemminway accurately portrayed Paris. In the past week, I have spend an average of 5 hours walking each day. I generally pick an arrodisement, a district, and walk until I find something interesting. Yesterday, I did the longest walk of my life. From Cite Universite (14th district) to Bastille (4th district). On my walk, I saw monuments, cafes, and some tourists. My highlights include the following visits: the Pantheon, Jardin de Luxemborg, Church of St-Severin, Jewish Museum of Art History, Notre Dame, the Latin Quarters, Chatelet, and the Bastille region. Ninety-five percent of my day was spent alone. I believe my connection to the city is better spent when I explore as an individual rather than a group. So for me, the Pantheon was a cerebral experience. I stared at Foucault’s Pendulum for five minutes, dazzled by the size. I saw expansive frescoes with Middle Age influences. I saw tombs commemorating great French people or Francophiles. Perhaps the most most emotional experience of the Pantheon was my walk in the crypt tomb. I decided to walk to the far back of the. Past the long list of French men. Past the Roman Greco head sculptures and I walked to the last wall. That wall read the name of the most influential person of Haitian history. Toussaint L’Ouverture. This revolutionary not only mobilized African slaves, he helped to secure political freedom from France. In the end, he never saw that freedom. In fact, he died in a French prison. The
charge was treason. I was disturbed to discover that L’Ouverture’s name was placed on that wall because it represents one of the contradictions of French culture. Although the French praise
themselves for liberty, equality, and fraternity. In the 1800s they felt that blacks should not be allotted does things. Political freedom, for them, was a privilege of the Western world. Hence, they
suppressed, fought, and killed black slaves that wanted their freedom. They especially wanted to fight against revolutionaries that promoted such agendas. So, although France has listed L’Ouverture as a great person, they were inevidently responsible for his death. Upon my discovery of Paris, I am finding many forms of contradictions. Although members of French colonies were encouraged to come here in the 60s, 70s and beyond, they are currently facing discrimination from the French right (National Front Party). Although diversity is celebrated on a superficial level, ethnic minorities generally live on the outskirts of town (suburbs) and have menial jobs. Upon coffee conversations with people from Togo, Germany, Turkey, Romania, Algeria and France, all have agreed that racism is a problem in France. Yet, all of them offer different solutions. Perhaps I will save that conversation for another e-mail.

For now, I will tell you that this city has been quite beautiful. The people are very friendly. Everyday, I meet at least one new person. They generally like to buy me wine and coffee and offer their perspective on the world. For now, I have to go and learn about Black Paris. I have seen the suburbs and spoken to many ethnic minorities in the city. However, most of them have been men. The men in this city are generally curious about getting to know me. So they use coffee and wine as a means to have political discussions. Yesterday, a Romanian and I spoke for an hour. When he first saw me, he thought I was from Mali. It was later on that he discussed the plethora of black friends and the conditions they live in.

Yesterday, I got lost in the ghetto of Paris. I decided to visit the former African American community in North Paris. In the 1920s, this region was home to Josephine Baker, Bricktop, Richard Wright, and James Baldwin. Musicians, artists, and writers congregated here to create a haven for blacks living in Paris. I envisioned remnants of this African American presence existing in this community. Instead, I saw West African and North African immigrants. Everyone I saw was black or Arab. The store owners, the children, the street walkers. Fruit markets filled la rue d’Cave and the streets were filled with trash and unfinished construction. While I was walking through this neighborhood, I discovered a Haitian store. A Haitian flag hung from the entrance of this grocery store. So I entered the small, overstuffed establishment with glee. I asked, in my native Haitian Creole, if the woman was Haitian. She didn’t respond. Instead, a customer answered the question for her. A male Haitian customer was excited to hear that I was interested in Haitian culture. So I waited around looking for something to buy before I got the courage to speak with her again. Her cold shoulder was contrary to the reception I expected from another Haitian. As she checked the prices of my goods (two carrots, one garlic head, one onion), she asked me about my origins. I told her I was born in the United States and my parents were Haitian. It was at this point that she said, “Oh, that’s why you speak that way”. The implications were that my Haitian Creole and French sounded odd. To her, my accent was not Haitian, it was not French, or African. It was bizarre. After I purchased my goods, I realized it would take a while for her to receive me. As a Haitian living in France, she does not see any connection between herself and I. She cannot see that as blacks with Haitian roots, our struggle is similar. Perhaps the greatest difference between le noir in Paris and le noir in the United States is consciousness. Consciousness for a shared experience among the African diaspora.

I arrived safely to the City of Lights. On my first day, I managed to find a palace, a free historical musuem, get lost in a French suburb (Gentilly), and heavily pursued by a Turkish man. When I first arrived, I got lost (with luggage and all) in Gentilly, a French suburb. I met several ethnic minorities that directed me back to the city.

Once I found myself in central Paris, I decided to settle in the Bastille neighborhood. This neighborhood has multiple ethnic minorities. I’ve seen Asians, West Africans, North Africans, and Middle Eastern folk. When I was sitting at a cafe, one West African male was quite content to see me. He said I looked African. He proceeded to smile and give me a high five after complimenting me on my “African” features.

The historical museum of Paris had artwork from every empire and dynasty. The architecture of the museum was just as complex as France’s five empires, monarchies, and revolutions. Though the artwork was quite bland. It was primarily filled with portraits and such. Last night, I spent two hours at the bar speaking to this Turkish man about politics. He’s a teacher in the 92nd district of France. He has negative opinions of the United States, loves to travel, and meet new people. Near the end of our conversation, he proceeded to ask me if I was single. He was quite forward in grabbing my hand and whispering amourous phrases.

All in all, I Paris is pretty awesome. The food is good, the people have been nice, and the weather is refreshing. My one complaint is how expensive everything is. I plan to restrict my budget shortly.

A dear friend from high school met a prospective student at her college. This student expressed her desire to go to Reed and wanted to speak to a real Reedie. I was e-mailed with many questions and decided to comment on the institution that has shaped my ideological beliefs. Read below for more details.

Indeed, I attended Reed College from August 2002 until May 2006. I graduated with a degree in biology and did many other things in between that period. For me, and many of the people I knew, Reed was a difficult place. In terms of the subject material, Reed tends to focus on the abstract components of each discipline. Rather than focusing on how things can be applied, Reed is theory heavy. The institution makes up for this by having conference style classrooms. Humanities 101, social science courses, art history, etc, are all based on a conference style. The conferences for the natural sciences reviews problem sets and concepts not covered during the lecture. Although I would have hoped that each of these conferences brought me closer to an existential awakening, they did not. Some of the conferences were quite painful. At times, a professor might not lead a good discussion. Other times, there were extreme personalities sitting side by side (taciturn people and the aggressive folk). The Reed classroom differs from most institutions in that the students ultimately determine how productive and intellectual the conversation is going to be. Rather than being lectured, we are guided through a discussion. In addition, the classes were generally small, i.e., 10-15 students. Science lectures and core courses were much larger. My smallest class had 5 people and my largest class had 90. Size is not more important than the quality of the course. Yet, size often determines whether an individual feels comfortable providing their input during the discussion.

Reed students are quite eccentric. My lifelong friends are Reed alumni. As of now, the friends who graduated have found themselves doing a Fulbright in New Zealand, the Peace Corps in Lesotho, JET
Program in Japan, and a PhD program at University of Washington. There are also others who have traveled through Latin America, worked for political campaigns, and revolutionized pie making. Reed students tend to be cerebral and awkward at times. They question the world around them and attempt to change it through revolutions. While I was at Reed, people were not always the friendliest. The weather (grey and rainy), the schoolwork, and the campus structure prevented people from socializing excessively. The social culture ranged from riding small pink bikes, participating in noise parades, and singing rugby songs. The library was the social hotbed at Reed. Rather than compete with other students, people often competed with themselves. My ex-boyfriend once said, “Reed is a place where smart people come to feel stupid.” Yet, I found that once I left, I was prepared fight for social justice
and intellectualism. As of now, I am doing an AmeriCorps program in Miami and working as a research assistant with a research Institute. In the fall, I will begin graduate school at Columbia University.

Reed is a dynamic place. So the Reed that I attended will be quite distinct from the Reed that you may attend. The one motto that has remained in our seal and in the hearts of many is: atheism, communism, and free love. Although controversial in the United States, this motto reveals how Reed College attempts to go against the grain of the majority. Reed College is not attempting to produce corporate investment bankers. Instead, it produces professors, social activists, and farmers. (If I had not gotten accepted to graduate school, I would have become an unsuccessful farmer in rural France.)

I have a lot of information about particular events, e.g., Renn Fayre, Reed Arts Week, movie life, but I can hold off until later. If you have any other questions, do not hesitate to ask.

So you may be wondering, this girl has not been keeping up with her blog. She runs around Miami and forgets to comment about her fascinating life. In the past week, multiple events have affected my financial and physical welfare. First, I must start off by reminding you about a tooth problem that I had months ago. My penultimate, upper right molar began rotting several months ago. Like any low income person I was upset by the decay, but then proceeded to ignore eating on that portion of my mouth. I did nothing about it until recently. Last Sunday, I decided to eat a Cliff Energy Bar. My favorite bar is Banana Nut Bread. As I sat in my room listening to the shout match from my neighbors, the roosters in my backward, and the screaming toddler across the street I became quite disturbed by the crunch of my rotting tooth. The tooth crack and a portion of it is dangling in my mouth. The next day, I proceeded to go to Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami’s public hospital. The hospital sees people irrespective of their ability to pay. In addition, they provide low cost payment plans for individuals without insurance. On Monday, I went to the dental facility but their computers were down. On Tuesday, I went but the x-ray machine was not working. By that point, I was frustrated. When I told the supervisor that my tooth was cracked and prevented me from eating, she allowed me to see the dentist. The dentist was worried when she saw me. Bacterial infection was amist. In the end, my tooth problem was never resolved. They could not remove my tooth until they received an x-ray of my sinuses. All they could do was prescribe me antibiotics. Tomorrow, that cracked baby will be gone and I will live the rest of my life without it.

On another note, these are some quick facts about me.

1. My romantic life is awful. I think I should focus on playing the trumpet.

2. My Haitian countrymen are starving.

3. I owe my insurance company $4,000 for an accident from 4 months ago.

4. I leave for France in 2 weeks, there is a chance I will not come back.

5. I participated in May Day last week and discovered that I still have socialist street cred.

6. My computer is still dead and I really want a new one.

7. I am learning to get along with my family.

Today, I was listening to “This American Life”, the talk show hosted by Ira Glass. I have a fondness for this National Public Radio program because a gain an alternative perspective on United Statesian culture. Today’s episode was entitled “Leaving the Fold”. I discovered that Jerry Springer, the talk show host, was born exactly 40 years before I was, the son of Jewish people escaping Nazi Germany. He ran for multiple political offices in Cincinnati and won several of these competitive races. Either way, he went from crusader of justice to tabloid television host. His transition is quite remarkable considering his access to people, the legal system, and economic security.

On another note, I went snorkeling at the John Penneykemp State Park in the Keys with some friends. We snorkeled in the underwater park and discovered beautiful coral reefs, barracudas, and seagrass. I still feel like I am floating and gliding through the great Atlantic Ocean. We decided to camp at a site off the water. The campsite was abandoned and unkept. There was a pit for a bon fire and lots of wood available. The four of us sat around the fire discussing our love lives, political lives, and social lives. I didn’t have much to say. I was sullen that evening. Part of it had to deal with the subject matter. I developed some anxieties I had in college. I often feel uncomfortable around certain hippies. Although I like the company of progressive folk, I am hesitant to discuss my political views with privileged hippies. I never quite understand why they have an interest in helping the poor, dejected, or minority. Sometimes, I feel like their feelings are unjustified and a reflection of a trend in their inner circle. In addition, I find that although one may claim to have an open mind, racist, sexist and classist opinions still persist. These individual’s concept of beauty are slanted and they often belong to exclusive activist groups. I often feel out of place in hippie circles because I don’t fit the mold. I am working class, minority, and female. My orientation is questionable and my social capital is dismal. I am often emotionally detached and I don’t always have a smile on my face. I am not always combative when I speak to people with different opinions and I’ve never been arrested for civil disobedience. In the eyes of a radical anarchist, I am a poser. I have not contributed to the revolution, and I am heading on the path of selling out. But I don’t think I will sell out. My parent’s will continue to live in squalor. Half of my relatives will be contribute to the “immigrant problem”. My cousins, uncles, and grandparents will deal with food shortages in their native country. I will strengthen my hatred for men, monogamy, and children. Ultimately, I will find it hard to sell out. You can take the girl out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of the girl.

So, I was asked out on Sunday night by a wonderful gentleman. After awkwardly making plans two hours ago, we decided to go to an Ethopian restaurant. Because he does not have a car, I decided to pick him up with my uncle’s car. Well, my uncle decided to use his car to visit a sick relative. So I am sitting at home and carless. Normally, I would call and indicate that I was running late. I stupidly forgot my phone in my friend’s car. So I have no way of communicating with date boy. So I sit here in my room, updating my blog. Nothing exciting, just waiting. I hope that he does not get too mad with me. My life is totally falling apart.

As you may have read last week, I fell off of my bicycle. Blood splattered from my open wounds and have formed a four scabs at all four elbow and knee joints. To my dismay, my knees ache. Any touch, bump, and rub causes immediate pain. When most people feel pain, they do one of three things: go to the doctor, take painkillers, or do nothing. I am doing the latter. I am living up to my bad a** rugby days and enduring the pain.

After several people advised me to do otherwise, I went to the low-income clinic in my neighborhood. They asked for my IRS income taxes, social security card, light bill, etc. Basically, they wanted me to give them their soul before I could be seen by a physician. After carefully observing my financial history, I was informed that my income was too high to warrant low cost care. Before I could even be seen, they request $80. I only had $10 with me. The receptionist laughed at me. So she and I got into a peaceful debate about the affordability of healthcare in the United States. I requested information about a free clinic. She was not aware of any in Miami. Well, I will be bartering for healthcare…