Yes, I see it all. French doctors. Africa. French Africa. Black diaspora. The French government spokeswoman. Black America. The not-so-inclusive tech world. Black American culture being so pervasive. Alternative black milky way. My ultra white French family who doesn’t ask anything but really wants to.
I am in the middle of the intersection, trust me.
Citizenship becomes such a weird concept once you lived on different continents, through different cultures. All I know and keep witnessing is that y’all think you are “more right” than the others, which bores me to oblivion. It’s the French friend on FB telling me how Americans are selfish while I read about the most selfish shit I’ve ever read about how people behave in the country I was born in. Smart and stupid are everywhere but you have to live an international life for a little bit to understand how true that is. Meanwhile, nationals and locals think they’re “normal”. It’s interesting.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite right in France. Starting with my first name. English name, abandoned at birth. That allowed me to see myself anywhere I wanted, mostly where my name, my skills and my skin made sense. The draw to go see something else was always in me. Even though New is Scary and Scary is annoying.
All I feel about France is being profoundly grateful I grew up there in the ways it happened. I didn’t really get love, but I received care. I knew that was something precious. I longed for more, for what my white friends were getting. A sense of belonging so deep that you never venture into hyper vigilance like I continuously did and keep doing. But I was ok with learning and learning. Doing better. Not giving a fuck about what people did if it didn’t make sense to me. I had access to an infinite, unrestricted source of knowledge (plush home libraries, computers and internet) that helped me define the world as I see it. I valued that and was thankful for it.
I haven’t been back in six years. It’s post-terrorism, middle-of-coronavirus pandemic France. It’s translate-American-jokes-on-Facebook, Starbucks and Postmates-having, global France. It’s different. It’s going to be wild when I cross my parents’ house gate. The country changed and I did too.
I know I wouldn’t have been happy staying in my apartment in Vincennes. I’d have become an alcoholic very quickly, comfortably talking shit and destroying mofos in arguments at the apéro or online. Obnoxious and intelligent, a sizzling combo. I’d probably have had a giant fight with my family, throwing at them all kinds of relationship-ending verbal daggers. Or maybe I would have had taken over my dad’s business, have a wife and kids and right now, I would be like “nah mane” and would sabotage everything, move out of France or not and hurt many, many people. Including myself.
I’m feeling good on my current path, building. I could say that I was French once. And then I can tell a whole bunch of stories while cooking French food. That, probably will never leave me.