Je
bois un bol de café au lait bien chaud (est-ce qu’un café au lait ever really
hot?) and je pense de la question that has confronted me since my arrival in
Paris: “Vous êtes quoi?” What are you? I know that part of what
prompts this question is apparently my accent when I speak French. I take pride in trying to master the
sound if not the fluency of native French speakers, so my pride is a little bit
wounded to think that I am revealing myself to be foreign when I talk. But as
one woman told me in a small boutique today where I went to buy a scarf, the
ultimate fashion accessory here, (scarves are, mercifully, often inexpensive
yet they add a real air of the Parisienne to every outfit and of the Parisien
as well; many men of all ages are artfully slinging scarves around their necks
in this chilly, wet weather) it’s not how I speak. “C’est votre couleur de peau.” There, she said it. It’s my skin color. She pauses
patiently as she unrolls the now familiar list: Vous êtes Martiniquaise?
Vous êtes Guadeloupéenne? (that’s what she says she is—I took her
for Cuban or Venezuelan from her looks and the sound of the Cuban music playing
in the background of the store). Vous êtes mulâtresse?
WHAT did she just call me, snap?
I
have long been familiar with how people in many other parts of the world deal more
frankly with skin color than United Statesians. Here in Paris, some people seem
to take discussions of national or racial heritage as an early to medium-stage intimate
pleasantry (the conversation usually starts in this direction after we have had
several minutes of chatting to establish a foundation for such inquiries, such
as with my apartment building concierge when I moved in). I have been especially surprised at being
asked if I am a mulâtresse (female mulatto.) I thought that word went out around
1920, along with Negress (my spell-checker can’t even handle the latter word
and it is in English, lol!) I have to set about figuring out just how widely mulâtresse is used
here. Maybe it is an in-group thing. All of these conversations have occurred
with other women of color, such as when I asked a prosperous looking (avec un véritable sac de Chanel;
even in the semi-darkness I can tell that those two c’s seem to be lining up just
the right way) tan-colored woman the other night for directions to La Nation
metro stop. I was on about my fourth walk around a rond-point and I still
couldn’t figure out what direction to go in. We were almost two miles away and
after she told me the way she offered to walk with me part of the route as she
was going in that direction also. After a few minutes walking and sharing
chitchat she offered that she was from Mauritius and asked “D’où êtes-vous?” Where are you from? This is different from what are you,
but at its root is the notion that you are not of this place.
The
woman in the boutique today was visibly puzzled when I responded, “Je suis
Americaine, de la Californie” to her inquires. She went on “Mais d’où êtes-vous vraiment? La Martinique, la Jamaïque …” No, I said, mostly just American, “depuis au moins 200 ans” I added. There,
I said it. It is true; I have researched one branch of my mother’s family back
to 1803 in Virginia where my first known female ancestor was born. It dawned on me like a ton of bricks (a
really apt mixed metaphor) that this makes me really pretty American. I didn’t
know how to feel. Proud? No, just amazement, since I don’t usually have casual
national identity conversations in the United States and I have rarely stated
these facts out loud.
The
lady in the boutique sees my Pierre Nora tome peaking out of my obligatory
market sack. I have re-learned, after many years away from Paris, to carry a bag
everywhere in case I have to stop for groceries or some other small item. And I stop a lot, both on account of having
a tiny fridge and in order to buy small amounts in different places to sample
as much as possible. She asks if I am a student. I say “oui.” For I have only recently stopped being a PhD
student and I am here to learn about the intersection of memory and identity
and law—there is no need to expand on my really somewhat complicated
professional identity. For the
moment la couleur de la peau et
un livre suffit à définir une communauté. After all, comme dit Nora, seule
l’histoire confère une identité.
