An African American woman exiled in Paris

AT HOME ABROAD
An African American
Woman Chooses
Exile in Paris
By Nzingha Clarke

Perhaps it's the food that spoils me the most: the croissants with the buttery scent that wafts through the narrow cobblestoned streets; a fresh citron pressé leisurely sipped at a beaux-arts café, triple-crème cheeses whose architectural delicacy surpasses anything in the American dairy case. This sparkling city also amazes me with its sheer beauty, as when daylight fades into dusk's indigo glow and I happen to be driving by the Eiffel Tower at the very moment that it is illuminated by footlights. I love stumbling around in a new language and the quick, efficient way the shopkeepers address me as Madame. But perhaps the best thing about living in Paris is that it is not, in fact, my home.

I left America almost 10 years ago, following in the footsteps of the thousands of African-Americans - James Baldwin and Josephine Baker among them - who since the 1920s have traveled to Europe in search of artistic and spiritual freedom. Like them, I made a new life for myself on the European continent because, as a black American woman, I'd grown tired of the limited vision of myself I saw reflected in my countrymen's eyes. It wore me down and, I felt, affected what I could accomplish in the world. So I packed my fatigue and frustration and arrived here, in the Old World, to begin a new life.

When I first set foot on these far shores, I had no idea how addicted to the freedom of living outside my culture I would become. In America my race is my most salient characteristic. When I leave America, race is almost the least interesting thing about me. My friends view me as l'américaine, a curiosity more on account of my love of rock climbing and my penchant for dangly earrings than the color of my skin.

Now I lead a very Parisian life, and these days that means a multicultural one. Leaving my apartment in the 20th arrondissement, I share the street with North African lawyers, young French Web designers, Asian shopkeepers, Caribbean hip-hop artists, neighborhood men walking to the mosque. I enjoy long afternoons writing in cafés or talking with friends - the Persian artist, the Dutch veterinarian, the Indian philosophy student - who have become my alternate family, the men and women I turn to for companionship and sympathy. Though many of us share other languages, we communicate here in French. It is a choice that reflects the deliberateness of our exile.

But as an expatriate, I am constantly made aware that I am, so to speak, neither fish nor fowl. As a black woman I am not included in the inelegant stereotype of the Ugly American, but I'm certainly not taken for European. Even as I studiously pay attention to the nuances of my adopted countrymen, I am reminded that I am not one of them. When I mention to my friend Martine that I don't care for the music of French pop hero Serge Gainsbourg, her eyes widen abruptly: "How is that possible?!" she chides as though it were a capital crime. "Comme c'est bizarre!"

I don't claim that France is better or more evolved than America. It's still hard to find the face of a person of color on television. Police, as they do in America, single out and harass young men of color on the metro, and African and Caribbean friends tell me that it's difficult to get promoted at work. I might have to flee farther than Europe to escape the worst of what drove me here. But as I observe another culture battling its legacy of colonialism, I'm exempted from active duty, because it isn't my struggle. This society's ills don't belong to me.

Some expatriates choose to re-invent themselves, constructing fabulous alter egos they never could have assumed at home. One takes a stagy name; another rents a garret in which to write all day. I am not as ambitious as all that; I'm here for the peace. With the luxury of time and the space to see myself, I become more self-conscious in the best of ways. The freedom I feel here actually makes me quieter. It is easier to take myself seriously when I am not wasting my time having to prove the value of my existence.

Of course, I suppose the sheer difference of another land is part of its enchantment. Having come from a country where I am considered exotic by some, it's my turn to be entranced by the exoticism of a new locale. Every day the sights and smells offer an opportunity to learn new customs, a new way of looking at the world.

Occasionally I get tired of expressing myself in a foreign tongue. On visits to America, being able to speak my own language often feels like breathing fresh air. So perhaps one day I will leave my Parisian existence and return home for good. But in the meantime, I secretly wonder why more young people aren't packing their bags!