As Madame Benz, I was content. I was learning my way around Paris, making friends, and learning about what life was like for a madame in Paris. I was also learning how to live with my life partner and soul mate, and how not to serve him cereal and canned food every night for dinner. Of all my identities thus far, I can safely say that was, and remains the most challenging task (the current gourmet spread of soup from a box, Franprix cheese and baguette is wearing thin on my thinning husband). Yet in the course of my quest for American friends, I was quickly tasked with taking on the American Women Group’s auction catalog, and assuming the role as “Gala Girl” for which I wrote my weekly column.
As Gala Girl, I was a bit of a celeb, if I do say so myself. Initially my identity was kept a secret, but slowly word got out that the bubbly youngster from Philly was writing the borderline rude, overly shallow paragraphs about the upcoming event. Although I was somewhat embarrassed about my ability to conjure up such garble, the ladies of AWG took to it quickly. I am still glowing from being asked to pose for a picture with a member and her husband at the Gala---two of my “fans.” As a result, I will also be serving on the board next year as VP of Communications.
Yet that hat has been removed for now (which was actually a feathered headband), and now I am back to being Miss Miller (now Mrs. Benz). It was a few months back that I saw the notice for the Paris Spelling Bee and emailed the coordinator to see if she needed assistance. My French classes and prior commitments precluded me from attending a meeting until this week. On this Easter weekend’s agenda is picking the final words for the bee list (hopefully before Easter brunch and vino). It felt so good to be at a table surrounded by driven women who love the English language. It also felt good to consulted about my“teaching wisdom” and English expertise. Next week I will be interviewing as an English teacher for some well-to-do families here in Paris. The thought of compliant students is overwhelming.
And just when I thought that I would be hanging out at Mrs. Benz, this morning’s events have let me right back to Gangsta Benz. After crossing the Paris peripherique on foot today, I walked in circles until I hit upon a small, unassuming building on route D7. I was beyond pleased with what awaited me behind the smudged double doors. I had signed up to assist at these Friday lunches upon arrival in Paris, but was told that the facility had been inundated with sewage, so that my help would not be needed until April. Fast-forward to April, and the beginning of what I believe will be my mission here in Paris. Whereas I thought that my ability to assist teens in need would have to wait until I learned French (so as, never), I arrived this morning to be greeted by multiple hellos -- music to my Anglophone ears.
These multi-cultural, upbeat children, 13-18 in age, have a plethora of nationalities, a multitude of differences, but share one commonality: they are orphaned homeless, displaced from their homeland. I met one young man from Nigeria who dreams to be a footballer or electrician (but is afraid it won’t happen because he doesn’t speak French -- which he described as feeling like he "has fire on his tongue"). He believes that the reason the Africans are so poor is their inability to have foresight and their lack of interest in education. His friend who stood there and listened to us chat could not participate because he only speaks Farsi and Pashto, which he told me was the "language of the Taliban." The lovely British woman that runs the lunch told me that their stories are harrowing and unbelievable: hitch-hiking six months to reach Paris, escaping rape and war, leaving families behind for a “better” life. At lunch I sat with three young ladies (with extreme Anglophone names) who were also from Africa. One of them had brought along a Tupperware of pepper sauce to smear on her food, as it reminds her of home. Instead of thinking it odd, I smiled about the tubs of peanut butter we had lined up in our cupboard. We chatted about Rihanna, Easter and their jeans that they had decorated. We also discussed what it feels like to be in a country where you can’t speak the language -- a connection that we all share. I am meeting with the director on Tuesday to discuss how else I can assist, as I am taking this bull by the horns, and not letting it get away. The only way that Gangsta Milla knows how to operate.
No comments:
Post a Comment