I’ve never sought out the American scene here. I felt that if I didn’t hang out with French-speaking people, I’d never learn the language. I was right; I can’t tell you how many “expats” never learn French. Still, from time to time, I interact with Americans.
I know a homeless man here in Paris named Kent. When I first heard his name, I was struck by how non-French it was, more like that of a “preppie” American. A bartender I know told me he was from a rich family; his father was American and his mother Swedish. Due to his drug addiction, they’d broken all contact with him. He had perfect English diction and was very well spoken. He reminded me of the kids I knew from Roland Park in Baltimore.
When I first met him, he was around twenty and very handsome. But now, after about six years, his lifestyle is taking its toll on him. His nose is broken; he has two black eyes and oddly colored blotches all over his arms and forehead. At first, he was just a crackhead, which seemed to keep his weight down. Lately, he has added alcohol to his addictions, so he is now taking on a bloated look, and his ankles are swollen from gout. Still, except for his clothes, he looks like a successful lawyer.
What gets me is that Kent is completely self-absorbed, obviously seeing himself as a superior being even though he occupies one of life’s lowest stations—indeed, perhaps the lowest. Whatever prep school he attended should be proud. He lives literally in the gutter—I often pass him sleeping on the sidewalk—yet he has a sense of entitlement that can provoke envy. As the saying goes, he believes life owes him a living. I think it must be that which keeps him going despite the struggle of his daily life.
When I see him, I usually say hello. There are exceptions. Once, when I saw him walking about with his pants around his ankles and his face bearing an expression of total insanity, I chose to pass unnoticed. The other day, I saw him sitting outside a bar, drinking a beer. He seemed crushed. I went over and, to my surprise, instead of immediately asking me for money, he started to talk. I could see he was lonely and miserable, but, as usual, his self-pity was much in evidence; the world was treating him unfairly.
I noticed his clothes were in tatters. I said I’d bring him some clothes; we arranged with the bartender that I could come the next day and drop them off if Kent wasn’t there. I then gave him a little money to buy something to eat. He told me he loved me and asked if he could hug me. I told him that I loved him as well but couldn’t hug him, and that he shouldn’t take it personally—he was probably carrying parasites, and I couldn’t risk it. He shrugged this off.
I asked him what his pants and shirt sizes were, but he didn’t know. I looked him over and made a mental note of his size. The next day, I went to the clothing store across the street. I bought him pants, a shirt and, because autumn is approaching, two sweaters. I then took them to the bar; he wasn’t there, so I dropped them off.
A week passed, and then I saw him again, lying on the sidewalk. He was dressed as he had been before, in the same rags. I asked him if he had received the bag of clothes I’d brought. He told me the clothes weren’t his style, so he had traded them for a can of beer—and did I have any change?
Once, I saw a young Black female American poet read here in Paris at one of the English language poetry nights. All of her poems concerned race, particularly her not-too-friendly feelings about older white women. Her other omnipresent topic was hair. She had what appeared to be very long add-on braids. After reading a poem about some older white women complimenting her hair in what she felt was a condescending manner, she went into confessional mode and told the following story.
She had met a young mixed-race man around her own age, and they had slept together. Her introduction had specified that his mother was white and his father Black. After they had finished the intimate act, he ran his hand through her hair and said, “Your hair is nappy.” In other words, he was a cruel and insensitive ass. I can’t recall the exact route she took, but the culmination of the poem was to lay the blame for the young man’s insensitivity at the feet of his silken-haired white mother.
Sitting there, watching the mostly white youthful audience happily take its punishment for existing, it occurred to me that, if anything, the mother would be the least likely suspect. No, she had made her choice: she had met and married a Black man and raised a child with him. A greater commitment to interracial harmony is difficult to imagine.
The father, however, had chosen a white woman as his partner, in a sense turning his back on Black womanhood. So, it seemed to me that he was at least as much of a potential target for the poet’s fury as the mom. But really, if we consider the situation, the simplest conclusion was that the young man was, on his own, a creep with issues, and there was no need to seek someone else to blame.