The Tables Turning

For the majority of my life, I have heard stories of people coming to America, searching for a better life on this soil. I’m a firm believer that immigration is fundamental to America’s success and growth as a country, and that it was also a principle that this country was built upon. As an American citizen, however, I have never truly felt like an outsider, and this is something I will admit that I took for granted. When discussing immigration, it is mostly just about the actual act of getting into the country, finding a job, obtaining citizenship, etc. We, as a society, don’t spend enough time talking about the difficulties that immigrants can face when exposed to American culture and the pressure that comes with being expected to adapt quickly. I didn’t truly realize that we tend to glaze over this part until I studied abroad in France, where the tables suddenly turned and I was the outsider. 

Late in the month of January 2020, I embarked to study in Paris, France. I was so excited, as any young girl would be when they’re on their way to the City of Love. I remember arriving at Charles de Gaulle and seeing the red, white, and blue of the French flag lighting up a part of the airport. Everything was simple so farI was able to ask the American Airlines employees for help to find my bags, my driver spoke English (or enough of it for me to get by), and I was met by fellow college students when checking into my dorm. So far, so good. I didn’t really contemplate the potential difficulties that the language barrier would pose; I was told that most French people spoke English anyway. I found that that was true, but just because they could, didn’t mean they were necessarily going to. It kind of depended on who the person was and how irritated they already were with you. 

I’d like to state that the French are actually very nice people. The stereotypes aren’t fair to put upon them that they’re rude; they’re just very protective of their country and culture and I came to understand that American driven globalization is something they’re still trying to process. With that in mind, they’re very different than we are. I remember when they ushered all of the students who were studying into the auditorium and they sat us down to talk to us about Parisian lifestyles. Eventually, we gradually slid into the topic of appearance. The French are elegant, sharply dressed, and very poised. We were instructed that if we wore sweatpants, leggings, flip-flops, or sportswear in public, we would be given funny looks. Following this advice was a verbal tutorial of how French women tend to do their makeup; they use the same blush on their cheeks and as eyeshadow, they do mascara, and that’s about it. It’s very simple, very natural, very elegant. Going overboard with that would result in strange looks. And lastly was the instruction to be quiet. Not in the sense that we couldn’t talk in the auditorium, but that when walking the streets of Paris, it was important that we weren’t loud. Americans, they said, have a tendency to be loud, and as students in New York City, we are prone to speak loudly because of our environment. It’s not something we can necessarily help, but we now had to be mindful of it. If we were loud, we would be targeted by potential pickpocketers because it was a clear giveaway that we were not French. 

This was my first realization that I was an outsider. Everything I considered normal at home in regards to dress, makeup, conversation, etc. was now flipped. We were even advised that we shouldn’t drink coffee or sodas while we walked; it is a New York staple to get a coffee and go for a walk. Everything was different and I was suddenly extremely self-conscious about what I did, how loud I did it, and what I was wearing. It dawned on me after my first trip to a grocery store by myself that this is just a small percentage of what immigrants feel like when they are adapting to life in the United States. 

The grocery store instilled the fear of God in me. I didn’t think that would be my breaking point, but it really got to me. When I walked in, it felt as if they right away knew that I was not where I was meant to be; I was out of place. I didn’t know where anything was and I didn’t know what half the products were because, uh, I didn’t know French. After a very stressful half-hour of perusing the store for basic necessities and what I thought I needed for a meal, I went to check out. I had no idea how unloading the cart goes in France. I had no idea they didn’t bag for you. So, there I was, a visibly annoyed man just trying to buy a loaf of bread behind me, and I’m scrambling for sixty cents to buy paper bags so I can carry this stuff home. I finally got home, alive, but very embarrassed. Turns out, I bought fabric softener thinking it was laundry detergent. I felt stupid. 

One of the scariest moments of my life was when I accidentally got lost in the La Defense area of Paris. I couldn’t find a side street to call an Uber, I was stuck, and I had to go around through empty streets to find a place where an Uber could find me. My first Uber driver had no idea where I was and since I couldn’t speak French, he had no idea what I was even saying. I couldn’t communicate to him how desperate I was to get home. People around me weren’t able to help because they had no clue what I was even saying. My friends called me on the phone and they spoke to the people around me in French, but to no avail. I was stuck. Thankfully, I was able to get to a side street and call an Uber and get home, unharmed physically. Mentally, I was tired and again, embarrassed. 

I do not consider this experience as a “foreigner” in France as even a quarter of the experience that those coming to America go through. I acknowledge my privilege and how that transcends international borders. This experience, however, really shifted my perspective on how brave and difficult it is to uproot your life and go somewhere entirely different than what you know. It is scary and frustrating and we as a country need to be significantly more sympathetic to those around us who are in the midst of the immigrant experience. I remember constantly thinking of how frustrating it was when the French would ask me to speak in French and I couldn’t; I became even angrier at the kinds of people in America who ask immigrants to speak English. It’s not that simple and when the tables are turned. It isn’t funny. It’s scary.