I’m Glad I’m American

You remember that the train stopped for a while, long enough for you to notice but not long enough to think much of it. Then you see an angry, portly woman storm the length of the traincar, as if she was looking for something. She stops at your seat, demanding papers. Her badge and holster reveal that she is a police officer, something she forgets to tell you. You calmly explain that you don’t have papers– you’re a student traveling within the country. Her eyebrows remain furrowed; her face disbelieving. You offer her your student ID, and you watch as the creases of her face deflate as she reads “Sciences Po” on the flimsy plastic. She continues on with her search for another ten minutes before the train starts moving again. You remember being the only person on that train car who was asked for papers. You remember feeling deeply unnerved, a feeling you couldn’t shake for days afterwards. You’ve become paranoid, so you carry pictures of your passport, French student visa, and student ID with you wherever you go. Just in case someone else doesn’t believe that you are a student, who lives in France legally.   

You remember the bus stopping the same way the train did. You avoid crossing the border between France and Italy because you know what might happen. But the bus is filled with students, all exhausted after the end-of-year gala, so you believe that you’ll be fine. How naïve. Your eyelids grow heavy; the stillness of the bus begins to lull you to sleep. But you’ll never forget how hard the harsh light made you wince. Looking through the window, you see a border guard shining a flashlight on you. She looks at you, points at you as though she’s seen a spider on a wall, and then motions for her supervisor. Together, they glare. They’ve decided that you are a problem. The guard with the flashlight climbs the bus, and makes a beeline for you. You know why she is asking you, and only you, for your passport. So you dance the dance, hand her your passport. You watch her face. You tell her you’re American, and she looks at you as if you’ve told her pigs have finally figured out how to fly. She returns my passport and signals for the bus to return to Menton. You remember your face feeling uncomfortably hot. Every single person on the bus watched as you were humiliated, helpless. You remember that same deeply unnerving feeling, knowing you were the only one on that bus who was asked to present a passport. People come up to you; they offer you pity. They mean well, but you resent them for it. You resent the other people on the bus for not having been asked for their passports, too. Their words feel empty to you. You know why you were singled out, but you wouldn’t dare call it for what it is. No one wants to be around someone who’s being difficult. No one likes to talk about this sort of thing, so you don’t either. You wouldn’t want to be an imposition.    

You feel the stares from passersby everyday. They look at you with judgment and disgust. You wish you had the endurance to cuss them all out, to get them all to leave you alone. But you don’t. So you sport sunglasses to pretend you can’t see them, even when the sun hides behind the clouds. You try to dismiss the sinking feeling that arises when  the cashiers at Carrefour ask to search your bags – they suspect you of stealing. You try to forget knowing that you are the only person in the store to have been searched. So you avoid Carrefour as best you can. Every encounter has made you think you aren’t supposed to exist here. Two years of your undergraduate studies in the South of France feel like a criminal sentence. You keep this all to yourself to the best of your ability, because you’d rather feel like shit all the time than burden anyone else with your issues.  

But that seal on your lips, it will break. It happened after you were on a routine run along the sea. You remember that It was dark, but you’ve never once felt unsafe being out at night. Uncomfortable, sure, but never in danger. Your route is one you have done countless times over: to the border, then back towards the end of Cap Martin, and then back to your apartment. You turn around right before the border crossing, so as to avoid the border guards – something you’ve done countless times over. You don’t hear the border guard chase after you because the music in your earbuds is too loud. He is screaming at you; his wrist now wrapped around yours. You freeze from shock; you don’t dare take another breath. He is demanding papers. You stumble over your words in French: you plead with him to let go, that you are American, and that you have pictures of all of your documents. You feel your eyes pushing against the contours of your face, widened with unadulterated fear. When he relinquishes your hand, you surrender your phone to him. He zooms in on every picture, doubtful that the brown man before him is a student at Sciences Po, that this brown man could be a part of l’élite de la nation. You are dumbfounded by the way every border guard and police officer you encounter cannot conceptualize that you are both brown and American. The border guard returns your phone to you, defeated.

But you don’t leave. Your fear has fermented to anger.  You scold and scowl at him as you defend yourself and your humanity. You did nothing wrong by going on a run, nothing to warrant his suspicion of you. You inform him that you never even crossed the actual border, so you never would have needed a passport in the first place. You are alone, in the dark, face to face with a border guard and no one is around to see. You fight back because you have nothing to lose.

He becomes furious with you for speaking back. How dare you question his authority? How dare you disrespect him, when he never treated you with a shred of respect to begin with? He scolds you back, instructing you to behave as if you’re some insolent child throwing an irrational temper tantrum. When you are demanded of your papers, he lectures, you are to present them with politeness and without delay. To him, it is irrelevant that the only reason you’d be asked for papers is if your humanity is called into question and documents are required to justify your existence. As if speaking to a child, he mocks that once a border guard verifies your papers, you are to bid him a gracious “bonsoir” and carry on.

Fuck that. You want to curse him out. You want to scream “fuck you,” and all the vile words you only reserve for the people you truly despise. But you don’t. Because you can’t. Your command of the French language is weak; you can’t convey how angry you truly are. You don’t even believe that there are enough words in the English language to verbalize this feeling. You are angry, but also scared, alone, and vulnerable. A second border guard has joined you, standing behind you to prevent you from fleeing. You concede to his speech and he lets you leave. You don’t remember his face. You will never forget the shade of purple that will stain the bruise on your wrist for the following week. Even after the bruise fades, you will never forget his grip. You feel it every time you wear a bracelet, and you only just started getting into wearing jewelry. What a damn shame. 

For the first time, you start thinking about your experiences. You are certain you are not wanted here. You always thought that people would age out of hate and bigotry, as they experienced the world around them. But the border guard who stopped you on your run couldn’t have been more than a few years older than you. You become haunted with the realization that this border guard will continue to harass the black and brown people he’ll see for as long as he’s a border guard. He will not remember the number of people he inflicts his violence upon, because to him they are not human to begin with. You were subhuman to him. How dare he take your humanity away from you, you thought. Even if for fifteen minutes, he should never have had that power in the first place.    

In the days following your encounter with the border guard, you watch as everyone around you continues to be enamored with this idyllic town with its idyllic old buildings, idyllic beaches, the idyllic ocean, and the idyll of the French Riviera captured by pictures and posts for all to see. And with every picture you feel your resentment growing. You resent their oblivion. You resent them because you will never be able to truly enjoy living here. How can you, when you know you are thought to be less than human here. You can never say that sometimes you hate living here, though. Because then you would be ungrateful. God forbid it. You know that your feelings are multifaceted, because there are moments where you love living here. There are times when you feel like you are a part of the fantasy, too. But these moments are always short lived. They are always marred by the reality of living here. All you can do, all you have the agency to do, is worry: you fear that all this resentment will turn you into a permanently bitter person. And who wants to be around someone like that?   

You learn that there is likely no language with the capability for you to express how violent and dehumanizing it is to live under the weight of your realization. All that the condolences offered by those around you will do is make you feel hollow. Because, you think, they don’t really give a fuck about you, or your experiences. Why would they, it’s not like it affects them. They don’t deal with it on a daily basis like you do. Some of them will make racially insensitive jokes in front of you. But you mustn't make a scene, you mustn’t be so sensitive. You are still more concerned with being thought of as difficult, as the person who talks about the things that no one likes to talk about. And any fear I’ve ever felt while facing a border guard is dwarfed by the fear of being a burden, and being disliked. 

You will consider raising your concerns with the administration. You have your apprehensions, as the administration has a reputation for making students one of their last priorities. When the opportunity arises, you are told that you are irrational. That you must trust the people of this town. That there are good and bad people everywhere, that there is racism everywhere. They will make you feel like an idiot, and that it is your fault for feeling affected by the racist border guards and police. They talk to you as if you didn’t trust the people of this town when you first moved here. As if you weren’t a student once filled with optimism. As if you weren’t someone thrilled at the chance to live and study in France, and in one of the most coveted regions of the country no less. But of course, those who tell you these things have not had the pleasure of wearing a bruised wrist for a week like a scarlet letter. And they too don’t really give a fuck.   

You will feel isolated. You never want to be a burden to anyone. That’s why you didn’t call anyone when you ran back from the border. It was late at night, probably best that you didn’t bother them on a weeknight. What’s worse, is that they might be deterred by the emotional weight that you are forced to carry. You cannot call your parents. They mean well, but they will question why you were running at night, why you were running to the border knowing how they look at you, and they will frustrate you with their perfectly valid concerns. They live an ocean away, and telling them will only make them worry. You try calling your closest friend. She will listen, and she will care, and you will never find the words to thank her for it. But she is there, on a separate continent with the same ocean that separates you from your parents. You are here. You are completely and totally alone. 

But despite all of it, you will soon recognize the immensity of your privilege. Because the night after your encounter at the border, you go for another run. At night, too. You are stubborn, and the decision you've made is likely a stupid one, but you don’t care. This time, as you run towards the border crossing, you see two refugees scaling the rocks below the promenade. They duck from the lights that could expose them to the border guards. They duck from the waves, threatening to pull them into the sea. You turn away, so as to avoid bringing attention to them if someone else was looking. 

Your anger suddenly feels silly. Because my American passport will always protect me in ways those refugees’ passports will not. No matter how angry you feel, you will always be spared from the brunt of racial violence. Because in America, you are Indian. You are not Ahmaud Arbery, a Black man who was fatally shot while on a run in the same way you were. In France, you are American. Your passport will protect you in a state where racial violence took the life of Nahel Merzouk, the seventeen year old fatally shot by French police in Nanterre. Your shoulders perk up, anxious, every time you see a police car drive by. But no matter what, you know that your life will never be taken from you. There truly is no greater privilege than that. 

***

    This reflection of my privilege is just that – a reflection. Nothing more, nothing less. It is my account of my experience living here. I know that this is not some grandiose thinkpiece on the violence of racism; I don’t want it to be. I do not have enough lived experience with racism to speak with that kind of authority. I do not care to make myself, my experiences, and my feelings digestible or palatable to an audience. I’m certain there are countless scholars and activists who have written about what I’ve attempted to say with this reflection far more eloquently than I could. I have no ulterior motive in writing this reflection other than that I am simply sick and tired of dealing with this shit on a daily basis.  

I’m glad I’m American. A jarring confession, I know, seeing as though being American is seen as a bit of a joke. You jest about the flaws of America: gun violence, Trump, car dependency, and trademark American stupidity. I see these flaws, and I often laugh with you. I’ll be the first to admit that America is a deeply flawed place. I know that living here makes me long to go back home, to a place that offers me refuge from the violence from the racism I experience here. But I also know that it’s a place that systematically criminalizes black people – racism is a central tenet of American society. I feel guilty for wanting to exist in such a place. But make no mistake, I will always recognize my privilege in being American; in holding an American passport. Because that privilege will always protect me.    

I would like to thank you for reading this, and listening to what it is that I have to say. It took me over a year to find my words, because I really wanted to avoid dealing with it altogether.  But I ask that you do not offer me any condolences. I am not grieving. Do not commend my courage. I have none. I am not miraculously superhuman for having dealt with racism. And I am certainly not the first person to do it. Do not offer feedback on the mechanics of my writing. I did not write this to demonstrate my way with words, or how I can communicate my ideas. These are feelings and emotions no person should ever have to make sense of – to cope with. I did nothing to deserve to feel this way. At nineteen, no less. I am not interested in finding a more poetic way to say that I’m really fucking angry almost all the time. If this reflection in any way offends you, I don’t give a shit. All I can hope in writing this reflection is that you have listened to me. And for me, that’s enough.   

I wish I never felt compelled to say anything in the first place. But I owe it to myself to process what I am feeling, and to warn other students of visible color about the realities of living here. If you are someone who has experienced something similar, and if ever you need someone to talk to about it, please do reach out. Aside from that, I feel like there’s not much else I can do. Writing this reflection is some sort of a triumph. There’s really nothing you and I can do or say to prevent this from happening to me or anyone else. 

Where do I go from here?