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Back to Hibernia, or A part vs. Apart

I’m posting this again for St. Patrick’s Day 2022. Have a Happy Emerald Green Day!

Many an American has taken that soul-searching, family-roots-searching trip back to the home country to see if they can find traces of fellow descendants who grew up on the other side of the Atlantic. Some are just happy to see the land of their fore-fathers.

Here I will tell you about Sean Canon, who as far as I know does not exist, but there is a good chance that someone very similar to him does indeed. He is a third generation American. Recently retired and traveling with his wife who is also recently benefiting from her Roth IRA. His family is said to be from County Donegal, Ireland, so I imagine him landing in Carrickfinn which is less than an hour away from where his great-grandparents where born.

The first blade of grass that he sees once he leaves the airport is a marvelous, shimmering green. Like a precious stone, in glimmers in the sun. « No wonder, Ireland is nicknamed ‘ the Emerald Isle,’ » he gratifyingly says to his wife, Trish.

They remark that they’ve never seen so many green coats adorned by women in long red hair. « They certainly know how to show it off ! » exclaims Sean, a redhead himself. « I’ll have to get myself a green coat too ! »

Less glamorous to Mr. Canon, is the milky, painfully pale skin that he has loathed all of his life, especially as a teenager. To be surrounded by so many summer sun cringing lads like himself makes him feel like maybe it isn’t so bad. He feels sense of belonging. And it feels great.

Trish, his wife, of half Ashkenazi and half Italian background, cannot share in his rejoicing but none-the-less is able to point out facial similarities to her husband of the passer-bys they encounter. « Look at that guy’s chin, it’s just like yours. »

« And that guy over there, we have the same nose, » Sean says in a whisper, trying not to attract too much attention. He continues scanning over the faces. He sees someone who looks like his brother Brian, another like his cousin Eric. A sense of belonging fills his chest, rises and lifts his cheeks. He is wearing a light smile and feeling happy.

Actually, the only time when he feels different is when he has to open his mouth. If I start to speak, then I will give myself away, he says in a tiny voice to himself. They will know that I’m not really fom here. He seriously hesitates to say anything at all. His ears happily basking in that warm, light-hearted sing-song of the Irish brogue. He feels embarrassed to open his mouth and spew his American monotone sluggish garble. But, eventually, one must speak ! So, he does. And it goes fine.

Looking for a place for breakfast, the next morning, they walk past numeours businesses sporting Irish family names : McDaid, Gallagher, Bonar and O’Donnell. They go to the library which has a geneaolgy section catering to people like them because the yearning lost souls traveling back to the mother land are so many. They ask for the whereabouts of the Canons and are thrilled to learn that yes, there are indeed plenty in County Donegal. There are different spellings, some more Irish, others more English, but they all are basically the same name. His name, Canon, is an anglicized version of the Irish surname O’Canainn. But the name can also be spelled O’Cannon, Cannin, Cannen, and there are many more.

« There’s a jewelry store that sells beautiful claddagh rings run by a man named Canon just down the street, » adds the genealogist, giving Sean a friendly tap on the shoulder. « Don’t be cheap. Buy your wife something fancy, Canon ! » They all share in a warm laugh. It feels good to be a Canon in Donegal. It feels good to be a part of it.

*

I, too, went on a trip to the home country: Ireland. Like, Mr. Canon, I craved something that would feel like family. However, because of my physical appearance which screams Middle Eastern more than Irish, it was a different experience.

Like Sean, I too, admired the higher-percentage-than-what-I’m-used-to population of redheads (in green coats) and that stunning emerald vegetation. (It’s one of those things that you cannot take home in a camera. You just have to see it for yourself!). Like Mr. Canon, I was also accompanied. I was with my mother, who will tell you, like Sean, that she is 100 % Irish. Noses like hers, we saw plenty.

Unlike the Canons, though, we did not get around much. Due to my mother’s serious knee complications we were limited in our outtings together. The most adventurous thing we did was go to a supermarket. Like probably countless zealous Irish-Americans before me, I got super excited when I saw potatoes and read that they were grown in Ireland. « Irish potatoes ! » I cried out to my mother. And, of course, I had to buy them, bring them back to our hotel and cook them.

You see, our family experience of immigration was due to that infamous Potato Famine in the mid 19th century. So, really, there was no reason for me to get giddy about a potato. If anything I should break down in tears when I see one. But I don’t. I think they’re great.

Leaving that supermarket with the sexy potatoes in hand, I saw that it had begun raining. Hard. We weren’t too far from our hotel, but I wanted to be sure about the way back before dragging my snail-moving mother out into the wet muddy mess. I walked up to the closest major street. A taxi-driver pulled over, assuming I was looking for a ride. He rolled down the window. Sitting at the steering wheel was a guy who didn’t look like the red-haired, pale-skinned Sean Canon at all. Just like myself, he wasn’t quite White. My guess was Bangladeshi or somewhere nearby. His accent did not sing, like Sean’s great grandfather’s either, rather it hopped.

And then, suddenly. There in the pouring rain. I had a flash of realisation that came on like a tsunami wave. Filling my mind with enough water/ ink to fill, at least, 100 pages.

I was not naive. I knew that, as a tourist, I was experiencing the best of Ireland. Everybody was polite. Everybody smiled. But, just passing through a place and living the every day grind are two distinct experiences. I had heard enough about racism in northern Europe to know that people who looked like me or the taxi driver would never be completely accepted – regardless of their accent. In that moment, I saw the Brown Asian man, obviously a foreigner from his accent, and felt a sadness combined with a feeling of comradery. We both knew what it was like to not belong. To be treated as  the other. To be apart and not a part.

I was suppose to be going to the country that my people came from : Ireland ! Wonderful, beautiful, loving Ireland ! The country of my blood. My folk. My kin. But, unlike Sean, I could never feel that belonging that he experienced. My physical appearance would always win in the eyes of the Hibernians. I didn’t have to live there to know this. I had already experienced this in the U.S.A. and in France.

I bet you’re shaking your heads now.

Shame on you, Mecca, you’re thinkging. The Irish aren’t any more racist than anybody else. No worries there. I totally agree. Racism is found wherever the offspring of Adam is found, as the Egyptians call humans sometimes.

(As a side note : I did go to a country once, where, for the first time, I looked like, or at least, thought, I look liked everyone else. It was Lebanon. The streets were abound with fair-skinned, dark haired ladies with dark deep-set eyes like my own.)

*

So, if I might as well be a Bangledeshi taxi cab driver, is there anything Irish about me at all ?

I like to think so, but the Irish in me can not be seen. Only heard.

Two Irish traits I have come to mind. They make me think of the home country because I notice them in all of the Irish with whom I have worked :

1. My deadpan dry humor.

I am known to say outlandish things with the straightest poker-face. Or make a droll observation using a monotone voice.

2. My dark or morbid humor.

Yes, sometimes, when things are bad, I mean really ridiculously horrible – you just have to laugh about it. It’s either that or scream. (The Hibernians have known lots of hardship. I really don’t know why we say that the Irish are lucky. Is it wishful thinking ? Dark humor ?)

The Lady Bountifuls I know just kill me when they go on a trip to a « poor » country in Asia or Africa, come back and tell me : « They are so poor over there, but always smiling ! Always happy ! We should really follow their example. We are so lucky. We have so much. »

I just shake my head.  Duh ! What do you want them to do ?! Just stop functioning and spend their days crying ?! They don’t have time for that. Being visibly depressed is a luxury in a way, reserved for the wealthy, or people who have time to spend mopping around.

Like singing the Blues or Mountian Music, laughing about or making morbid jokes about hardship can be therapeutic. The Irish, who have had more than their share of difficulty understand this perfectly. Well before the potatoes were destroyed by blight, the Irish were suffering intense injustice. They were singing, making dark jokes, laughing and smiling (and praying, of course). There was so much of this, that, I guess that it just got into our genes. And travelled over the Atlantic to America. And so here I am today, Friday March 4, 2022, laughing about the way I limp around because I just fell on my coccyx. Of course that’s not the best example, but it is the most immediate one I can find.

*

I will bring it to a close with the fate of those supermarket potatoes. When I got them back to the hotel I learned that they were a very firm variety of potato. « Hard like the hard-headed Hibernians, » I joked with my mom.

I love this kind of potato, because, it is great for making French fries. Which, of course, are Belgian.

Mecca O’Canainn * March 5, 2022

Take it off! Put it on!

*** Part One : Take it off ! ***

On Monday, March 14, 2022, the mandate to wear face coverings inside public places (except for public transportation and health facilities) will come to an end in France. In light of this I’d like to share some thoughts about the putting on and taking off of face coverings which has been going on for, not two years, but for over a decade, in France.

In 2010, then president Nicolas Sarkozy, had a law passed fining any woman who wears a face-cover. This practice is the habit of a miniscule part of the Muslim minority in France. Much pomp was given to this manoeuvre creating hours of debate, filling the airwaves. Meanwhile more practical matters, like the national health care system, sécurité sociale, was quietly under attack. And yet, that barely gets a crumb of air-time.

We heard little about the hundreds of medications no longer to be covered for diseases like cancer, but more than enough about how women who wear face masks are supposedly anti-French and dangerous. We heard nothing about how medical errors were skyrocketing (and continue to today) because physicians are not provided decent working conditions and forever pushed to go faster, faster, FASTER !. No, instead, we were warned about the supposedly oppressive husbands of these women who wear face masks. According to the media, these women who are all covered up would rather be wearing tight jeans. Or perhaps they’d like to be super French and walk around like Marianne with one and a half breasts hanging out ! (Marianne is the personification of the French state. Somewhat like what Lady Liberty is to the U.S.A.)

Women, hidden behind fabric filled the TV screens, but on the street, I did not notice any for a very long time after this law was passed. I saw just as many as I had before the law was passed. It took a year of me keeping an eye peeled to finally see a woman – sort of – wearing a face covering. As I rode on a public bus, a woman got on wearing a long enrobing Muslim dress and a long head covering. To this she added a surgical face mask.

My heart was filled with joy ! You go girl, I thought. Now that’s a clever rebel !

While the law restricted this woman from dressing the way she wished, she had found a way around it. Who could tell her to take off a surgical mask ?! If you did that then you’d have to make the Asians do it too. Remember, this is pre-COVID19, when wearing a mask was not commonly sighted. In Toulouse, I only ever saw some Asians doing so, pre-COVID19.

*

Personally, I believe in The Golden Rule that my Catholic grandmother reiterated so frequently : Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Hence, as I do not want to be told how to dress, I would never tell another how they should dress either.

But not everyone feels like me. And I am not just talking about the French president.

I was once doing my shopping at the very popular Pharmacie Lafayette. This successful chain, known for its unbeatable prices, started out with one store on Lafayette Street in downtown Toulouse. The lines were outrageous with a waitime of 30 minutes not uncommon. Eventually, they branched out to a few more locations, with their largest store having up to 15 cashiers collecting customers money at a time. Everybody goes there. I mean EVERYBODY – even women who wear face covers !

A woman defiantly sporting a face cover and I both decided to go shopping there at the same time by chance one day. As I eyed the vitamin aisle a heated discussion caught my attention. I could hear someone speaking French in a west African accent. He obviously had some authority in the store and was reprimanding another man. I looked to my right and saw one of the store’s security guards arguing with the husband of the face-covered woman I mentioned. Although, in a private business and not a government facility, she was being kicked out of the store for wearing a Muslim face cover.

I approached them and trying to be as diplomatic as possible, I said, « As a customer, I do not feel offended by her clothes. Just let her do her shopping. » The man I adressed with dark brown skin, did not appreciate my sentiment. He claimed that his boss didn’t want such women giving thier business to the store. (That’s how you recognize a super racist – when they won’t even accept your money!)

I walked away, powerless to obtain justice. It would not be the first nor the last time I would witness such discrimination.

The security guard would not see reason and so the couple stormed towards the escalator to go up to the floor above, which was street level to the exit.

When it was time for me to go upstairs and hand over my money to the cashier, I saw the same security guard all in a huff. He was complaing about « those people » to a blank-faced customer. When he saw me, he recognized me right away. Trying to win me over to seeing things his way, he said, « See what he [the husband of the face-covered woman] did ! » pointing towards a knee-high display case that had been visibly attacked – probably by a foot.

Yes, I could sympathize. But not with the Uncle Tom security guard, rather with the husband. « Yes, I said, he must be really tired of getting thrown out of stores all the time. This was obviously just the drop that made the vase flow over [the straw that broke the camel’s back].»

That was not what he had expected to hear me say. « Don’t you see what they do ! » meaning : See how those Muslims are violent. That is why we should shun them. 

I thought, hmm, this guy must take me for a White lady who’s atheist like most of the White ladies in this store. Little did he know that despite my appearance, I knew a lot about Arabs and Muslims and I know that they are just like anybody else.

This face cover masquerade set up by the government just aims to provoke tension in the society and authorize legal racism. That too, I know, and a lot of White ladies do too.

The security guard Uncle Tom was obviously a product of the media which has us believe that it’s okay to discriminate against Muslims because they are inherently violent and do things like lash out on a display cases when their wives are prevented from doing something as basic as buying health and beauty supplies.

«This topic is a waste of time, » I said to Tom. « I don’t care about how people dress. I don’t want people to tell me how to dress and I expect the same in return. »

« I’d rather talk about things that really matter, » I continued, «  like what’s happening to the national health insurance. Don’t you wonder why the government spends their time talking about the way people dress rather than telling us why they are chipping away at truly important things like our access to health care ?! »

He gave up on winning me over and turned to seek comradery elsewhere. And, yes, he will find it ! My modest guess is that at least half of the people in that store, employees and customers, felt the same as he.

As I walked out, I past by another security agent who was Arab and most likely Muslim. Maybe he even had a sister who wore face covers, (although it’s more likely that he has one who wears booty-chokers). Looking at him, I thought, How does he do it ? How can he stand working here ?

* * * Part Two: Put it on ! ***

Then COVID19 hit.

At first we didn’t really know what the disease was. We didn’t know if it was as nasty as Ebola or worse. It was March 2020, and France was in its first lockdown. The streets were empty. The few people who were outside were going to the pharmacy or getting groceries because everything else was closed, then rushing home. Police patrolled to make sure that we had our forms filled in with the time we exited our homes. We could not be out for more than an hour and only for essential reasons like getting groceries or going on a doctor’s visit. People were panicked, even ratting out neighbors they saw rebelliously having apéritifs (drinks) with a friend in an empty parking lot when they shouldn’t be anywhere near each other legally.

And people started wearing face masks of their own choice.

During this time, President Macron and the Prime Minister, Edouard Philippe took turns giving weekly or bi-weekly speeches. Never one to go out of my way for any TV or radio program, I made sure to listen to each one of these because they dictated how I would be living for the next week. We were firmly told not to wear masks. That they were inutile (useless). But some people wore them anyway. A few even layered on transparent face shields.

On May 10, 2020, the first lockdown ended and to our surprise it was now mandatory to put on face masks in public places or else risk a fine of 135€. Little by little faces started to disappear under surgical masks. Every atheist, Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, Jewish and Muslim face vanished from sight.

It was now the president of France who was forcing women to cover their faces. And not only the women, but the men, too !

I’ll never forget my amusement the first time I did a double as I arrived at my children’s school along with all of the other parents, including some headscarved Muslim mothers. Well, all of the sudden, with the new mandate, these Muslim mothers, who habitually didn’t cover their face, suddenly ressembled hard-core burqa wearers.

It’s a good thing I was wearing a mask myself because I did a lot of grinning and snickering underneath it. It was so entertaining to see that these women were forced to wear face covers not by their husbands, but by the president of the French Republic !

Mecca O’Canainn * March 11, 2022

A merited long and heavy sentence on the West’s double standard

You can choose whether or not to believe that Poland refused entry to non-White refugees fleeing Ukraine due to the Russian invasion; but you cannot deny the double standard of allowing Western professional athletes to show their supoprt for Ukraine by displaying its flag, but not permitting the same to be done for Palestine against its respective oppressors.

Misdirected Anger

Today, I would like to share a quote which I learned early on in my French life and that I have never forgotten. It is by Léopold Sédar Senghor, 1906-2001 (poet, politician and first president of Senegal):

Les racistes sont des gens qui se trompent de colère. 

My personal attempts at translation:

Racists are people who are mistaken in the source of their anger.

Or:

Racists are people who aim their anger in the wrong direction.

A little French lesson is required here to fully appreciate the spirit of this quote as there is a play on words in the original version. As a matter of fact, it is surely because of this witticism that this quote has stayed with me for so long.

The last word of the quote is  colère  which translates as anger.

The word colère  is similar in sound to the French word for color : couleur. Hence, the play on words with the words colère and couleur.

If you’re like me, when you think of racists, the idea of those who have anger towards people of a skin color different than their own comes to mind. Like, Senghor, I also believe that the frustration felt by racists is misdirected.

For example, a classic problematic presented by the American media, as well as the French, is that immigrants take jobs away from natives. The source of this problem, however, is governmental decisions, not a father of three trying to make a better life for his family.

Instead of directing one’s frustration towards a vulnerable population that just wants to live a decent life like any human being, one should do research on how their government is organizing its economy and why jobs are not being created. Or, as in the case of America and France, find out why jobs are being sent over-seas.

*

In France, in particular, the media talks at length about the great national health care debt. We are warned that if something isn’t done then soon France won’t be able to offer the same quality of medical coverage. As the years progress less and less is covered by this insurance. Creating a source of financial stress for all living here, because not only must we fork out more money for medical care, but the cost of living is skyrocketing in general.

Of course, the finger is pointed at immigrants and their French born children. We are told that there are too many of them. And that they are « bleeding » the health care system.

*

I must stop here for a moment and just shake my head.

I mean: wow! Letting oneself be manipulated into thinking that it’s okay to scorn someone for seeking healthcare. That somehow people want to spend their time waiting in a doctor’s waiting room more than is necessary. Just, wow! Meanwhile, Emmanuel Macron, France’s current president, spending 500,000 € worth of tax money on a new China set for the Elysée – no biggie? Talk about misdirection!)

*

Now, back to the baby bashing:

It is true that it is very common to find White people of my generation who are Only Children. The modern parents of the 1970s did a good job – never have I met so many sibling-less individuals! But the non-White of my generation here almost always come from a big family with at least one or two siblings. Often more.

Currently France encourages having children as it finds itself with a massive ageing population. Good thing the immigrants were here to reproduce all of these sibling filled families. Whew! We’d be even worse off without all of these big tan and brown families – the taxes they pay, the spending they do and all these glamorous jobs they hoard cleaning and caring for the ageing French population in the nursing homes, most of whom happen to be White.

P.S. This is completely unrelated. I haven’t been as reliable lately with the frequency of my posts. I apologize and I will try to do better.

A Positive Side of France

I know a woman, who I’ll name Ms. Hart, who is genreous, helpful and has a big heart. She is down to earth and reliable. She barely gossips and gives good practical advice. I am so glad to know her. However, I can only be with her in small doses because despite all of the previously mentioned lovely things about her, she has a side which is fun for a little bi,t but tiresome after a while: her cynicism.

If you know of Edith Piaf then maybe you know what I mean about having a limit. I love the songs “Padam, Padam,” and “La foule” (my very favorite because of how it reflects life in general). “La vie en rose,” the most famous, I suppose is, uh… cute, I guess. I can get soberly drunk listening to at least three of her songs but at a certain point that shrill, that signature tremble in her singing really REALLY gets on my nerves and then the Edith Piaf listening session is over over OVER! Just listen to “Non, je ne regrette rien,” thrice and see how you feel.

In Egypt, at mealtimes as a guest, I was spoiled. Their concern that I got (more than) enough to eat made me feel special. But after a while, this attention, got old. And I just wanted to fade into the shadows and eat as much as I felt like without being observed.

*

None of the above stated has anything to do with multiculturiasm or racism like my posts up until now. Yes, that’s right. However, should I dare say that you come here to read because, at least most of the time, you enjoy what you find, then that’s where the connection can be found. Thus far, I have been writing about things that while you enjoy reading them, can get tiresome because they have a negative kill-joy side. So today, for you and for me – because I too get tired of discussing negative things, even if they are fascinating – would like to tell you about something positive I discovered about French life vs. American life.

*

Today, I’ll tell you about one of the lessons I’ve learned: valuing free-time

Most French people I’ve met claim to be atheists. I joke and say that they are not truly without a faith. Their new religion is free-time and worship of pleasurable things. While Americans barely take time off in comparison to the French, and are proud to admit so, the French never put off vacation and are shameless about reveling in it.

A typcial occurence: I walk into my local city hall annex to ask for my new national identity card. I have come because I received an sms telling me that it is ready. The lady who receives me says, in a cold, unapologetic tone: “I don’t have it ready. I just got back from vacation today. Come back tomorrow. ” She comes off so annoyed that you feel like you are the one who should apologize for bothering her. She, on the other hand, would never think of saying “sorry.”

I’ll admit, yes, this is unprofessional. But for the purpose of this post what is more important to notice is how the government worker did not make up another excuse for being unprepared. Any American worker would have invented another exucse, blamed it on a faulty computer maybe. But not this lady, and she is not alone! She went on vacation, is having a hard time adjusting back to the every day grind, and feels no shame in any of that!

Furthermore, when these people go on vacation it is not for a measly long week-end or even a week plus the two weekends. No! No! No! It is a minimum of two weeks. Very often three.

I had a co worker, who I’ll name Joel, whose favotire thing to do was map out all of his vacations during the year. He was a proactive guy, sure to give more than enough notice to our boss. In January, he would study the annual calendar, identify all of the national holidays and plug in vacation days to create long four day week-ends and multiple vacations.

For example, should July 14th, France’s Independence Day, fall on a Thursday, Joel would use one vacation day for the following Friday July 15th, resulting in a four day weekend as he had Saturday and Sunday off anyway. In this situation, Friday is called a “bridge day” as it is used to connect one federal holiday (Thursday the 14th) to a regular non-working day (Saturday). Should a national holiday fall on a Tuesday then the Monday he took off was the “bridge day” or le jour de pont. In 2022, for example, among the 11 federal holidays he’ll be able to place two vacation days and get two four-day long week-ends because Independence Days falls on a Thursday and All Saints Days falls on a Tuesday. 2018 was a rareity, Joel was able to take five four-day long weekends thanks to five federal holidays falling on a Tuesday or a Thursday.

Notice that in America, such a practice of adding the bridge day has been made impossible for holidays like Martin Luther Kind Jr. Day, Memorial Day and Labor Day. They are all on a Monday. Hence no possibility of plugging in a bridge day to get a four-day week-end. Take your three days off and smile!

And if you tell me that the the Friday after our Thanksgiving Thrusday is a bridge day, I’ll say: good you’ve been paying attention to the article! I will also congratulate myself for having succeeded in explaining the concept clearly. However, think about it a second time. Does Uncle Sam really want to give us an extra day to spend with our family? Or was it all calculated in advance, so that the Friday in question could become a special holiday on its own, a day to idolize the Almighty Dollar. A day often called Black Friday.

*

In France the minimum number of vacation days that an employer must alot is 30. (I once met someone with 42 days because of his seniority.) You can place these days as you like more-or-less, but if you don’t use them, they will most likely be lost. Add to these, the extra day off per month that Joel gets because he works 40 hours a week rather than the legal full-time limit of 35. (Note: The French 35 hour work-week is equivalent to the American 40 hour work-week, because, in France, the lunch-hour is not included.) We’re talking about a lot of vacation time in comparison to America; and these days of rest are dutifully observed and enjoyed.

In the U.S., people seem to be proud of working more than 40 hour work weeks. It is often common to hear people brag bashfully about how they haven’t taken a vacation in years. As if having free-time to spend with family or doing things that aren’t lucrative is unworthy. Lazy. Shameful.

It is common to hear a young single mother being congradulated for working two or more part-time jobs. The following things might be said to her: “That’s terrific! You go girl!” You’re a super-mom!” George W. Bush reflected this mentality perfectly when he gave the following reply to a woman who told him that she worked three jobs: “You work three jobs?! Uniquely American isn’t it?! That is fantastic that you do that.”

I, too, had a mom, who was fantastic and worked very hard. While she worked late, I ate dinner alone from a can or a packet. And although retirement age, my mother didn’t stop working until her bad health forced her too. A true American!

White College Guys Only

Some time ago, as I waited in line at my local mini-mart I saw a man in his 20s come through the door with a serious expression. He knew exactly what he had come for and it was obviously that it was not to shop. He walked directly to what he thought was the end of the line in front of the cashier. In reality, though, he had just cut in front of the person in front of me without realizing it. The layout of this particular Carrefour City makes it confusing to know where the line is when one is not familiar. The regulars know that it is tucked in the middle of a narrow aisle lined with candy, chocolate and cookies that children nag their parents to buy as they are made to stand immobile and patient.

I observed the line-crasher. His nervous movements. His thick dark hair. Tan skin. A white sheet of paper in his right hand. When the cashier was ready for the next customer, he advanced. Looked at her with his dark, large, almond shaped, thickly-eyelashed eyes and cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a job. I am reliable and hardworking…” His voice started to trail off and he looked down towards the paper in his hand as if an invitation for his listener’s blue eyes to look too.

I don’t remember if he stated his name, but it didn’t matter. Both the light-eyed cashier lady and I could tell that Mr. Dark Eyes was guilty of being North African in just a glance. His name was irrelevant, his face revealed his crime of being Arab instantaneously.

“We don’t have any positions available right now,” she explained as she accepted his resume, “but I’ll contact you if something opens up.”

He was just looking for work. My heart sank.

I looked at the cashier, Ms. Light Eyes, who I am aquainted with well. Unbeknownst to the job-hunter, he had spoken directly to the boss. I knew that she didn’t mean a word she said about ever getting in touch with him.

I have lived in this neighborhood since 2009, and I have witnessed this store switch hands twice, from one multi-national chain to the next. But despite all of this change one thing has not evolved: the profile of the employees hired. Anyone one over thirty or tan-skinned need not apply! You will see one female employee other than the boss at the register, but notice that she resembles Ms. Light Eyes. That’s because she is her daughter. All other females are unwanted.

That said, two Black people a Malagasy did manage to slide through the filter over the past 13 years. It puzzles me, truly! How did they do it?! But, the Arab-free policy has been flawless. Even though, in Toulouse, where there are far more Arabs than people of sub-Saharan ethnicity, not a one has ever worked at this corner store near my home.

*

My heart still weighing heavy in my chest and beating hard, I got an incredible urge to run after my fellow unhireable citizen and warn him. But first, I dutifully waited for my turn at the register, looked at Ms. Light Eyes with my own dark eyes and paid to purchase her merchandise. I almost said something brazen to her about her discriminatory hiring policy, but I did not. Years of being a minority here have worn on me and broken my spirit. (Mecca in America was a different person.)

I even started to change my mind about running after Mr. Dark Eyes to tell him he shouldn’t get his hopes up. Exhausted from years of thinking about something that shouldn’t even be a topic: discrimination. I asked myself: “Is it my place to tell him? What if I’m wrong about the boss being racist? (Yeah, right?!)” I put my head down. Feeling the burden of it all come over me. Staring at my feet, because all of the blue-eyed people walking around me at that moment just made me feel unwanted and alone.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard a voice I recognized. I looked up and there he was right in front of me: Mr. Dark Eyes! He was on his phone. I felt relieved. A voice in my head said, “Well, you can’t interupt him while he’s on his phone. Plus, he doesn’t even know you.” And in Toulouse strangers do NOT talk to each other (unless it’s to complain about the bus or train being late).

I picked up my pace and eavesdropped as I sped past him. He was saying:

“I just left Carrefour City. I spoke to a lady who said they weren’t hiring right now. But she said that she would get in touch if something opened up.” On the last sentence his voice lifted and he sounded hopeful. I kept on walking, and me, again, my heart dipped low.

*

Update (Friday, February 18, 2022):

A few days after I wrote the above post, something uncanny happened. I was shopping for chips in the Carrefour City I mentioned when heard the word shekshouka called out from the front of the store. Shekshouka is the name of an Algerian dish made of onions and bell peppers. I recognized the voice. It came from one the male 20-something cashiers.

When I reached him with my dijon flavored potato chips, I asked him about the onion and bell pepper dish. He explained that his mother was Algerian and “made the best shekshouka.” As it turns out he is of mixed origin, having a White French father. To most people he looks White. And should one see or hear his name, that too, appears very White French.

So I wonder: how did a half-Arab get hired at Carrefour City. Was it his impressive resume? Was it his charm? Or his French name?

How entertaining to think that Ms. Light Eyes let in “a wolf in sheeps clothing,” or at least, that is how she would see it.

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