A sister in Paris - American African woman in Paris, France - Column

I live in Paris, the European city Harlem-born writer James Baldwin called home. From the time he moved to Paris in 1948 until his death in 1987, Baldwin touted France as a haven from racism for African-Americans. The French accepted him as a human being, he said. The French loved jazz. The French believed in equality. A year earlier, author Richard Wright settled here and pronounced the French free of racism; they made Wright an honorary citizen. And there was the legendary entertainer Josephine Baker. She left the United States for France in the 1920's and instantly captivated, and was captivated by, the whole country.

I arrived in Paris from the projects. En route, I majored in French at Vassar, studied literature for a year at the Sorbonne and became a lawyer. The year I spent in France broadened the projects-girl perspective I had of the world--that Black and Brown people from other classes or cultures were corny, bourgeois or tacky. Two years ago I went to Paris on an American Bar Association exchange program and never left. Paris is a long way from Brooklyn. It's a longer way still from the idyllic racial oasis Baldwin described.

French Europeans still love jazz. And LaToya Jackson's extravaganza at a Paris cabaret was promoted as the return of Josephine Baker. But racism is a growing problem throughout Europe, and France is no exception. Politically, this disturbing phenomenon is fueled primarily by fear. People of color have become easy scapegoats for France's weak economy and rising unemployment rate. The right-wing National Front Party of Jean-Marie Le Pen came to prominence with the slogan "France for the French." France's socialist government suffered a stinging loss to the conservatives in parliamentary elections due in large part to the immigration issue. Recent legislation gives police the right to make random identity checks to ensure public order. Civil-rights groups fear the measure could lead to racial harassment.

But the racial attitudes many French have toward people of color is enhanced, not created, by hard economic times. Anti-Black graffiti crudely invite negres to go home. West Indians from French territories such as Martinique and Guadeloupe are viewed as "stepchildren"--almost, but not quite, family. But the true darlings of color are African-Americans, who though Black are American, Dieu merci, and the metisse, or mulatto. The first time I was mistaken for metisse, I laughed with surprise. Not me, with my brown skin, full lips, rounded nose and seriously nappy hair. What I learned, however, is that the Parisian's measure of Blackness is the rich black skin of the many Africans who live here.

In Paris, as almost anywhere outside the United States, "American" means "White." Thus, as a culturally anonymous Black person, I am treated as well, or as badly, as a French Black. However, once I become known as American, I cease to be "just another" and become a "special" Black. Not surprisingly, even the African-American is dogged by racial stereotypes. Most French people I've met think all Black New Yorkers live in Harlem. The French Black is curious about the neighborhood, whereas the French European fears it, a viewpoint consistent with that of many White Americans. Once, after a program on gospel music had aired on television, a French friend asked me to sing gospel. "Oui, Janet, chante gospel," others chimed in. Since my singing voice sounds more like Karen Carpenter's than Karyn White's, I declined. Someone else wanted me to dance like Michael. Europeans adore Michael Jackson. One reason they love him is that, as one TV commentator put it, Michael "transcends race."

Perhaps decades ago there was a certain degree of racial comfort available to African-Americans in Paris. But, I wonder, was it our Blackness or our Americanness that engaged and comforted the French European?

Nonetheless, I've come to love living in Paris. After all, it's probably one of the most ethnically diverse cities in the world. Yet in this city fall of plaques marking what famous person lived where, I found the Hotel de Verneuil, but no plaque honoring its most famous resident, James Baldwin.

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