An Expat’s Diatribe

I’ve noticed recently (mainly due to Dman pointing it out) that I’m angry often. I don’t want you to think that every day is a tornado of flying plates and f-bombs around here; most of my outbursts are reserved for the unsuspecting Frenchies who seem to go out of their way to annoy me.

Yesterday, I was coming back home, little D right behind me, when we passed by a group of young Arab men. One of them shouted at me, “Hey, Japanese girl! Chinese girl!” (in French.) Now everyone knows how much this gets on my nerves. But since I was with my baby, I decided to ignore them until one of them got in my face and shouted, “Where you from?” (in broken English.) I glared at him and replied, “I’m from New York.” To which he and his buddies said, “You lie! No you’re not!” Because obviously, an Asian person couldn’t possibly be from New York. “You Japanese!” I turned back and shouted, “I’m Korean, actually, but you’re too much of an idiot to even understand that!” They were taken aback, as often happens, because I wasn’t some demure Asian lass or even a French lady who would have walked by quickly with her head down.

I was pretty pissed about this minor incident for a good half-hour afterwards. But what it did was get me thinking about why I’m so quick to get angry at a sorry bunch of morons. I mean, did that really warrant me shouting at strangers on the street—in front of my little one, no less?

I think not.

Being a contemplative sort, I’ve come to the conclusion that my simmering, ready-to-explode fury comes from the unusual (and unwanted) feeling of powerlessness I sometimes (often?) have here. It’s pretty damn difficult going from being an independent, self-sufficient, know-it-all New Yorker into a soft-spoken, confused-by-the-culture and tongue-tied Parisian who has had to rely on her hubby to get even the smallest things done.

I pretty much hate it. I hate feeling dependent when my whole life before this was about self-reliance. I hate having people think I’m not intelligent because I might not be able to follow a conversation or contribute a witty comment or quick observation. I hate simply not understanding the way things are done. Most of all, I think I’m angry about having to give up everything I was before (the good, the bad and the complicated— “I’m Maggie Kim, bitches!“) to become this as-yet-unidentifiable new person who, for all intents and purposes, is a fairly invisible member of French society (“Maggie qui?”). I’ve given up having anything that’s me and mine—including my body during 9 months of pregnancy and 14 months of nursing—so I guess it’s not too surprising that I might be a bit cross about it.

God, I’m like one of those silent wimpy dudes who turns to serial killing to get back a sense of power. Or a gaggle of uneducated immigrant jackasses who harass an immigrant woman in order to feel like—what?—guys? Men?

I don’t need a shrink to know what I need to do to feel more powerful and less pissed: meditate, perfect my French, find a driving purpose (beyond motherhood and marriage) in my life again. But first, I’ve got to go yell at the mailman for not delivering my magazines on time.

Category : Baby, Culture, Life, Paris & France, Pregnancy
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