I Give Up

It will be four years this year since I moved to France, and I am tired.

Taken by my sweet brother who came to visit me for the first time this year. I hope he'll get the chance to come again soon, so I can spoil him better.

"Oh, but you're American. It's easier for you."

The words ring in my head as I wait in the queue outside the préfecture at 8:30 in the morning with all the other immigrants.

A water droplet falls on my face. Then Two, then three. Soon it is sprinkling enough rain drops to need an umbrella. I grab my staple Parisian accessory from my backpack and continue the wait with my comrades for our turn at the prestigious, préfecture de police.

The line moves. Slowly but it moves nonetheless. Parisians going to work swerve away from us as our dance-less conga line spills onto the dreary pavement. I spot from the corner of my eye, a blonde woman, in a fashionable white ensemble running panicked to the front of the line. I wonder to myself if they'll let her cut in front of us.

The police turn her away and point her to the back of the queue; we march forward - the only direction we can go as all our hopes and dreams lay ahead. We lose a few soldiers. Those without a convocation or official rendez-vous are forced to wait with the police standing guard at the first screen.

I was lucky and let through - well, lucky enough to have gotten an appointment and print out the document for proof of my rendez-vous. Some people begin to cut in front of each other trying to get in to pick-up their residence permit before the others. Not that it will make much of a difference. Maybe a difference of 10 minutes in reality, but everyone has their reasons to want to push someone else back. Even if we're somewhat in the same boat.

A mother with a child in a stroller cuts in front of me. I don't mind though, because I am so used to waiting for the préfecture that 5 more minutes in the rain is nothing compared to everything else I had to wait for. I offer to share my umbrella with her, because we're in this wait together.

She accepts kindly, and we march forward.

The second screen splits us up as she is let into the building before me. I wait maybe 5 minutes more before the new guard lets me in to go through the electronic security check. I place all of my belongings into a plastic bin and prove to them that I am not a criminal carrying a lethal weapon. Unless you count the umbrella, but I think my water bottle would do more damage? I'd rather not fight though. That would mean that something went terribly wrong. Like a zombie apocalypse or something, and how awful would it be for our last normal day to be stuck at the préfecture de police.

I make it through to the next round. There is a new woman in front of me as a new queue forms. I overhear that she doesn't have a passport, because she is a refugee. I can only imagine how long and difficult the wait has been for her situation. Thankfully she is let through and receives her card. I am next.

The woman behind the glass stares into my soul. I show her that I've paid my dues of 225€‎ for this new residence permit. I waited so long to finally get this card. This card with a validity of only - four months. Four freaking months. And guess what? Not only did I pay 225€‎ for a four month card, the validity started three months ago and it would expire in a month.

"You need to start your renewal for that card... now."

I sigh before asking her my question.

"I started a new job that will let me qualify for a different type of residence permit*. I wasn't able to apply for it online three months ago, because I was told I could not have two requests at the same time. Do you know if the online system will update soon for me to apply?"

*(A residence permit that is reserved with some of the others and has the privilege of being done online rather than through their other system: by paper & in person).

"After 48 hours."

I wait 48 hours. The website doesn't work.

I try again the next day. I manage to log into my account. Something is not right.

Not only is the option to apply for this residence permit no longer visible. My birthdate is incorrect and my history of stay in France is missing. This was not how it was when I checked a few months ago.

I send them an email. They reply... the next week.

I send them screenshots of my issue. They reply and ask for the same screen shots.

I send them the same screenshots. They reply the week after.

We're playing pingpong, and I'm losing. Losing time.

There's this lovely café not far from work, and I had the luxury of going in for a petit-déj before work as a treat to myself. Adam's parents were horrible btw.

That is just an excerpt of what surviving feels like. I feel defeated. I feel helpless. I feel alone.

It is not all doom and gloom, and I do recognise my situation could be so much worse. I think it's just exhausting to have your security and validity of belonging tied to something that can be taken away from you at any moment i.e. your job.

Even if I try to do everything right or ahead of time. I am at the mercy of the administration.

"You're not a refugee! You're American!" The angry words of one of my boyfriend's best friends ring in my head as I replay the scene of us at a bar's terrace. I, a twenty-something year old adult being yelled at by another 'adult' about what right I had to feel the struggles of being a foreigner. In this case I am "too American". I feel the judgement of everyone there as they turn their head to see why this French person was yelling at this ignorant American.

Yet, when I say I am American, I also get the question, "What is your origin?" "Quel est votre origine?" What they're really asking is "Where are you really from?" Since I don't look like the represented Americans of the media.

Can I say this? Can I say that I feel too privileged to be understood by some and not enough to be understood by the others? Does this make sense? Can I express the loneliness it feels to be neither one or the other? To not be enough if I try my best but not in the worst case scenario either?

Don't worry, I talk to my therapist about all of this. Writing just helps me process and find solace in this merde.

Menton, France - when I visit places outside of Paris, I am always reminded of just how beautiful France is!

It's not all doom and gloom though. I try to remind myself to be grateful for various things.

I have food, shelter, social support, a job that I really enjoy, health, not too many acne break-outs (knock on wood as I recall the horrors of adult acne in uni), and I laugh daily as humour is part of my coping mechanism. Maybe trauma makes me funnier and a little more tight on money (therapy is expensive damn - but yay for a job so I can pay for it - see that is a privilege), but I am surviving. I am not thriving... yet. And all I really want right now is peace and a sense of security. With a sprinkle of more self-confidence. Am I greedy for asking for all of that?

Sometimes I wonder if I am being punished when I feel that I am hitting another road block. Only because sometimes I have Catholic guilt without being Catholic or ever having grown-up Catholic. I still recall past mistakes that make me wonder if I wronged someone so badly that I must get punished this way. I know everyone hypes up resilience and all, but can I catch a break? Like hold on, I need a boring season in my life of just normalcy please. Give me that filler episode!

I feel a little better already having written for the first time in over a year. I missed this.

Thanks for reading my plethora of thoughts and feelings. All in all, yes, things work out blah blah, but it's still tiring not knowing how it will work out... I am trying though. Every day. Some evenings, I do need to just lay in bed and be sad. But as Obama once said after the 2016 elections, "the sun will rise in the morning." Thanks, Obama :') Miss you.

I'm still going to work hard to get French dual nationality. I love being here. Yes, it's been really tough, but this is home for me now. It may take longer than I would have liked, but at least I have a good healthcare system that'll help me live longer as I wait for the day I am officially Franco-American. Though the stress is also counteracting that. I can't win them all.

Until my next post... hopefully a happier one about coffee shops in Paris, fashion, or summer holidays.

Sincerely,

Simi