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Sometimes It just doesn’t make any sense just sitting around staring at the blank face of a computer, waiting for something brilliant, witty, intelligent …or just anything to appear. Too many diversions out there in the summer to sit isolated in a small paper-strewn space.
It’s August, after all.
Time to just go to the beach!
A word of advice to American Blacks in France. Don’t let Africans bait you with issues of racism in France. If you are an American and Black in France, confronted with the same bait, I suggest you resist the temptation to discuss something we are entirely unqualified to discuss.
I suppose you’re wondering how it would be possible for a Black American living in France to be unqualified to discuss racism.
First we are not French. Nor are we from a former French colony. We are not looking for work or any support from a people who had colonized our African country. Our primary experience has been American Institutional racism which has continually evolved for over 500 years.
Obama, not withstanding.
According to the media and immigration patterns, Africa is riddled with ethnic strife. Racism! The kind of ethnic strife between Blacks in Africa has resulted in huge numbers of Africans from various tribes fleeing to every continent on the globe.
Why would Europeans who have had to relinquish their African colonies want to deal with the same people, now in Europe, who threw them out? What kind of ethnocentric arrogance would demand that European tribes be less racist than any African tribe?
Despite the fact that from the very beginning American Blacks’, who were imports from various African societies, purpose was to help build a brand new country for Caucasian people at the expense of Native Americans, we have never been considered Americans” We are simply a kind over ever-present reminder of Caucasian moral transgressions, in every way from the diverse characters of our features due to miscegenation, to the fact that we can actually survive all manner of insult and condescension, with a pride and flair which elicits envy, respect and admiration throughout the world.
No African in Europe has had to deal with the systematic racism that has tortured black Americans for over 500 years. They never sat on the back of the bus in Europe unless they wanted to.
On the other hand, Black Americans, produced and harvested the nation’s produce, built the cities, nurtured the children and handled all the dirty work of the nation with minimal rewards. We faced fire hoses, lynchings, police dogs at voting booths and lunch counters in our very own country.
It has only taken a few decades for France to confront its own racism, America is still tackling ours.
And don’t get all excited about a post racial America, simply because we elected Obama. Obama is an African American. The majority of Americans who chose to elect Obama reminds me of something my Grandparents and Parents told me. You see, back in the days of Jim Crow laws which didn’t allow Blacks in restaurants and hotels among other places, it was a well known fact that if a Black donned African or Middle Eastern garb, they would be welcomed into the same establishments in which black Americans would be refused.
Chew on that for a while.
It appears to me, with the rate that France is confronting its racism, she will probably elect a Black French President long before America elects an indigenous Black one!
Cicley Tyson age 70+
The late, great Lena Horne 93
Ask any French Woman and she will most likely tell you that of all the world’s women, Italian (ie: Sophia Loren) and Black American (ie: Tina Turner) women are the most chic and age the most gracefully. I can attest to this having lived in France for over a decade.
In my personal opinion, no one cuts the air as elegantly as our confident, successful American Women in all our ethnic diversity. Just take another look at this roster of American women of “ a certain age” who all have that certain je ne sais quoi: Faye Dunaway; Jane Fonda; Angela Bassett, Rita Moreno, Cicely Tyson, Dionne Warwick, Connie Chung, Barbara Streisand and the late great Lena Horne.
Every time I read or hear about the « chicness » of French women, I assume that the person commenting had never been to America and simply looked around.
When I find that the individual is in fact, American, I assume a blind person is speaking and has been completely dependant on the descriptions given to him or her by French fashion designers or French cosmetics manufacturers.
It seems that all a French woman has to do is don a black tea shirt wrap some sort of scarf around her neck, and American women swoon and fall at their feet. Some even run off and write entire books around the Gallic female icon of fashion and sophistication.
I suppose the French Chamber of Commerce appreciates the American publishing industry’s contributions to their coffers.
At what point did American women loose their pride and their appreciation for their own taste and fashion ingenuity?
To tell you the truth, for the most part I personally feel slightly “over dressed” …so to speak…living in France.
Sex and the City the Movie
I stood speechless.
Standing outside of the movie theatre in Nice, France, my husband and I looked at one another… completely perplexed…shrugged our shoulders and went to dinner.
We had waited until the initial hullabaloo had subsided, before seeing this movie at the Rialto, in Nice, France.
Why would a movie such as this meet with such virulent attacks from the American media?
The women were called Ugly Americans; the wardrobe was criticized as garish and tasteless!
As a staunch fan of the designers whose fashions were showcased in the movie I took personal offence at condescending critiques of the colourful and innovative designs.
As far as “ugly Americans” go, other than Samantha, who in my opinion, remained firmly in character… whether in America or Abu Dhabi… everyone seemed to be simply enjoying themselves on a heavenly all expenses paid vacation in a glamorous Middle Eastern destination.
The way the reviewers wrote up the movie, one would have thought the “the girls” had trampled with lofty disdain over Palestinian Muslims in Israel, or something. Perhaps the repercussions of the present economic recession are causing the general public to experience an envy-inspired queasiness to high-end vacation fantasies.
I don’t recall any period of history in any Western country where an economic recession remained permanent. Why should we give up dreaming of the things we might enjoy after the clouds of impending poverty have lifted and gone away?
Personally, I also enjoyed the lively and compassionate explorations of male/female relationships and the issues surrounding the responsibilities of parenting between close friends. Do the reviewers no longer recognize the value of relationships of this kind?
. Mirthful fantasies of exotic faraway places, wonderfully frivolous clothing and friendships with other human beings have been rendered classless and superficial.
Would “Sex and the City, the Movie 2″ have received better reviews had it taken place among the Anacondas in the Amazon Jungles instead of a Middle Eastern desert?
I wonder.
The magnificently camp Negresco Hotel in Nice, France inspired the novel Ladyfingers, in addition to over a decade of living and socializing on the French Riviera.
THE Negresco Hotel was built in 1912 by Romanian immigrant Henri Negresco and designed by one of the most talented architects of the “Belle Epoque”, Edward Neimans.
Located on the famous Baie des Anges, it was classified as a historical monument in 2003 and remains one of the few private Palaces in the world.
It boasts of a high profile and the wealthiest of clientele.
Jean Augier owner and CEO since 1957 has created a living museum which showcases the art, furniture and architecture of the periods from the Renaissance to the Present. The hotel’s collections includes such artists as Moretti, Dali, Sosno and Nikki de Saint Phalle.
It is definitely a “must visit” on a French Riviera itinerary.
Excerpt from LADYFINGERS: A Novel
“Muriel McCracken had left everyone and everything behind. Well, not everyone.
She had every intention of waiting for Eddie to get out of the Penn. But
she left her family, her country, her brand new Cadillac (Madame Bozell had
told her that her car would be too large for the narrow roads of Europe) and
the Condo she had bought in Beverly Hills after she received her Publisher’s
Clearing House money.
She had hired Madame Arthuretta Bozell and her Ladyfingers lifestyle makeover service to teach her the things she needed to know as a millionairess.
She took with her to France, a brand new look, her decorater-magazine
subscriptions, some new manners, Madam Bozell’s Guide to Elegant and Proper Behavior and Presentation, a big fat book called a thesaurus, nearly 20 million dollars…less Eddie’s legal fees…and a brand new name.
She had decided she’d become a socialite, while she waited for Eddie’s
release. Muriel decided to rename herself as Countess Sara Haggener…in
memory of he beloved Grandmother, Sarah Mae Haggener.
She bought herself a brand new Mercedes, convertible sports car as soon as she arrived in France and christened it with the name “Sadie”. She and Sadie conversed quite often together, since she had known no one else in all of Europe to talk to. She wrote Eddie often. He loved reading about her new life and he had told her that he was looking forward to meeting her friend “Sadie”.
Eddie, too, had always liked those Mercedes sports cars.
As soon as she arrived in the South of France, she had checked into the
Negresco Hotel in Nice. Madame Bozell had recommended it, telling her that
many famous people stayed there.
When she arrived to check in, she had burst out laughing. It looked exactly like the birthday cake that Eddie had ordered for her for her 40th birthday, over ten years ago.
But the hotel had been a wonderful place to start a new life. Oodles of celebrity-types passed through on their vacations and it was just across the street from the beach. It wasn’t the best beach in the world, because it was full of rocks and no sand…but it was different. On the private part of the beach, they had those mattresses and umbrellas…uhm…parasols…you could rent and have cute beach boys serve you food and drinks and things.
Just the kind of treatment a Countess was looking for.
Muriel…uh…Countess Haggener…created a story for the people she
would undoubtedly soon be meeting.
Since she was from Atlanta…well…from near Atlanta…and still had her
southern accent, she would tell people that she was from a rich, old, Southern
family. She would claim to be a member of the D.A.R…the Daughters of the
American Revolution…that she had read about in one her high society magazines.
She would tell them that she had been married to an English Count.
Since Madame Bozell had hired those people who taught Muriel how to sail (since she had heard that rich people did this sort of thing), she would say that her husband died tragically 10 years ago in a boating …”
Blogging From A Broad :
What is an Expat?
Who am I? What am I? Expat? Refugee? Immigrant (certainly felt that way living on the weak and erratic dollar for the past 8 years)? Artist? Gringo? Defector? Adventurer? Long time resident of the French Riviera? An American who enjoys living France?
Below are two definitions of Expatriate that I found interesting:
*one who lives outside one’s own country; One who has been banished from one’s own country; To banish; to drive or force (a person) from his own country; to make an exile of; To withdraw from one’s native country; To renounce the rights and liabilities of citizenship where one is born …
en.wiktionary.org/wiki/expatriate
*ex patriate – A person who has abandoned his or her country of origin and citizenship and has become a subject or citizen of another country.
www.irishclaims
Most of the Americans I have met, proudly call themselves Expats! The word itself has come to represent glamour, exotic choices, worldly intellegencia, café life…
But you see, my problem is with the prefix!
EX-!
When I think of “ex”-something…I think of EX-husbands, EX-friends, EX-boyfriends, EX-roommates…EX-change…uhh …oh…never mind… but I think you get the point.
In the mid eighties, I took a vacation to visit the beaches of the French Riviera. I fell in love….no, not with a Frenchman, I was already happily and firmly married…with the light and colors of the Mediterranean. From Monaco to Saint Tropez. I was captivated by the foods of the region, the markets, boutiques, the souk of Nice (the Old Town), the laid back pleasures of the South. The politesse of the population. I kept coming back to the area until my husband and I were able to move here in 1999. I sold my business, published my first novel, my husband retired, and we left Dodge City (New York City) to move to the sunny Côte d’Azur.
Permanently?
Who knows.
Am I an Expat?
I am an American. An eighth generation American, female of African, Irish, Native American ancestry, who lives in France with my American spouse of Russian, Scottish, English ancestry, because we love the food…and the National Healthcare System.
For those who consider themselves expats, or would like to be….I just wanted to touch base and seduce you over to my website: www.deloryswelchtyson.com.
August 3, 2010
theladyd
