PARIS METRO/ Beauty Reals
PARIS METRO
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It was the fall of 1998. I was a young model/receptionist who'd set her sights on Paris. At twenty-five and engaged to my college sweetheart, a very enthusiastic casting agent had said, “Black women are exotic in Europe; Paris is where your career begins.”
Although her words indicated the limited career of a model, a black model especially, they compelled me to realize my dream of becoming a successful model; to experience a lifestyle befitting the stylish and well-read; to finally become the accomplished woman I wished to be. So I boarded a plane to Paris carrying a single suitcase, a detailed list of French Modeling Agencies, and the dream I'd held in my heart since the sixth grade.
My fiancé (now husband) had advised, "Do not set your hopes so high," and wished me well in the same breath. When I arrived in Paris, I settled into atiny hotel room in the 4th Arrondissement, prepared to visit as many modeling agencies as possible. The plan was to sign with the agency offering the most significant contract and rent a pied-a-tier with other young American models (because that’s what you do in Paris).
Although her words indicated the limited career of a model, a black model especially, they compelled me to realize my dream of becoming a successful model; to experience a lifestyle befitting the stylish and well-read; to finally become the accomplished woman I wished to be. So I boarded a plane to Paris carrying a single suitcase, a detailed list of French Modeling Agencies, and the dream I'd held in my heart since the sixth grade.
My fiancé (now husband) had advised, "Do not set your hopes so high," and wished me well in the same breath. When I arrived in Paris, I settled into a
A fellow model/the face of several national hair campaigns, who'd already had reputable agents in NY and LA, traveled with me. For the purposes of this essay, I'll call her Patricia. Patricia and I were polar opposites. Our dreams were not aligned, but she had no desire to live out any fantasy in Europe. Also, Patricia insisted that her agents pushed this trip on her. And yet, she lost
Once in Paris, we immediately set out on a full day of agency visits and go-sees. Later that day, we'd had dinner at a local cafe famous for its roast chicken. Patricia, of course, ordered the chicken but had refused to order "en Francais." Her resistance confused me. We'd purchased the same English to French translation books. So she was well versed in basic French terminology, yet she'd insisted on speaking English.
After an uncomfortable exchange with our waiter, Patricia's chicken arrived whole, poached, and pale. She then yelled at our waiter, “I did not order this-take it back!” Our waiter offered no verbal response but instead had instructed us to leave, pointing only one finger toward the exit, which happened to be a gorgeous set of heavy painted wood doors-doors I had swooned over in magazines. Once again, Patricia had refused to cooperate. Moments later, three French policemen stormed the cafe with guns strapped to their bodies and escorted us to the street.
After an uncomfortable exchange with our waiter, Patricia's chicken arrived whole, poached, and pale. She then yelled at our waiter, “I did not order this-take it back!” Our waiter offered no verbal response but instead had instructed us to leave, pointing only one finger toward the exit, which happened to be a gorgeous set of heavy painted wood doors-doors I had swooned over in magazines. Once again, Patricia had refused to cooperate. Moments later, three French policemen stormed the cafe with guns strapped to their bodies and escorted us to the street.
Outside, Patricia screamed obscenities while I, embarrassed at how she'd behaved, wanted to stay; respect the culture; apologize for Patricia’s rudeness; be embraced by Parisian locales, its locals, itself. But unfortunately, I'd somehow fallen into the category of Bitchy American model. I decided that I'd travel around Paris alone for the rest of the trip.
Traveling through an unfamiliar city alone seemed the right thing to do at the time. So I roamed around Paris as lost in its streets as I was in life. My high-heeled wheels spinning on cobblestone sidewalks covered in crimson and gold foliage brought Dorothy's yellow brick road to mind. After all, I was also a weary traveler on a search for my rightful home. If not for a pit stop at the world-famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore, I may have lost my way.
I entered through its worn green glass doors. I ignored the cluttered ground floor as I walked straight to the back, where I climbed a rickety back staircase, which led to a gloriously claustrophobic second-floor study where handwritten wishes and quotes littered its peeling, plastered walls. I marveled at the arbitrary words and ghostly initials of famed writers, poets, and laureates. Some of which were carved into small wooden chairs. I placed my own handwritten wish just above a small writing desk at the top of the steps, off to the left. My note was brief: I wish to be here forever. I'd meant every word. For a brief moment, I pondered the thought of actually staying in Paris forever and what that would mean for my life. And as I stood in that dank, books-abound dwelling that smelled of old ink and cedar and sweet cigars, I felt honored to inhale the same dusty air Baldwin and Wright once had. Despite my sincerest wish to make a life in Paris, I knew that moment would forever live in my heart.
I entered through its worn green glass doors. I ignored the cluttered ground floor as I walked straight to the back, where I climbed a rickety back staircase, which led to a gloriously claustrophobic second-floor study where handwritten wishes and quotes littered its peeling, plastered walls. I marveled at the arbitrary words and ghostly initials of famed writers, poets, and laureates. Some of which were carved into small wooden chairs. I placed my own handwritten wish just above a small writing desk at the top of the steps, off to the left. My note was brief: I wish to be here forever. I'd meant every word. For a brief moment, I pondered the thought of actually staying in Paris forever and what that would mean for my life. And as I stood in that dank, books-abound dwelling that smelled of old ink and cedar and sweet cigars, I felt honored to inhale the same dusty air Baldwin and Wright once had. Despite my sincerest wish to make a life in Paris, I knew that moment would forever live in my heart.
On my way to yet another modeling agency that was sure to say, "You're a beautiful girl, just not right for us," I walked along the Seine River. Like most first-timers, I purchased the ubiquitous tiny Renoir landscape, which I still treasure. Yet distraction after lovely distraction, I stayed mindful of my mission as I hopped on a Paris metro heading toward the 7th Arrondissement.
As soon as I entered the train, a stranger appeared before me. A woman. Worn down. Her left eye was covered in purple bruises and sealed shut. Her face curved in on one side as if dented in an accident or by something or someone far more deliberate. She gripped a small bag containing God-knows-what as if it were all she had. She sat hunched over in dark and tattered clothing and wore a shortly cropped afro, her gaze low and heavy. She'd brought enslaved ancestors I'd only ever seen in history books to mind. Women of enormous strength moved stealthily through life and carried the world's weight on their shoulders. I stared at that woman with an intensity rivaling awe while my heart grew swollen with compassion. I experienced a twinge of guilt, having rushed to and fro swanky modeling agencies while they promoted perfect images of fresh, new faces, which I was. Yet I couldn't help recount the hardships of the many women who'd come before me. So I thought to myself that I'd dare pursue my dreams if not for their struggles. It was as if a lightbulb flashed above my head when at that moment, it occurred to me that my face may never grace the cover of a magazine or find its light during a high-profile photoshoot. And I may never get the chance to make a life in Paris, though the opportunity awaited me because of those who'd fought many less than exciting fights. Suddenly my pursuit felt empty. Tears streamed down my face as the train stopped. I exited its doors with that woman, and her apparent struggle stained my memory.
So that when I reached the final agency on my list, and they'd said, "You are not right for us,” that rejection was but a part of my journey, and I was not at all swayed.
As soon as I entered the train, a stranger appeared before me. A woman. Worn down. Her left eye was covered in purple bruises and sealed shut. Her face curved in on one side as if dented in an accident or by something or someone far more deliberate. She gripped a small bag containing God-knows-what as if it were all she had. She sat hunched over in dark and tattered clothing and wore a shortly cropped afro, her gaze low and heavy. She'd brought enslaved ancestors I'd only ever seen in history books to mind. Women of enormous strength moved stealthily through life and carried the world's weight on their shoulders. I stared at that woman with an intensity rivaling awe while my heart grew swollen with compassion. I experienced a twinge of guilt, having rushed to and fro swanky modeling agencies while they promoted perfect images of fresh, new faces, which I was. Yet I couldn't help recount the hardships of the many women who'd come before me. So I thought to myself that I'd dare pursue my dreams if not for their struggles. It was as if a lightbulb flashed above my head when at that moment, it occurred to me that my face may never grace the cover of a magazine or find its light during a high-profile photoshoot. And I may never get the chance to make a life in Paris, though the opportunity awaited me because of those who'd fought many less than exciting fights. Suddenly my pursuit felt empty. Tears streamed down my face as the train stopped. I exited its doors with that woman, and her apparent struggle stained my memory.
So that when I reached the final agency on my list, and they'd said, "You are not right for us,” that rejection was but a part of my journey, and I was not at all swayed.
Back at the hotel, Patricia sat draped in a pink silk robe, holding a glass of red wine up to her matte red lips. She looked miserable. I asked her how her day had gone. She replied in a huff, “I have to choose between three agencies by tomorrow. After that, my agent will send me to Italy for the shows-I hate Europe.”
Patricia's awful model attitude aggravated the hell out of me, but I congratulated her anyway. She'd no clue my Parisian dreams had come to an end. Also, I'd had no need to share with her that I was directionless and awkward before arriving in Paris. I'd fallen into modeling the same way I’d fallen in love by accident. And that somewhere between graduating high school and the real world, I'd lost my way, shifting my priorities just to survive; I'd forgotten what it meant to be happy in my own skin; to smile for no reason; to rejoice in a moment; to live. Pictures taken by professional photographers reflected a joyless, sad girl. One whose outside served as a mask and whose inside was desperate for healing. There were days I couldn't tolerate my own reflection, becoming so critical of myself that I'd fallen apart. I'd also refrained from telling her that the burden of emptiness had rendered me blind to the fact that pursuit without purpose is desolate, but Paris had changed everything.
Before heading to bed, I called my fiancé and cried. Although many were tears of defeat, some had to do with women who never got the chance to pursue their dreams. Yet most were for that woman I saw on a Paris metro, who'd reminded me of whose shoulders I stand on; the woman who'd brought my wandering eyes to tears and unknowingly flashed a much-needed mirror my way. I knew then I would make it my mission to encourage women of all ages to seek that which makes their hearts overflow with goodness. On my long flight home from Paris to New York, I realized that while Paris was not where I would begin my life or my career, it was the place I found myself.
Patricia's awful model attitude aggravated the hell out of me, but I congratulated her anyway. She'd no clue my Parisian dreams had come to an end. Also, I'd had no need to share with her that I was directionless and awkward before arriving in Paris. I'd fallen into modeling the same way I’d fallen in love by accident. And that somewhere between graduating high school and the real world, I'd lost my way, shifting my priorities just to survive; I'd forgotten what it meant to be happy in my own skin; to smile for no reason; to rejoice in a moment; to live. Pictures taken by professional photographers reflected a joyless, sad girl. One whose outside served as a mask and whose inside was desperate for healing. There were days I couldn't tolerate my own reflection, becoming so critical of myself that I'd fallen apart. I'd also refrained from telling her that the burden of emptiness had rendered me blind to the fact that pursuit without purpose is desolate, but Paris had changed everything.
Before heading to bed, I called my fiancé and cried. Although many were tears of defeat, some had to do with women who never got the chance to pursue their dreams. Yet most were for that woman I saw on a Paris metro, who'd reminded me of whose shoulders I stand on; the woman who'd brought my wandering eyes to tears and unknowingly flashed a much-needed mirror my way. I knew then I would make it my mission to encourage women of all ages to seek that which makes their hearts overflow with goodness. On my long flight home from Paris to New York, I realized that while Paris was not where I would begin my life or my career, it was the place I found myself.
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