The Algerian & The American: Or Notes on So-Called Progress

But more important than that, perhaps, was the relationship between American Negroes and Africans and Algerians in Paris, who belonged to France. It didn’t demand any spectacular degree of perception to realize that I was treated, insofar as I was noticed at all, differently from them because I had an American passport. I may not have liked this fact, but it was a fact.
–James Baldwin, Conversations with James Baldwin

Write a story about me, he said; when he found out I was a writer. I said I would, not quite sure if I was telling the truth—what could I possibly write about him?

It started with a move, a move that would take me from the posh side of town and the world of elegant embassies to an island the locals called Lorte Øen : Shit Island. This island is connected to the rest of Sjaelland, another island, in a nation of islands: Denmark. It was a move from the white walls of other peoples’ successes to the slightly messy, yet livelier walls of my own (at least this is what I say to myself as I struggle to shower in the coffin-like bathroom I am now confined to)

It isn’t as if I’m even used to living in posh neighborhoods: quite the contrary. My neighborhoods were either permeable black middle class, in which my family occupied the bottom strata or, when I started college, the neighborhoods I ended up in were always on the verge of gentrification with my presence seeming to speed up the process. (Recently a previous Williamsburgh roommate of mine prodded me to look up the word “gentrification” in Wikipedia, and a picture of our old home showed up)

But here in Denmark, after years of odd jobs here and there, I’d finally ended up at a job which although I was clearly over-qualified for (so said my boss during our interview), it offered me a reliable pay check. And through this job, I was able to rent a quite impressive apartment in an affluent part of the city, and quite unexpectedly, at least in other people’s eyes, I had arrived.

Your apartment is so beautiful, gasped visitors, as they commented on my high ceilings, large windows and bathroom which had a shower that was actually separate from the toilet (luxury in Denmark!) True, the apartment was gorgeous, but it had the nagging complication of being rented through my job, which to a commitment phobic like myself, was not a cool feeling to feel that your home was dependant on your job...
You still live like a college student my previous boss would chide me. I smiled in response, happy that I was not trapped by a sense of taste I obviously could not afford. The most important focus for me is to provide a stable home for myself and my son…and I knew the only way to do this was to get my own apartment, divorced from my place of employment.
To be fair, I adjusted quickly to life in Østerbro., my previous neighborhood. Before I had made fun of it and called it Switzerland for it lacked the diversity of both Nørrebro and Vesterbro. I’ve lived in both neighborhoods before: Nørrebro the most colorful of them all with a vibrancy that reminded me of New York. Vesterbro offered the same vibrancy, and had just entered the annals of hipness when I arrived. I never thought that I could like such a boring, quiet place as Østerbro, but in the end, it suited me very well. It was chill, lots of space and most importantly, quiet. I felt like I lived in the countryside despite the fact that I lived smack n the middle of the city.
But in the end I left, moving in to a neighborhood that reflected, more truthfully, my means. Amager is like old-school Queens, Brooklyn even. There’s a lack of pretension here that is refreshing. I’m now around everyday people, as opposed to an elite Expat community. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not dissing the latter, but it is nice to be more in touch with the people who’s country I happen to live in.
This time, the achievement seems less about having a beautiful apartment as it is about the fact that the apartment is mine.
I hired moving men, against my budget. They showed up, and I immediately assumed they were Southern European although it was clearly Arabic they spoke. Either my ears were untrained, or perhaps, I did not care much to listen. They were younger than I, muscled and clad in the now universal dress code of young men: baggy jeans, oversized t-shirts and hoodies. Where are you from? I couldn’t help asking. As a foreigner myself, I detested how constraining the question felt, feeling the person’s interest last only as long as my not-so-simple answer. However, much to my chagrin, I found myself doing the same whenever around people who looked like me. Sometimes people felt as annoyed by the question as I, but others understood the importance of sharing distant homes. “Palestine.” answered the one who seemed the youngest. He was also the most handsome. On a whole, they were all polite young men. The young man continued, “He’s from Morocco, Algeria and the last, Palestinian, like me. “ “Asalam Malakem”, I said, exercising the only Arabic I knew.
“And you? Where are you from?” He asked.
“Brooklyn,” I replied, “but my family is from the Caribbean and I also Iived there for a while too." It’s never an easy question to answer when you are the child of immigrants.

In the end, I was happy that I had I hired these young men to move. Moves on their own are stressful enough and although I was not rich, I still had to get accustomed to the fact that I could, technically, afford these luxuries. And I was moving into my first home, my first apartment. I never thought I could afford to own a place, but when I figured out the questions one had to ask to find out such things and began to the do the homework, it became clear that I could.

As they unloaded my boxes upon boxes of paper and books, one of the movers remarked, “If you need someone to paint, give me a call.” I was convinced I definitely couldn’t afford that, but found later, that he had scribbled his name on a piece of masking tape, which he had stuck to my kitchen cupboard.
The sign read, "Riad, French Teacher and painter", followed by his number. Even though I knew I would not consider hiring help to paint, I left the masking tape because I liked how it looked against the plainness of my cupboard door.

By the time I finished unpacking, the masking tape in the kitchen started making more sense. Maybe I could hire someone to help me paint? I went through my financial numbers and gave myself an insanely low limit to work with because after all, homeowner or not, I felt myself to still be without money, a feeling I realized that would always plague me unless I freed myself from the perils of fear.

He agreed to do it well under the going rate. I hadn’t expected him to. I will do it he said. No no, I insisted, I just wanted to hear what you charged. No, I will do it, he continued, we are both in a situation, you need your apartment painted and I need some money. He agreed to come on that very same day.

He painted vigorously and with heart. It was a demanding job and when it was time to pray, he excused himself silently and faced Mecca. He liked to talk in that way people who are lonely do: Openly and with no barriers. When I told him I wanted it all white, he demanded that I chose colour, something I had silently wanted to do anyway but had allowed myself to be dissuaded by my Danish ex-husband. Thank God for Africans, I thought, as I stood in the paint store with my son and seemingly new friend, enjoying the very middle class pastime of choosing a colour for my own room (It would be, at 37 years of age, my first room ever!) In the end I chose pink because what you resist, I know in the end, consumes you.

While he painted he told me stories of Algeria. He told me how suffocated he felt as he peppered his narration with quotes from Hegel and Descartes. He was an artist he told me, and when he lived in Algeria, a French teacher. I asked him to teach me French and he attempted, unaware of my low aural skills. He told me how he longed for a family and that at 35, he had yet to be with a woman. It is not my religion to be with a woman without being married he would tell me. Many of my friends, he would continue, they go with the Danish women so that they can get money and be able to live and work. Me? I stay with myself and wait for the perfect woman. I will not give my body for money.
When I have children, he would say, I will never hit them. In Algeria, they treat the children very badly. We compared stories of growing up in ex-colonies, he in Algeria, and I in Trinidad. Wooden rulers against soft youthful calves, schools a hide-away for sado-masochists disguised as teachers.
He told me of his sister, not that much older than I, who died of cancer. He told me of how he would tell her, even when she was on the verge of death, that she would get better. Didn’t you think that was cruel? I asked, immediately putting myself in his sister’s position and assuming, in that naïve way we do when we envision ourselves far from death, that I would want to know. No, he replied, and continued, because as long as she was alive, there was always hope.

He told me how much he loved France but how badly the French treated the Algerians. How much he wanted to go back, but had hoped to make some money in Denmark. I thought things must really be bad in France if he came to Denmark for money.
It must be hard to be living here illegally, I offered. I unpacked boxes full of nothingness I had no idea what to do with. Shoes I no longer wore, books I had hoped to read, dresses bought but only looked at. What was all this I lugged around? I am not here illegally he said, defensively. I am a French resident. I wanted to ask him if he was here legally, why was he painting my house for such an absurd amount? But I had learned that thing about gift horses.

In Denmark, there is the ubiquitous yellow Health Insurance Card. Every legal resident has one with their assigned cpr# which loosely, could be compared to the U.S.’s Social Security number. The only thing is, your cpr# is a highly centralized system where you can not see a doctor, visit a dentist, get a phone, borrow a book or sign up for school without one. In other words, you just about can’t even breathe in Denmark without one. In America, there were gray areas where it is possible to still eke out a living even if an illegal immigrant. In Denmark, you are either in, or you are out.

He showed up to work the next day late. Do you know why I am late? He asked. Because you are African? I joked. No, because I made these for you. He handed me two paintings, each with beautiful Arabic calligraphy. Each was a rendition of me and me son’s names in different styles of Arabic calligraphy. Wow, I said, wanting to say this is the shit, but out of respect for his religion, I gave him instead, a warm thank-you.

It is hard being an immigrant here, I once told him, frustrated by my own experiences as a migrant in this small country. He looked at me confused, but you are American, he said.

I am American. And what does this mean? I wondered. I had struggled my whole life with these labels that supposedly, succinctly told the whole world who I am. True I was born in Brooklyn, to immigrant parents, but my identity always seemed to shift depending on the environment I found myself. At home, amongst my family of all Trinidadian born members, I was the Yankee girl. At school, among mostly the descendents of Southern Blacks, Puerto Ricans and other Caribbean migrants, I was Trinidadian, or Jamaican, which to many always seemed to be the same thing. When I moved to Trinidad as a child, I again took on the burden of being American and when I returned to the U.S. I became Trinidadian again, until that moment I decided to discard my Caribbean accent and hopefully, just be. But of course the world will never let you go that easily. Now I was in Denmark and found myself American, Trinidadian and not least of all African American. But did any of these labels, truly ever reveal anything about me?

When I first arrived here it seemed that the only thing the Danish people I encountered wanted to know about the U.S. was Jerry Springer and Ricky Lake. Were Americans that stupid? They would ask. No, are Danes? No one else seemed to be disturbed by Danish public displays of black face and apparently, there was no discourse on race. Any attempt at such meant that I was being a sensitive American. I couldn’t bear getting into conversations with Danes about their use of the word Neger, as I was told by most that it was not meant the way in which Americans interpreted it.
You were, however, allowed to talk about race if you were a Dane. In fact, you get paid well for it. Take for example a Danish photographer who ventured out with nothing but a cheap camera and traveled the U.S. in the 70s. He was able to capture, so to speak, the Black American Experience and say, what every other person in their right mind would say, and “Racism exists!” But his color is his credibility and again, he has managed to make a very fine living off of black suffering.
Then there is the celebrated writer who does publicly what most yearns to do: he gets paid for his experience. Like any other thinking person, he traveled to Haiti and fell in love with her. Literally. He found the vestiges of colonial sexual politics awaiting him, ready to embrace him and alas, he was awarded instant status. I find the choice of a writer’s experiences very revealing.

But you are American, the Algerian painter said. You have that blue passport. You can travel anywhere. No, we both said at the same time, as he realized, as soon as he said it, what he had said. But I knew what he meant. I had a passport to privilege.
So what is my problem anyway?

He said, I wish I could have all this. He looks around at my apartment, a dripping paintbrush in hand. I quickly wiped up the paint he has spilled unto my newly washed wooden floors. I laugh, do you know how long it has taken me to get here? I’ve been in Denmark ten years, and have finally gotten a job close to what I would be doing if I remained at home. But as I said that, I realized it was still, in many eyes, “better” than where he, at 35, found himself.
I share an apartment with four others, he reminded me.
What could I say? I said nothing.

On the third day, I announced that I would like to take him out to lunch. It was the last day and although I repeatedly offered him more money for the job, he declined. A deal is a deal he said. I said I would do it for the amount agreed to. Ok then, let me take you out to lunch. This he accepted and together we went to what one could argue is one of the greatest inventions of the West: the shopping mall. As we made our way towards the door he spotted my camera, which he swooped up. Oh, if there is one thing I would really like, is a digital camera. Is this yours?
Yes.
Can I borrow it?
Yes.

The walk to the mall was uncomfortable. Why had I said yes? The truth was, I don’t know him. What if I never saw him again? Really, I thought, I should not lend it to him. What if I lost my camera? But there was another side of me that wanted to lend him the camera. That wanted to lend him something that would raise the quality of experience, if just for a moment. There was a part of me that wanted not to care if he never returned it, that wanted to have the openness of heart to bring happiness to another. But I kept on coming back to the possibility that I would perhaps never see my camera again, and in truth, I relied heavily upon it for my work. When I was younger I often did such things. I often let people borrow things that I felt uncomfortable lending. But the fact that I did not know him, over-rided all of my noble ideas of kindness. Instead I found myself fearful and suspicious. I decided at that moment, on the way to the mall, that I would not lend him my camera.
What is this thing that I allowed to come between my fellow human and me?

I can’t lend you the camera. I’m sorry. I just don’t feel comfortable lending something like that to someone I don’t know. To be honest, I wouldn’t even lend it to my friend. I use it a lot. There, I had said it. I would have never had said it years ago, so afraid that I would not be considered a nice girl. He told me he understood and we proceeded to lunch. But something had shifted.

The usually animated Algerian became quiet and sullen. We returned home and on the way I told him I would do my best to secure him one that he could borrow. I was resourceful and knew that if I put me mind to it, I could find him something. No, no, he said, as he readied himself to go. As I let him out, I felt a wave of relief that the painting was done, and to be truthful, that I would perhaps never see him again.
Let’s examine that last line. What I mean is, I found his existence jarring. It made me uncomfortable to be around someone who was so without. I felt, when around him, a hunger in his eyes when he looked upon my life. I didn’t feel he saw me, but the materialness of what I was surrounded by. To be fair, I have done the same. When I attended a very elite college in the West Village, I immediately dismissed two-thirds of the other students because they were well off. I know it’s horrible, but it was hard for me to identify any humanity in privilege. Now I myself was reflecting out into this world, the very privilege I had detested in others, and to be around someone else without it made me feel, well, guilty.

It was late when I received the text message:
I am wounded. I don’t believe you didn’t trust me after I painted your house.
I replied:
I am sorry to have hurt your feelings. Again, I would not even lend my camera to a friend.
It was early the following morning when the next message arrived:
Eat your camera with beans. My friendship is worth a lot and I do not want yours.

I contemplated the situation. I sat in me newly painted house, the house that was painted for well below the going rate. I had wanted to give him more money but he would not accept it. I had even offered him a bike, something that would have come in handy in Copenhagen, but again, he declined, I am Algerian, he said, I have my pride. What had happened here?
It was my apartment. I should feel proud, so many of me friends and family would tell me. But why didn’t I? Part of me felt fearful. During the entire time in his presence, I felt that pent up anger and frustration I too experienced when life didn’t seem to give you what you felt yourself entitled to. But what is it that we all want? While here, he expressed that he had wanted the same things I had. He wanted children, a family, and a career, to continue his education. But because he was Algerian, he said, he could not access these things as readily as, say, I could.
I had never thought of my life as privileged before. I grew up to immigrant parents who sometimes, were on welfare. I wore the hand-me-downs of neighbors and repeatedly felt the wrath of my father’s own pent up frustrations on my skin. I grew up with eviction notices pasted to front doors and witnessed teenage pregnancies, imprisonment, shoot-outs. But I, through some miracle, managed to get myself to college through a spirit of community of those around me. I managed, because others, sometimes strangers, gave me the benefit of the doubt. Why hadn’t I been prepared to do the same for him?
I also knew instinctively that his nasty text messages, of which there were more of, weren’t directed at me. I knew that he was frustrated. He wanted to work. He wanted to earn money. He wanted to have love. He wanted to have children…and that I had become a convenient target for his frustrations.
A few weeks later I received a text from him: Hi. Pls could u give my towel to the one we worked for last time. Thank u in advance. Riad.
He had left a towel here. The message was innocuous enough and I was happy to receive some news from him that was not tainted with any bitterness. Sure, I replied, and we arranged for me to drop it off for him at a barbershop close to where he lived. I had considered putting extra money in it for him, finding a digital camera even…but in the end, I wrapped up the towel in an ordinary plastic bag and delivered it, as promised, to his friend in the barbershop. I decided against any acts of reconciliation, because throughout our entire communiqué I felt he was not listening to me, but instead projecting his own frustrations. I had wanted to help him, but his volatile nature, at this point, scared me, and I wanted no more of him.
When I told him I would drop his towel off as asked, he replied, Thank u because I will leave dk and im still jobless. Pls leave it with the hairdresser in front of Castro Café. He is my friend. Thank u again.
I detected some softness in his tone. Perhaps there was a chance that we could patch things up? I replied that I would do it right away and that I wished him all the best and that I had learned a lot from our brief time together. I had even told him that I had written that story he had asked me to write to which he replied, Really? Thank u Pls give me a copy and if you buy the story give me my right of publishing it lol need money…See u.
Wow, I thought, he was coming around. Not wanting to push things to where they had gotten before I dropped his towel off as promised, hoping in my heart that there could be some sort of reconciliation.
After I dropped his towel off, I exited the barbershop and made a telephone call. I was in Norvest, one of the more vibrant and colourful neighborhoods in Copenhagen. Nørrebro Station is in fact, the one train station in Copenhagen which reminds me of Flatbush Avenue. As I was talking on the phone, two kids pass by and parrot my American English. “Can you speak English?” I ask, and they stop. Yes we can. They are about twelve. One is from Somalia, the other Iraq. Where are you from? They ask me. I laugh. Brooklyn. It registers nothing in their minds. New York, I say, knowing that they will at least know that. You know Fifty-cent the Somalian boy asks. I laugh. Hey, look at that BMW! He exclaims, and I follow his brown finger to a shiny black car cruising its way down Nørrebrograde. What else do you like besides fancy cars? Ferraris, Bentleys…
No, no, no, I laugh. Do you like to read? Yes, they say, and we continue to talk until another dope car takes their attention away from me.

There is a generation of children here in Denmark who I feel connected to. They, like me, are the children of immigrants. The racism that I see enacted upon them is not much unlike what has happened and continues to happen in the U.S. Many of these kids borrow heavily from African American culture, finding in it a linguistic shelter that either expresses or formulates their reality. I have traveled around the world and have been in sheer awe at how no matter where I go, I see young people dressing like the boys and girls on Dekalb Avenue. In many ways, Riad, the Algerian painter’s story is no different from my fathers, or my mother’s, except that he is much better educated. I am sure, in many Algerian’s eyes, he is the privileged. I am sure in many others’ eyes, these kids who I stood talking to in one of Copenhagen’s so-called ghettos are the privileged, just as I can now count myself among them as well. But what good is this privilege if I direct it upon jealousy guarding my idols, my possessions? And on the other hand, what gave Riad the sense of entitlement to assume that it was a great insult for me to not lend him something that was, in effect, mine? And what are these things that are yours, that are mine, that shed such distance between us?
I will never know if I did the right thing by not lending him my camera. Part of me is proud that I did not lend something to someone I did not know. Part of me believes it expresses some sort of delayed maturity on my part, to finally get that the world is not about letting strangers into your life so recklessly. But part of me misses the language that I know Riad so clumsily tried to communicate with me in, a language that I grew up with, that is dying slowly, as the great demise of Western society—the nuclear family, envelopes us and this is what this language sounds like:
I did you a favor by painting your house, now you do me a favor by lending me your camera.
My grandmother and generation spoke such a language and so helped each other when the going got tough. It is what solidified communities and ensured our survival. But now, suspicion and fear have displaced this language, and now I find myself talking the language of the now, the language of the me, the language of mine. And I don’t like it.

I held the camera in my hands and just then, another text message came through:
You have been in this country too long. You have become like them. And all I could do was sigh.