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We wanted to immerse ourselves in the culture, museums, and the food!Instead we go a lesson in life on racism with a twist of hope attached to it.
We were taking a leisurely stroll around our hotel right before our dinner reservation time.
We were staying in the very fashionable Ark De Trimphant area and couldn't wait to get out and explore the neoclassical architecture that is prevalent in Paris.
Massive grey buildings that round corners, with huge windows..
before too long everything starting looking the same and we were lost! But there were plenty of cabs going by and we figured we'd catch one closer to our dinner reservation time.
Little did we know they won't stop for us.
At first we thought Paris must be like London, in London you are supposed to go to a taxi stand to hail a driver.
When we tried that, the drivers pulled down their not for hire signs in French even before we approached their doors.
And it wasn't like we didn't try to get directions from the people on the street.
It has been said that there are 100 different languages spoken on the streets of Paris each day and we were hard pressed to find anyone who spoke English.
Besides,my husband convinced me his high school French would just kick right in, needless to say that didn't work.
Then I clicked into an awareness...
wasn't Paris where those race riots happened?Do you remember them?All eyes were on Paris for nine days in November, 2004 when French Africans erupted and exploded after two teenage boys were electrocuted when they were being chased by the police.
The news media called them "African immigrants," even though those boys, like most of the rioters their parents and grandparents were French born.
French Africans rioted over lack of jobs, poor schools and bad housing.
I had my own "mini" riot going on with my husband as he got madder and madder that we could come all the way to Paris, and spend thousands of dollars and couldn't get a cab.
I started getting a sickening feeling in my stomach...
you know how it feels when everything is going wrong?I had to remember who I am and started to pray.
The next thing I knew there was a bakery across the street and knew we should go in there.
My husband was so angry he wouldn't come in.
We have walked now an hour and a half.
It is the dinner hour, and Parisians as is their custom are purchasing their fresh French bread for their evening meal.
There are ten or twelve people in line when I enter that shop, none of them turn around to look at me and I wonder if this how the French Africans felt in Paris...
ignored.
The woman behind the counter for some reason she notices me and waves me to the front of the line.
Maybe, she can tell by my face I am in trouble, or that I am the only person of color in the shop.
I try to explain to her the area we need to get back.
She talks back and forth to the gentlemen also behind the counter in French and she tells me we have to locate Hoche Avenue.
I think I remember Hoche I hope I did.
Right before I leave that shop I say one more prayer, "God please help me find Hoche Avenue.
As I am leaving the rear of the shop coming out the front doorway was someone I had not seen, a little red-headed boy, about eight or nine years old, with a yellow striped shirt and fresh French bread tucked under his arm.
He takes me to one of the oversized street signs that are on the corner of Paris and uses his bread like a pointer and shows us Hoche Avenue.
You are not going to believe this but he walked with us.
He was a typical little boy, skipped, patted a dog and stared at the soldier with the machine gun at the transit station.
Before I knew it an hour had passed and we were at Hoche Avenue.
I wonder what he told his mother?We never spoke.
When he turned to leave I waved and smiled and he waved back.
And I tried to send him all the love in my heart.
When we got back to the hotel and massaged our weary feet and legs from our three hour experience, I pondered the significance of all this.
I didn't have to go all the way to Paris to experience racism, I've gone through that right here at home.
Then I saw myself giving a speech and realized I was too share this experience.
And I must pose to you the same question I asked myself that night, "Are you capable of being the little red-headed boy for someone you meet on your journey of life?" For me the little red-headed boy represented the gift of hope for humanity.
It's a gift that we can all give that we don't even have to go to a store to purchase.
We give it when we show respect, understanding, and compassion for those of different cultures, religions, and races.
When you give the gift of hope to someone and they give to someone else, and they give it to someone else before you know it the world will be a better place!
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