I am an immigrant worker

I feel like more of an immigrant here in Paris than I ever was in America. Going to class, looking for a job, in daily interactions, I’m acutely aware of how competent I am in English. (Have you ever used a cappuccino machine before? No, only simple coffee machines, but I’m sure I could learn. I’m a hard worker. Non, jamais.)

Despite feeling in over my head applying to a job where I would speak French all the time (Why would they want to hire me??), I neglect to realize how many are forced to do that all over the world. So I stopped worrying about applying to French jobs, even though it still surprised me that French restaurants would consider me at all. That’s when I realized I had passed from tourist to immigrant.

Yet I’m still a First World immigrant—I have English to revert to (and use as an asset) when French does not work, an international language that most speak at least a little of. People will always see me, an American in Paris, as more of a tourist than an immigrant. Interesting how the term “expat” itself tends to refer to a certain class of immigrants.

And I’m of course also just not an immigrant. A boy I babysit for actually told me I was French, since he didn’t understand I was leaving soon to return to the US. Having tried to not be a bum on and off for a month now, I have resigned myself to retiring back into my bubble of expat privilege, though the application process was an eye-opening experience.

Moral of the story is…don’t be mean to immigrants.

Word.