My Parisian Love Story Is Nothing Like the Movies
Young, single American girls who run off to Paris might expect to have a fling with a Parisian man who, baguette in hand, can tell a Monet from a Manet as well as he can kick a soccer ball; they're looking to meet their Pierre, Jean-Claude, or Philippe. For me, it was Mohamed.
I didn't come to Paris looking for a cliché. Picturesque strolls along the Seine, fingers intertwined with a foreign lover and stomach filled with Camembert and wine, were not what I imagined when I dreamt of my new life as a graduate student in France. I wanted a boyfriend as much as I wanted a cashmere beret (so: not at all). Things worked out differently, but not in the classic sense of a Parisenne romance.
We met at the Crazy Violin, a bar nestled away in the bustling, historic Latin Quarter. Descending the sticky, beer-splashed spiral stairs, I caught Mohamed's eye, thanks to my leopard print coat. He says he was captivated by the bold pattern, and the confidence that radiated from the American underneath. I think the truer story is that I was the last attempt he had made in flirting with a series of girls that night, and the coat made for a good pickup line. Whatever version you hear, my decision to chat with the guy who introduced himself to me as Momo from Morocco has changed not only our lives, but the lives of our families, our friends, even acquaintances.
He'd never even been to the U.S., let alone dated an American girl. And he was the first Muslim man I'd gone out with.
Our story started off like a traditional romance. First date: a coffee at Place de la Sorbonne. He couldn't have looked more European, with a scarf tied around his neck serving no practical purpose. We sipped espressos and talked about our pasts, dodging all sensitive topics in the realm of religion and politics. Second date: A drink. I noticed the fact that he drank alcohol and wasn't shy about it. Aren't Muslims not supposed to do that? Isn't it banned, like pork? Still on the list of topics we wouldn't address, at least not yet. He'd never even been to the U.S., let alone dated an American girl. And he was the first Muslim man I'd gone out with. Third date: dinner at a French bistro. And fourth: a stroll through the Impressionist wing at my favorite museum on the one night it's open late. Momo came straight from work, dapper in a suit, apologetic and cordial, with the spirited smile of a child.
I had officially fallen for him.
The dapper Frenchman stereotype is a striped-shirt-wearing, baguette-bearing Louis who can recite Victor Hugo and worships Zidane. But obviously, it's common to meet an Arab man in France. With approximately five million residents of Muslim descent, France is home to the largest number of Muslims living in the European Union. It would be weird if I didn't meet any Muslim friends, and also probably weird if I didn't meet a Mohamed in the two years I've been in France. (It's one of the most popular men's names worldwide.)
Mohamed is the name of an Islamic prophet and means "praised one," or "praiseworthy." As a partner, he's lived up to the name. He goes by the shortened name "Momo," because, like many of us, he has a nickname. But this does make certain work and social environments easier because Mohamed doesn't always meet great reactions from the occidental ear. In a world where Islamophobia is at its peak, people don't hear the name, they hear "Muslim." While I see beauty and family legacy in his name, other people see something to be feared. Even though Muslims are often the biggest targets of terrorist groups, we live in a world where too many people see Muslims as only aggressors, never victims.
Religion is important to Momo's family just as its been for Momo; practicing Islam has helped him feel connected to home after leaving his town of Agadir to study in Paris. Little by little, I began to learn about the traditions behind Momo's religion. I've learned that Ramadan, for example, is not just about a holy month of fasting, it's a time where Momo feels closer to God. He finds himself in a retrospective state, questioning his own religious devotion, his life path, and his definition of morality. The way he describes the marathon eating that concludes Ramadan– family visits and festivities start with a massive breakfast, followed by his grandmother's famous chicken tajine and a deep sleep - reminds me of the Sunday family affairs often hosted by my mom. I've also observed the comfort his family finds in consistent prayer, which, for his parents, is five times a day.
Momo and I became more serious around the same time as the November 13 attacks on Paris, and it pushed us closer, making no topic off limits anymore. Identity, religion, and stereotypes became part of our daily conversation. I wanted to know if he experienced the attacks differently than me. In addition to the communal grief that transformed Paris, was he worried about the misconceptions growing about Islam? He wasn't; he told me the people he surrounded himself with knew better. But to me this didn't feel like enough. The world was moving backwards and I felt-naively, yes, but also optimistically-we were responsible for changing something, for using our relationship as an archetype for tolerance. But this turned out to be far from simple.
As Islamophoic rhetoric grew stronger than ever in France, so too did it in the U.S., with Trump's proposed ban on Muslims. It felt like everyone was being put into categories and Momo and I never fell into the same one.
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I assumed my family would be immediately accepting because my parents looked at our relationship without seeing race or religion. So when I discovered my parents had been asked by a family member if they'd seen the movie The Wind and the Lion, a film about an American woman abducted in Morocco, I was outraged. But I was also embarrassed to tell Momo that the connection had been made, as if to warn my parents that my boyfriend might be "dangerous." I was prepared for the judgment our relationship would get from the outside, but this question-from a family member-meant ignorance from within what I thought was safety of my own clan. I was nervous telling Momo about it because one comment wasn't representative of my family, which has welcomed him, and since all the rhetoric proposing a total Muslim ban in the U.S., I've felt the need to defend the openness of my personal entourage. I still told Momo about the incident. "What the fuck?" he said, cringing. What else do you say when your love story gets loosely compared to a hostage situation? But Momo moved past it, making his main takeaway that my parents (who hadn't even met Momo yet) immediately told five better stories about Momo they'd heard from me to that family member, determined to show that family member just how ignorant he was being.
Indeed, our parents have proven to be our greatest allies, who don't just support from the sidelines but behave in ways that push the world into a state of greater acceptance. Their understanding of our love, their willingness to not only learn but to blend cultures, creating traditions that are uniquely ours, prove that love softens the inherent divide that exists between very different people. I feel it every time Momo's mom tells us about her English courses. I feel it every time they visit us in the apartment that we share even though we're not married; they don't judge. I felt it the most when, for our first dinner as two families brought together in our shared city of Paris, my mom picked up her purse and moved to sit right next to Momo's mom, finding some way to communicate. They don't speak the same language but have developed a way to speak rooted in a belief in our relationship. It's a new language we all use to scratch the surface of uncovering a better world.
Curiosity is what makes us compatible. Honesty is what makes us strong, even though it forces us to be uncomfortable and afraid.
Then, France got hit with another heart-rending attack in Nice, one of too many devastating terrorist attacks in 2016. These events have made our multiethnic relationship-a cycle of communication, questions and patience-even more challenging. Through it all, I'm learning that our conversations about religion and discrimination are evolving, repetitive, and ongoing; that curiosity is what makes us compatible, and honesty is what makes us strong, even though it forces us to be uncomfortable and afraid. And my thought that we could fix a backwards world has not been totally in vain. I have uncles with Trump bumper stickers on the back of their trucks and pictures of me and Momo fixed to their dashboards. My brother considers him a brother. I've been the first American welcomed like a daughter into the quaint home of his Moroccan family. I was taught the family recipe for tajine and was made to feel safe. It's this safety that fuels Momo and I to make things work, even when we realize we may need to teach our future children three different languages, or that I still can't pronounce his family name correctly.
We work on these things every day. My hope is that with each small accomplishment we've crossed some kind of cultural barrier, leaving a bridge for someone else to follow. I didn't come to Paris looking for love, but it found me. Momo found me, followed me until we were moving side by side. It's not the journey I set out on when I came here, but it's better.
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