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SPEAK UP

YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO FIGHT

I was three years old, in a park,

and a little girl said:

"Go away. You're black." That was the first time.

I still remember because it hurt so badly.

And I still remember where I was...

I still see it clearly.

- 3 is young. - Yes.

It was because I had a crush.

I was in love with him,

and he said: "Never. You're black."

I held my father's hand and we crossed the street

when a little girl my age said:

"Look, mom: she's ugly because she's black."

I remember, I was seven

and I said something to my mom, like:

"Well, I..."

She almost killed me when I said it...

I said something like:

"She's black, he's an Arab...

"and she's normal."

I grew up in Senegal, so as for discrimination...

It was only later that I discovered I was black.

I was in a place where being black was the norm.

We saw so few white people, we weren't sure they existed.

Black was the norm.

Growing up in a diverse, working-class neighborhood

I was completely unaware of my skin color.

If it was ever mentioned

it'd be to tease one another.

We'd say, for example:

"You're from Mali, you're from Senegal..."

Or between Arabs and Blacks, or Spanish and Portuguese.

So, there was never this feeling of...

mocking someone's difference.

When I left that environment,

I realized I was different

because...

people would say things like:

"It's crazy how good your French is!"

Or: "You have fine features for a black girl. You're pretty."

I'd think, "What's he talking about?"

In the train, a controller arrived.

There were several people in the car

black people, white people...

he shook my dad.

I was already awake.

He wakes my dad,

I was shocked...

My dad is big and strong. How could anyone treat him like that?

He woke him up: "Your papers!"

My dad said something like, "My papers?"

He suddenly looked so small

next to this... loser.

He took out his papers, then his ticket

and said: "Here, sir."

The guy just grabbed them.

My dad offered him chocolate but he said: "It's bad for your teeth."

That was violent for me.

I suddenly saw we weren't equals in this country.

That was a bad sign. So, that was my dad.

With my mom, we dropped my sister off at the nursery

when the lady in charge of our registration said:

"Here, we feed Belgians first."

I said to myself:

"Welcome to this world

"where you're going to have to fight."

That's how I discovered I was black

and that I was seen as inferior.

When I was a kid, I saw

that there were still

- most had already gone -

but there were still a few shops that sold chocolate hands.

And chocolate hands

were black hands.

It's linked to the practice of cutting off hands in Congo

during colonialism,

when Belgians were settling in Congo.

I remember how shocked I felt.

I felt like I was in danger

even though I was "home."

Banania, Bamboula and "nigger head" cookies...

When I'd go to a bakery and see a "nigger head" cookie,

I didn't feel like I was welcome.

It's super violent and aggressive

when you see that at age nine.

Then, there are all the insults

and hurtful jokes made by the other kids.

We're reminded of it every day of our lives.

Even today. Even when we try to forget it

when we're looking for an apartment, or a job

we're always brought back to our skin color.

You're never able to forget it.

IT'S LIKE A LAYER CAKE

I was born in Brittany. I spent a bit of time there

and feel really Breton.

I also like Sarthe since I grew up in Le Mans.

That said, my education is Congolese

and my influences are Afro.

I really... my "Africanness" was really enriched

by frequenting Caribbean people...

or even Brazilians.

I don't feel like I'm confined to a single identity.

I'm really Afro.

I define myself as Afro

with a certain diversity...

But I had a Congolese education. I'm very proud to be Congolese.

Very proud to be a Tetela,

to be a Bantu.

I was born in France, grew up and studied in France.

I define myself as French.

For me, I'm French.

There's no question about it.

I'm a French woman with multiple identities.

And I feel at home here.

Let's just say I'm questioning my "Frenchness."

Yes, I'm French.

I live in France

but I question my place in France.

Which doesn't mean I dislike the country.

I'm just asking questions.

I really like the term "Afropean."

It really suits me.

I was very moved by it...

I read it for the first time in a book by Leonora Miano.

Right away, I loved it.

It's not like I'm torn...

often, people say they're divided.

Maybe for some, but not me.

I want to reconcile that in a healthier way,

more peacefully:

being born in France and Afrodescendant

being black and a woman...

That's all part of me. I don't want it to feel contradictory.

"Afropean" allows me to reconcile all that calmly

because I'm very angry. Very...

I'm an angry idealist, in fact.

And this term suits me.

Finally, there was a term that connected my French and Afro-Caribbean culture.

I prefer "Afrodescendant."

It's more encompassing than Afropean.

I clearly see myself as Afrodescendant.

I simply like "Afro."

Everyone has to find what suits them best

but I like Afro.

I feel like it embraces

my skin color...

but also, my education,

my inspirations...

So, for me, the term Afro

is the simplest and most fitting.

I have two African origins:

I'm Rwandan and Zairian.

My first ID papers were from Zaire.

My parents and I were refugees.

They fought the dictatorship, at the time.

And then we went to Belgium.

I was around three and a half.

I became French in 2002.

My French nationality is rather recent.

When I became French, I got a French name: Amélie.

So, I have two first names.

All of it participates

in my personality and stratification,

in the complexity of who I am,

beyond just Zina, the black girl.

I know what I'm saying is caricatural, but...

First, I was Rwandan, Congolese,

Belgian, then French,

Amélie, etc.

But I remain Zina.

That's who I am today. It's like a layer cake.

LIVE HAPPILY LIVE IN HIDING

I grew up with a very simple concept:

if you're black, you must work twice as hard.

My parents and grandparents all said the same thing:

"You'll always have to work harder than others."

Being black meant working harder.

It meant...

respecting every rule to avoid getting into trouble.

I'd hear that all the time...

For my parents, education was the greatest priority.

It was the only way to succeed.

So, we had to work twice as hard

because...

for my parents, this wasn't my country.

There was this awareness that: You're French but you're foreign.

My folks would always say:

"You need to work at school. You need to get good grades.

"That's the only way to succeed.

"And we didn't come here for you to fail.

"You have to go further than us."

I'd always hear that.

You have to be really good in your line of work.

Because, if they can replace you, they will.

And, it's like... if they hire you,

it's because they have no choice.

I'd try to be the best at school.

I'd always have my hair done and dress well.

I'd be careful about everything: how I spoke, dressed...

never be late for school,

never be slow...

The goal was to be the opposite of every stereotype.

There was a fear of white people's judgement

so we had to be perfect

in terms of our clothes, our hair...

When I was a kid,

my mother would fix my hair up nicely, my clothes would be perfect,

or the house would be spotless if we had guests.

So, we rarely had guests.

The way white people saw us...

It was as if...

we were fighting the clichés, like "black people are dirty."

So, we had to be impeccable.

It's awful. If I'm ever late

I fear they'll say: "Blacks are always late."

It's those constant little things.

You're always wrestling with someone else's image of black people.

And you don't necessarily...

You're not that image, you're your own person.

You're not THE black person.

There's a constant negotiation. Which is exhausting.

In my performance,

I play a cannibal.

I lick my partner, who has tomato sauce all over her body.

Wanting to live again

Wanting to breathe

Pouncing on you to save you

Living again, stealing your last breath

Eternally reliving your last breath

Inhaling your last breath

My armpit is by your nose

I love that you love me

I'll suckle you till the milk turns to blood

I'll lick you till the blood turns to milk

I thought: "No! What are we doing?"

When we began working on love and cannibalism,

we thought about the iconography.

For most people, cannibals are black.

We looked up jokes:

there were only jokes about black people, tribes...

But, when we did our research,

cannibals were always white men or women, sometimes couples...

There were no black people in the 50 most famous cannibals.

I created this piece without thinking about my blackness.

But just by working on...

on the idea that, when I'm in love, I feel like I'm eating my partner.

But, to the average person, it looks like

I'm eating my white partner on stage.

I was so angry, and thought: "Shit!"

Then I said: "No.

"I can't go back now.

"Otherwise, I'm not doing what I, Rebecca, want to do.

"I'm doing it just because I'm black..."

Anyway, it was all very complicated.

What do I do?

Do I think about the people who'll see the stereotype?

Or do I think about my deeper message

and myself as a performer?

For a long time,

when I'd watch the news and a crime was mentioned

or some problem, I'd pray black people weren't involved.

That affected me terribly.

I was afraid that, if it was a black person,

I'd be associated with them.

It's different for white people.

When a white person screws up, it's their problem.

But, if it's a black person,

you're necessarily concerned and are probably related to them.

It's insulting because, if we were to...

if we asked a white person:

"Do you reject the terrorist, Breivik?"

They'd be like: "I don't know him!"

So why would Muslims know terrorists?

Sometimes, you'll be somewhere

and a black guy does something.

I don't know...

Some black guy starts asking for money, or singing...

or playing djembe.

You think: "God, a black guy!"

We often have that reaction:

"I'm going to get blamed for this!"

There's always that thing...

It's exhausting, because...

white people don't think that way.

They don't say: "God! White people..."

I want those who are privileged to realize that.

But we can't all have that.

Being innocent of your color.

It's a bit...

We'd all like that.

My parents...

they lived in hiding here, in France.

They wanted to go unnoticed.

My dad would always say, "Never talk politics...

"I don't want any trouble. If there's a problem, run away."

"Live happily, live in hiding."

As a Rwandan, always living in diaspora,

I was told: "When you arrive somewhere,

"watch and learn. In Rome, do as the Romans do.

"Don't make any waves."

Especially for my parents,

a black person should go unnoticed.

If you're black, be invisible.

Slip through the cracks...

be as invisible as possible.

My parents really believed that.

A lot of parents still have that mentality.

They often kept a low profile and kept quiet.

And it sort of worked for them.

It was good enough.

So, they tried to drum that into our heads.

"You're being bullied? Keep quiet.

"You don't look "normal"? Try to blend in.

"You're different? Try anyway."

I know I'll never be French enough for French white people.

No matter what.

That's why I'm against respectability politics

of trying to show I'm different from other black people.

No matter what you do,

they'll always say: "She's like that because she's foreign."

When they tell me about bad Muslims, I tell them about Breivik.

Talk to me about Boko Haram,

and I'll tell you about others who've done worse.

For those issues, I want us all to be seen as human.

Don't point out black people's wrongdoings.

I can do the same for white people.

"Slavery's your fault."

I don't have time for that.

The knife cuts both ways.

Let's compare histories.

We'll see who's more uncomfortable.

THEY DON'T SEE THEMSELVES AS WHITE

I think a certain ethnic separatism can be healthy.

For me, it doesn't mean "self-segregation",

it's about creating a community that can face the mainstream.

Sometimes I want to be only with black people.

There are times when we all live together.

But some struggles can't be understood unless you're black.

We need to fight them on our own.

I'm reclaiming that word.

It's not because they say it's bad that it is.

I find it really positive.

Let's talk about ethnic separatism in the government.

Again, no one talks about it because they're the reference.

They don't see themselves as white.

I think that's why.

How to put it...?

When they're together, they don't think: "We're all white."

We never talk about white separatism

because it's "normal" for white people to be together

and black people should integrate white groups.

But never remain on their own. That's "black separatism."

And that's a bad thing.

It's never seen as positive.

Some black people just want to be on their own

because they get along, or because they like each other.

No: it's seen as being sectarian.

A film with only black people is a "black film".

But one with just Whites is... a film.

White sectarianism...

It definitely exists.

I saw it in my...

in my milieu, where I grew up,

at school, which was very sectarian.

It's what I call "Old France."

Very pious, very Catholic families,

"old money", as Americans would say.

Important families.

A little money, not tons. Not opulent.

Not nouveau riche.

And they're very clannish.

I draw a parallel between ethnic separatism and social mixing.

Today, everyone talks about social mixing.

I'm talking about Paris' poorer suburbs.

But that's not where we need it.

We need it in the richer suburbs, to the west.

That's why I chose to live in a rich suburb.

I wanted to shine a light on that

by living in this city: a royal city

where you see how the other half lives.

Sometimes, I'm really surprised by what I see on Sundays.

There are families with 5 or 6 kids

who go to church with...

who are literally wearing their Sunday best, in dresses...

It's completely sectarian.

This is where social mixing matters:

taking people from every background.

Whoever wants to come here.

There are a lot of cultural and sports facilities here.

It's really beautiful. And yet, it's a white city.

NEVER TOUCH MY HAIR

Barbie was my model. My white girlfriend.

I wanted to turn my head

like in L'Oréal ads.

From when you're a kid, you see pretty white girls

but no images of black women

with their kinky hair, who are proud...

Beauty meant having straight hair.

When I realized that I wasn't accepting myself...

that's when I started

to appreciate myself more.

My kinky hair,

learning to like it,

that's when I finally felt liberated.

In a society where you never see yourself represented,

accepting yourself is hard work.

In my memories, as a child, I have straight hair,

in braids because I wanted long hair.

In all honesty,

I wanted hair that tossed in the wind.

For me, returning to one's natural hair

is a way for a black woman to accept her image

and not say: "I'm black, but I'm like you."

I wear an afro 80% of the time.

It can get pretty big

so, having strangers touch it in the street is my daily bread.

I can't stand it.

I feel like... a poodle.

People touch it because it's cute,

or it's curly...

It's annoying because

it's private.

I feel like my privacy is being invaded.

They don't ask my permission.

And I find that...

a pretty violent thing to do.

My reflex is to smack the hand.

I'm not so quick with words.

Sadly, my repartee isn't so refined

or quick.

So, I often respond with my hands.

If you touch me, I'll just slap your hand.

I switch it around.

Would I ever allow myself

to play with someone's bangs, or curls

if I didn't know them? Or even if I did!

It's the same thing. I wouldn't do it.

So why should anyone do it to us?

Which leads us to the simple answer

that we're still in some form of colonial PTSD

where a black person is a sort of...

beautiful object you can touch.

You can be intrusive and touch them.

Black women are infantilized.

We are still treated as children.

You can pat us on the head, you can touch us, or caress us.

When you're an adult,

it's completely inappropriate.

So, people shouldn't even try it.

Recently, I was with a colleague, a young girl,

a secretary I was working with.

First of all, she was a secretary...

France is very hierarchical, like it or not.

Everyone has their rank and class.

A social worker turns up

and goes...

while touching her hair.

We couldn't believe it.

We didn't know where to start.

We froze and stared at each other.

We stared at her and said: "What's wrong with you?"

The worst part is that, when you react

and say: "Never touch my hair. I'm not your pet",

they'll always react the same way, in the same tone:

"Take it easy! Relax, already..."

You come off as either tense

or hysterical...

But if I were to come up and grab your ass, how would you react?

It's the same thing. My hair and my ass belong to me.

You can touch them if I let you.

I LOVE REDHEADS

I'm really lucky

to be able to perform in burlesque shows.

It's a privilege on many levels.

First of all, not everyone is lucky enough

to have an artistic and creative outlet,

or to be on stage.

For a woman, it's a rather particular art.

It's frowned upon and has very negative connotations.

As a black woman in a milieu

that is over 90% white,

I'm also lucky to have the status I built up for myself

and to have this character on stage

that I can embody however I like.

The glamorous type...

which is an unexpected role for a black woman.

I'd be expected to wear a skirt made of bananas.

That's the stereotype.

But black glamour icons existed

and it's time

to show this side of black womanhood, too.

Yes, I'm very...

I'm very glittery, right?

I'm the most glittery burlesque artist in all Paris.

The history of the black pin-up

is underappreciated.

But in the 50s and 60s,

there were great black burlesque figures.

But the world of vintage has erased all that.

Repeat after me: "Loulou Champagne!"

You can be black and like vintage.

You can be black,

like glamour

and embody a glamorous femme fatale

just as much as anyone else.

There were really two phases.

In the first phase,

I felt totally invisible, completely undesirable...

I remember, when I was a kid,

I would have crushes on little blond boys...

But it was never mutual.

I felt completely invisible.

That lasted a while,

until the end of middle school.

I had all these crushes on people, but...

I didn't feel visible.

Nobody could imagine being in a relationship with me

because I didn't meet their criteria.

So, I went from that to being a fantasy.

When I was a teen,

some guy said to me: "I hear black women are wild in bed."

I was 16 at the time...

I didn't have the right tools then.

Why did he say that to me?

Why?

I said: "Sure, maybe."

That's how I replied. But I was ignorant.

I'd hear comments like that.

Like: "You... I'm sure you're...

"I'm sure you're crazy in bed."

Because I'm black.

I was young! I was only 15 or 16.

And I was a virgin, so hearing that...

But no one ever said anything like that to my white friends.

"Oh, white women are like this..."

They're just teens discovering their sexuality.

I have a boyfriend,

and his friends asked him: "So...?

"What's it like? What's she like?"

Rather intimate things,

like: "Anatomically,

"is she the same?"

He was really shocked.

So was I. What did they think?

We don't have the same bodies as white women?

What's that about?

There's also that relationship to a black woman's body

which is animalized.

In any case, it isn't seen as precious.

That's the violent part

because it can be appropriated.

It's as if you were made into a thing.

Your femininity is not seen as precious

nor is your humanity.

I remember certain white men

who immediately imagined me to be feline and wild.

You know, it's like...

like I'd devour them. I never really understood it.

I feel like...

the white world still likes to associate black women with animals.

African women are seen as feline.

No, not African women: black women.

"Blacks are horny,

"they're sexy, they're sensual."

It's insane.

I've often heard that.

There are people,

often white men,

who fetishize black women...

It's funny because they want... There are different canons of beauty.

There's the Beyoncé stereotype:

light-skinned, mixed-race, with long hair, real or fake...

Rihanna, too.

Then, sometimes... I'm more of the African type

and some guys are really into that.

The blacker you are, the more "roots" you are.

Apparently, that turns them on.

Yeah, some people say unbelievable things.

There are those guys who'll say: "I love black chicks."

A mec à blacks.

Of course, the term is ridiculous,

it's just as absurd to say: "I love redheads. Only redheads."

That shows how absurd it is.

They're equally absurd.

You feel really...

You represent something for them. And it's often...

In my case, it was often men who loved Africa.

"I lived in Ivory Coast for a while." So?

I haven't.

All the white men I've been with

have always reduced me to the same fantasy.

It was always fueled by that idea

that we're wild, or a bit...

animalistic, or sexual.

I was 20.

It was my first serious relationship.

It's true, there was this whole thing...

He admired me,

he was fascinated, but...

He made really racist comments

about black people.

He'd ask a lot of questions...

I mean, really crazy ones.

Like about the size of black men's penises,

about the way we make love...

But the biggest problem

is that I realized

he wasn't going out with Audrey.

He was going out with a black woman

who represented a whole bunch of fantasies.

For my first boyfriend, I even represented a taboo,

a social taboo

because he was...

he was from the rich suburbs,

from a wealthy family...

He grew up in that environment

and never frequented black people.

It might've even been...

a sort of transgression.

At some point, you're sort of an experiment.

What I mean is that, for some...

for some white people, and even other cultures,

there's a whole mystery surrounding black women...

regarding sexuality.

There are so many clichés

that we've become a sort of enigma. Something to try out...

As a result, when I went out with white men,

I'd ask myself: Is that why he's with me?

Must I conform to what he thinks of me?

That's dangerous because you can't enjoy the relationship

without thinking about all that.

It harms your personal development as a woman

and your sexual development.

I've gone out with white guys.

But they weren't dating a person...

They dated a black girl.

I can say: "I went out with a guy who liked to surf."

They dated a black girl.

That means, I could be a singer,

an illustrator,

or a student... but to them, I was a black girl.

They went out with a thing...

They could say: "I ate chocolate and went out with a black girl."

It's the same: I was a thing.

You're an experiment.

An experiment, exactly.

I ate snake once.

I went out with a black girl.

TO SEE THINGS DIFFERENTLY

- Are you going out? - No.

I'm speaking

about ugly people,

for ugly people,

old hags,

truckers,

the frigid,

the unfucked,

the unfuckable.

Anyone excluded from the market of hot chicks.

I begin with this because I want to be clear:

I'm not apologizing.

I'm not here to complain.

I wouldn't trade my place with anyone.

I went out with a young, mixed-race guy.

For him...

he had this total fantasy of black women.

People always project things onto you that

you had no idea about.

For him, I matched his ideal of an African woman.

In other words, physically,

I was unlike a white woman, with a standard body,

since I have curves.

I had braids, too.

So, I had an identity, that was... Afrocentric.

I was studying anthropology...

So, I was aware of all this.

I became the ideal partner.

There was this quest for African authenticity

which I corresponded to.

He projected a fantasy.

A fantasy linked to his own condition of being mixed-race.

Yes, completely.

You become a projection of THE African woman.

He's looking for his identity, too.

At no point do they ever encounter the real you.

They project fantasies onto you

but they never actually see...

they never see you.

In the pan-African world, there is the "good black woman."

She's educated,

well-groomed, maternal... that's the good black woman.

This is the model Pan-Africans respect.

She's the descendant of African queens.

An educated woman...

The other types: "niafou", "fatou"...

these are terms you'll hear even in the Pan-African world

and within the African community.

Women who are loud,

irritating, have a strong smell...

they're not respectable.

A black woman can never be whoever she wants to be.

Even within her own circle,

she's confronted with norms.

And she's decried even within these circles,

which are supposed to be empowering.

That's what got me interested in Afrofeminism.

Those old ideas bothered me.

They were excluding

a number of black women, and a part of myself.

Black men are often complicated because...

they grew up like us.

They grew up in a world that was racist,

that was fraught with racism.

They reacted as we did: they interiorized things

that they then project onto us.

They'll call us "niafou".

These are the men who'll say: "I don't like women

"with dark skin because light skin is prettier.

"Fine features are prettier..."

They'll even spout stereotypes

like: "Dark-skinned girls are like this, they behave like that..."

They'll associate a certain type of behavior with a skin type.

They're full of clichés.

Clichés they've simply interiorized.

When I was younger,

black men didn't date black women.

They went out with white girls, blondes...

They never touched their black sisters.

They were untouchable.

They had no desire for them...

It's rather strange because...

the black men that often interest me

don't like black women.

So, I'm often stuck.

It's complicated.

That's something we talked about...

sometimes, the black men you like...

They're with white women.

I would always say:

"If that's the case, bring me a black man who's like me...

"with the same tastes,

"the same education."

Most of the time, these men are with white women.

So, it's impossible to meet them.

And yet, when you go out with a black guy...

you feel like...

They'll say: "You're sticking to your ethnic community."

That means dating a white guy is legitimate.

But a black guy is sectarian.

It's very odd.

When I was young, I wanted a white boyfriend.

Then I thought about it.

Why did I always want a white man?

It was linked to prestige...

Which is crazy when you think about it!

Because that means

when I was younger, going out with a black guy

was something...

it's like he was substandard.

A white man was... a status symbol.

That's it.

And beauty, too.

Again, if white women are the standard of beauty,

white men were the most beautiful men.

They had thin lips, a thin nose...

You see that representation of beauty everywhere

and wish your partner were the same.

And white men were the most beautiful.

After that, when you...

Actually, then I dated black men. And that's that.

But you interiorize all that.

All these systems of domination and beauty.

Your sexuality can be attacked

or affected.

When I was a kid, of course...

A black guy? Never...

And Africans, least of all!

There was a little hope for Caribbean men

or Americans.

In my early years.

But now...

It's exactly the opposite.

When would you say that changed?

When I learned how the world worked.

We all like what's glamorized.

We like what's glamorized and powerful.

We're conditioned.

Now, I find beauty in dreadlocks, for example

which I got while I was in the U.S.

I find beauty in dark skin.

I find beauty in...

in what is seen as negative.

Now I tend to look for... No: I actually find beauty.

Everything can be beautiful. Everything.

You can't have one beautiful group, while everyone else is ugly.

When I was a kid, I was totally conditioned.

Basically, beauty is being blond, white, with blue eyes...

Of course, I understand we all have our own, personal tastes.

But I feel like...

I'll always feel like, if you're a man,

if you're black,

heterosexual,

and your fantasy is still a thin white, blond woman with blue eyes,

I'll always find you a bit limited.

And yet, you can be

attracted by that kind of body.

But, for me, bodies like that are overloaded with meaning.

Like black skin, black bodies, have meaning.

Sometimes, I think...

I find it a bit sad.

I'm not saying we shouldn't mix

but I still find it hard...

it still hurts when people don't see the beauty in...

When people say, when talking about beauty:

"She's not pretty." The fact is, she can never be pretty.

She can't be pretty, given the world we live in.

It's normal to find her ugly.

It's normal. But it's unacceptable.

So, now I tend to...

I try to see things differently.

I'M FROM LIMOGES

"Where are you from?"

I say I'm from Paris.

The guy looks at me, like: "I'm not stupid."

"Where are you from?"

"From Paris!"

"And your parents?"

"Oh! My parents!"

My parents, that's one thing,

but I'm from here. Maybe you don't want to hear that?

I must admit

every time I've said, "I'm from Gaillac",

they'd reply, "Where are you really from?"

"I'm from here. I'm French."

"I mean, really from?"

That's what bugs me.

They ask because I'm black.

Yet again, I'm expected to justify my identity.

Naively, I did it for a while.

Sometimes I try to use humor.

At one point, I decided to stop being offended at every little thing.

But it's not little.

Up until two years ago, I never realized it

because I'm really from somewhere else.

I'd always think: "Fine, whatever..."

I know I have an accent, so why not?

But, over time, after talking to people and listening to them,

it's unacceptable to ask a third generation citizen that question.

"Yes, but where really?"

After you've told them: "I'm from Limoges."

"Yes, but where really?"

"Limoges!"

So, that's a problem.

You were born French

and they strip you of that...

From kindergarten, you constantly experience things

that take away your right to be who you are.

I always ask myself the same question:

If I'd always...

lived here from the start,

would I be saying all this?

I doubt it. I think I'd be much angrier.

I'd have a lot more hatred in me...

Since I wasn't born here, I don't mind.

I was born in Senegal.

When asked about my origins, I say:

"I'm French and Senegalese."

I have Senegalese nationality, too.

It never really shocked me, but more and more people

want to know. When they see a black person, they ask:

"Where are you from? You can't be from here."

I used to think it was curiosity.

But I'm super curious, and yet I rarely ask people that.

I've noticed that... and yet, I'm very curious

I don't even think I know where you're from.

I rarely ask people where they're from.

I figure they'll tell me if they want.

If you're not white, you're foreign.

It's funny,

because you can be white and not be French.

I often laugh and say: "I'm the most French person here.

"If we deported everyone without French grandparents,

"you'd go and I'd stay."

It's true, and yet people tend to forget it.

NO ONE HAS EVER EXPECTED US

Were your parents familiar with the French school system?

No, not at all. Not at all.

For them, school...

They had absolute faith in the French school system.

They thought: "I'll send my kids to a French school.

"They'll automatically end up with a good job..."

The only path they knew was through university.

Why? Because of Léopold Sédar Senghor.

They thought: "Senghor went to university,

"so that must be the path to success."

That's it.

I went to a "ZEP" middle school, but didn't know it.

I found that out when I went to high school.

I was having a hard time in the tenth grade

so I saw a guidance counselor

and asked her why I was having such a hard time.

She said: "Of course, you went to a ZEP."

"What's that?"

"A Priority Education Zone."

"OK... So?"

She said: "Basically,

"when you got a B, the real grade was a D, or D minus."

So, that was the first smack in the face.

I then went to see my parents.

"Apparently, I went to a bad middle school."

They were shocked and said: "What? Nobody told us!

"We've made a mistake."

They felt awful.

For them, every school

had the same value.

They knew nothing about...

business schools, or classe prépa.

I learned about all that when I got to high school.

I asked the good students what university they'd picked.

They said: "University? We're going to prépa."

I was, like, "What's that?"

They said: "Classe préparatoire, to prepare for an elite Grande École."

I'd never heard of that before.

I think every parent wants their kids to succeed.

Mine, especially.

I really believe, if they'd known about...

about these prestigious schools, or classes prépa,

they would've signed me up.

When you have parents who've gone through the system

or a family that encourages you

saying: "This is an option. If you want to go far, do this..."

But what if you have no idea?

I hated my studies.

I was so frustrated with the school system.

I never felt fulfilled.

I had skipped a grade

but at the end of middle school,

I was reoriented to a vocational school

which didn't suit me in the least.

But it was deemed most suitable

by my teachers.

So, when I was told at age 14 I'd be a secretary,

my mom found it normal, and said:

"Sure. Plus, you'll be sure to find a job."

So, that was really hard for me.

You were pushed to be a secretary despite skipping a grade?

How did they justify that?

My teachers justified it by saying I was young,

and I had a really difficult year. They didn't look at past grades.

So, a difficult year,

plus my poor marks in ninth grade

due to the traumatic experience of changing towns

and, at that age, I was in full-on puberty.

There were fights with my parents

which were also pretty intense... None of that was taken into account.

My studies, my relationship to my teachers...

I had no say in anything.

It was another world, for me.

But I met this art teacher in high school.

We really got along, and she said: "Annie,

"you're good at fine arts.

"Instead of 3 hours, you should do 6

"then find a way to pass your eleventh grade

"and get through your remedial year. Then you can go to university."

No one had ever told me that.

I thought I was condemned to doing a vocational degree.

And this teacher found another way.

So I got my diploma, with honors.

I did my remedial year in business

as part of a vocational course

then did Fine Arts at university.

There were classes on cinema...

I discovered everything at once:

dance...

contemporary dance, film...

The arts.

It was an epiphany.

Suddenly, I was working on films.

That was the starting point for my job.

Then, I met a costume designer

who took me under her wing.

We began working together.

I was 22 at the time, and now I'm 34. I still do it.

It's hard sometimes, but it's my job.

School...

It can be great if you're lucky. It depends on your experience.

If you have a teacher

who encourages and pushes you

and offers you a fair chance,

it's incredible.

But we know all too well that...

For example, my parents

couldn't afford to help me with homework at night

or offer me private lessons.

All that...

Helping with homework at night...

That's hard for people who need to work several jobs.

And, what a surprise:

those people are often from Africa or the Caribbean.

There's another element, too: there's school

and then there's working on

learning to learn.

Learning isn't confined to school.

A kid who plays tennis, piano,

guitar and violin, judo,

their capacity to learn will be multiplied.

Extracurricular activity allows you to arrive at school

and be more open to learning.

Deciding on your specialization,

how your teacher sees you,

how you see yourself,

where you eventually see yourself,

where your teacher sees you...

that was a real problem for me.

My biggest problem occurred in my final year

and I had to choose what I'd study after high school.

I wanted to go to a classe prépa

for business school.

At the time,

I was a good student. Third best in my class.

I prepared my dossier with my grades

and went to see the guidance counselor

at my private, Catholic high school in Paris.

When I arrived,

she told me I'm not good enough for a prépa.

She suggested vocational training.

I disagreed and said I wanted to go to a prépa.

She said I didn't have the grades and wouldn't be accepted.

I walked out, extremely sad.

But I realized there was a problem later that day:

one of my white friends

who was not third-best in our class, but tenth,

went to see the counsellor

and walked out with a list of prépas to apply to.

I cried and went to see a teacher

who helped me compile a list of prépas.

I talked about it to my mom, who was obviously upset.

But I got accepted to a prépa

and now I'm graduating from a business school.

I also have a kid brother who went to the same school

and who also wanted to go to a prépa.

He did what I did: he took his dossier to the guidance counselor.

Once again, she said:

"You don't have the grades. You'll never be accepted."

Except he believed her and didn't apply.

So, I took his dossier

and saw the head of my prépa. I showed it to him

and said: "Here are my brother's grades.

"Are there any spots left here?"

My brother had good grades and got accepted.

Later, he went back to his high school

and ran into his guidance counselor.

She asked: "So, how's university?"

He looked at her and said: "No, I'm in prépa, actually!"

He told me she looked like she was pissed off.

There are many questions that white women with kids

in heterosexual couples never have to ask.

They never have to try

to prepare their kid to confront systemic racism,

to confront discrimination from their guidance counselors

or how to prepare them for all that.

The fact that they won't exist in history books or in any book.

The State provides an answer to all this

for white mothers with white kids.

They have answers.

When kids are white

and they're in heteronormative families, schools expect them.

No one expects our kids. No one has ever expected us.

When I prepared my dossier to get into a prépa,

they tried to stop me.

But I was lucky because...

I was told what grades I'd need to pursue my studies.

Not everyone's so lucky.

Not everyone has someone telling them: "You can do this."

When someone says: "You'll never make it."

They're really saying: "Black people can't make it."

If you believe them, it can all stop there.

THERE ARE NO BLACK SWANS

I had to do an internship for my diploma

in 2013-2014...

I'd let my hair out - obviously after my trial period...

But once I wore a maré tet, wrapping my hair in a scarf.

I was so happy, since it's so beautiful.

It's one of the prettiest hairstyles...

I had hoop earrings and red lipstick.

Like it or not, that's my style.

I get to work and my boss says:

"Wow, you've got a really ethnic hairstyle!

"You remind me of slaves in the cotton fields."

I said, "Excuse me?"

I really hoped I'd misheard.

"Don't you know what I mean?"

"I do."

"When the slaves picked cotton, they'd wear their hair like that."

He said: "Are you nostalgic?"

This is my boss.

He clearly didn't care if I was offended.

I said, "OK."

"That's it? You black people have no sense of humor."

Of course...

I counted the days until the end of my internship.

I couldn't graduate without it.

And I'd started studying again after a four-year hiatus.

So, I kept quiet.

When I was young, I wanted to get a job as a greeter.

I went to an agency and passed their tests.

The problem was my hair.

She argued that

it wasn't at all racist,

but the rules applied to everyone: we all had to have straight hair.

So, she showed me photos of other greeters who were hired

who either had weaves or perms.

It had to be straight.

I was a phone receptionist...

I've done tons of service jobs.

That secretary diploma was not completely useless.

I've put food on the table thanks to it.

I've done a lot of temp jobs.

Every time, I had to prove my credentials, keep a low profile

and, therefore, have straight hair.

I was going out with a young black man

with incredible dreadlocks.

He was turned down for so many jobs

that he got rid of them

just to be legitimate for menial work.

For some dumb job

like answering a phone in a call center...

You're always wearing a disguise.

You always have to fit a mold.

I'm very happy, because...

I've always wanted to be an actress ever since I was a kid.

I studied in high school and at the conservatory

and now I make a living off of it.

But... how?

How?

In movies, you never see black women who are managers,

business owners. Yet, they exist.

Black women who are researchers, black women...

I feel like...

after a while, it's exhausting.

I often play a big, bossy woman who beats up young men.

With everything that comes with that.

Or characters who are kind of funny,

kind of touching. Kind of...

There can be a poetic, dramatic, pretty dimension to it.

But, when you play the same type of character all the time,

you start to wonder.

I tell myself I'm partly responsible, but...

Today, I feel like I can't

refuse any roles I'm offered.

Because I either change jobs

or I direct my own films,

which requires a lot of financing and money, etc.

Or I change jobs.

I wanted to dance at the Opéra.

That's when something interesting happened:

it was the very first time

my dad told me I couldn't do something.

It's the only time

my dad said: "You can't do that."

And his argument was:

"There are no black swans. They don't exist."

With that, the dreams of a 6-year-old were swept away.

Then, I wanted to be a vet.

Then Head of the US Supreme Court.

So, it was a rather odd progression.

But I became interested in foreign languages.

I learned English in Ireland.

I liked German, too.

I loved Latin and dead languages

but I quickly realized...

there wasn't much of a future in them.

But, in prépa,

my English teacher told me about interpreting conferences.

Interpreting is a wonderful job,

especially at the UN,

where there's a lot of diversity.

It's also a very insular world, that I'd call "cultish"

where everyone knows each other.

It's a tiny world. There aren't many interpreters,

especially black interpreters...

In Paris there are only two of us.

So, in the pharmaceutical industry,

are there many black female engineers?

I've always been the only one.

In engineering school,

I only met two black women in three years.

There aren't many of us.

The field of engineering is very masculine.

In biology, you find a few girls, but few engineers.

So, seeing a black woman in an afro

who turns up in sneakers and says, "Yo!"

It's pretty rare.

Let's just say I felt a bit different.

When I began working, I'd hear very unpleasant remarks.

For instance, a colleague once sang Asimbonanga in our office.

I had to set things straight.

But it's not just being black,

it's more my social background.

Virtually no one from the projects

makes it to manager, coordinator, organizer...

You can't back down.

You can't back down in an industry filled with white men.

TEN MILLION, THAT'S BELGIUM

Pain swelled in my troubled heart...

In my heart...

I'll keep going.

T-t-troubled...

Troubled.

We decided to work on Racine, especially for the roots.

Focus on breathing, articulation, and punctuation.

Obviously, if things happen, remain open to them.

At "frozen and in flame," stop.

I'll play the music, and when it stops, you start again. OK?

Stay focused, close your eyes and I'll guide you.

I'd like to see what effect it has with your eyes closed.

Keep letting yourself go

and say your text.

My pain goes further back,

was tied to Aegeus' son

By those laws that make a bride,

My false peace and happiness secured to me

When Athens showed me my superb enemy

I saw him, I blushed: I paled at the sight

Pain swelled in my troubled heart outright

My eyes saw nothing

I couldn't speak for pain

I felt my whole body frozen, and in flame

I recognized Venus and her fearsome fires

Of a blood whose remorseless torments she desires

I hoped to prevent grief by ceaseless prayer

I built her a temple, adorned it with all care

There's still

the presence of depression

in my family.

I had moments where I felt completely lost...

completely lost between...

for instance, what my parents hoped for me

as their child,

and my own expectations

with respect to being French here

with a foreign background.

And I often felt like I was stuck between a rock and a hard place

because I wanted to break free

but, what does breaking free mean here?

Does it mean renouncing your family, or where you're from?

To do what?

What's the point if, ultimately, you won't be accepted anywhere?

We have to deal with that. It makes us,

as children of the diaspora, sort of schizophrenic

because we must conform to two completely different norms:

the norm of our parents' home country, and that of France.

Regarding depression:

was it seen as a white thing?

Oh, yes.

It started when I was very young.

I was on anti-depressants at 14.

My life wasn't always easy.

Black and white people rejected me

and, as a teen, I lost it at one point.

I blew up.

Feeling rejected, never fitting in... It was hard.

But it was seen as a white thing.

We don't medicate our kids, we don't take them to therapists.

That was difficult for my mom.

As a black mom: "My daughter can't see a shrink. People will talk."

So, she never talked about it. She was certainly ashamed.

But that's yet another cliché we have of ourselves.

I think we have to accept that we are...

We mustn't remain stuck in this idea that black people are...

in this racist view that we're unlike other humans.

That's my problem with Pan-Africanism:

having to show we're strong, we're powerful,

to show we're "perfect."

You eventually hit a wall.

We're just human.

We have weaknesses. We have to accept and analyze them.

Once we understand and accept them, we can move on.

People are used to black pain.

They're so used to it...

They're numb to it.

Just compare the number of deaths... We have different scales.

When you say 6 to 10 million died in Congo...

people are indifferent.

10 million, that's Belgium.

I think it affects us as individuals...

It's not important for black people if they suffer.

I think it's linked to many things.

It's a consequence of slavery and the colonial period.

It's normal.

It still affects us, and our mental health.

I think you're a lot more defenseless

when you're black and depressed than white and depressed.

Because we're not...

we don't know where to turn for help.

And our loved ones aren't...

It's already hard enough to talk about it.

But talking to people who don't believe it exists,

who don't believe in depression

or in mental illness... that's even harder.

Since the consequences of racism

put people in a state of urgency and survival,

you have no time to think or care about your mental health.

That's also neglected and maybe seen as a false question

since the only thing that matters is survival.

I really think it isn't...

How to put it?

Depression is a white problem because it's expensive.

If someone said to me: "Help!

"I don't feel right about... my identity problems."

I wouldn't know how...

where to guide them or suggest they go.

When I went to see a shrink during my depression,

I felt there were things she couldn't understand

when I talked about race.

It wasn't something I could easily talk about at the time.

But, even there, in a confidential space

where you think: "I can say anything",

you feel like this white person can't get it.

When I was seeing an analyst,

I really examined the question of being black in a white society,

of looking for black partners

by trying to be with someone of my color.

And I noticed it led to moments of silence during my sessions.

So, this is an issue worth examining.

THERE'S ONLY ONE HUMAN RACE

In Haiti,

I never really asked myself questions about race

whereas it's omnipresent in France.

I think we have to say the word "race".

Because it exists.

It's materialized in our lives

in our bodies, in the way they're perceived,

in our relationships to people.

I think it's hypocritical

to ban it from the Constitution and say it doesn't exist.

Race is a reality.

By not naming things,

we won't have to fight them

and we won't see there are problems.

In France, saying "race doesn't exist"

is a way to avoid dealing with racial problems.

Everyone knows it, we're not idiots.

We know there's only one human race

but "race" describes a certain social reality.

Once we accept that race is indicative of social reality,

we must be able to say it.

That way, we can talk about it

and research it...

We need a tool now

to articulate our struggle,

to talk about our oppression in a clear and concrete way.

And if we need sociological studies and statistics,

let's do it.

I used to be against ethnic statistics

because I didn't see the point.

I saw them as surveillance,

as another way of meddling in people's lives.

Then I realized,

when I studied gender discrimination,

we were able to identify the problem

because we knew the ratio of men to women in a company,

we could compare their wages

and realize that women make less.

It's only illegal to have files

where a name is linked to an ethnicity.

You can't say: "Fania Noël is black."

That's impossible in an official file. But you can count

how many Whites, Blacks or Arabs there are.

But then you need 5 people: one to count each ethnicity,

then one more to make sure no one's been forgotten.

If you do a study on education, you go to schools...

In countries where it's allowed,

people tick a box saying what they are,

then you take out a spreadsheet and count.

But not here. You have to go...

If you look at 15 middle schools, you have to go there

take each student's file one by one,

then check their color, name, etc.

If we had ethnic stats,

I think they'd show real racial problems in France.

But we get to avoid that.

It's a way to hide our problems,

to blur them, and shut us up.

THERE'S ALWAYS SOMETHING MORE URGENT

When I look at my mom's and aunts' lives

I think: "Actually, they're powerful!"

If anything, that's the kind of feminism I was exposed to.

It's true the feminist world is primarily white.

That's very true.

We don't have the same political agendas.

That's why I found "Afro-feminist"

to be the most suitable term for me.

First, I was active in Pan-African struggles against neocolonialism.

But I realized that themes related to women

were not really being explored.

I think there's a lot of room for improvement in Pan-Africanism.

So that's how my Pan-Africanism...

morphed into Afro-feminism.

Perhaps we've arrived at a point

where we should speak up...

instead of letting other people speak for us.

There's that, too.

For too long, others have spoken for minorities

without any legitimacy.

That's a problem, here. Who is speaking up?

I think we've arrived at a time where...

Afro-feminism will gain a lot of ground.

I hope so, anyway.

I hope it will allow Afro women to build

the tools for their emancipation.

With or without hijabs Equality for all mothers

Respect the dignity of Muslim mothers

All children are equal

Is the Grand Imam here yet?

The Imam: our guest today.

So, I'll introduce you,

along with two other people.

Then, two mothers will talk for 5 minutes. We all have 5 minutes.

Then we'll keep 1 hour or 90 minutes for discussion

and I'll stop anyone who speaks too long.

I'm good at that.

Who was looking for Elsa?

Good evening, everyone.

Thank you for attending this event organized by Equality For All Mothers

with Edwy Plenel

for the release of his book, For the Muslims.

On behalf of Equality For All Mothers, I'd like to thank this venue

for hosting our event in the town of Montreuil,

an important city for our fight

to allow mothers in hijabs to accompany their kids on school trips.

For me, political activism began at school.

I led strikes at school in Senegal but I'd hide for fear of my mom...

But I think she passed that down to me.

She was in a trade union, at demonstrations, on strike.

But it really started here...

in late 2003,

just before the 2004 law that...

outlawed religious signs at school which excluded a lot of young women

from going to school because they wore a hijab.

It began here.

That's when I became... very, very active.

I found it to be truly unjust.

You can't stop girls from going to school, no matter why.

So, I started in 2004.

I fought that law.

I won't say I lost, since I'm still fighting.

And, since 2011,

I've been part of Equality For All Mothers,

which fights to allow mothers in hijabs to accompany their kids on school trips.

The 2004 law has been the cause of...

It made it possible

to increasingly discriminate against Muslims, especially women,

in every sphere of society.

Even during my feminist activism,

I was part of feminist associations...

When we went to rallies

for International Woman's Day...

"Woman" instead of Women...

in our hijabs, we'd be asked:

"What's your position on abortion?"

Nobody else was asked.

We were suspected of being there to...

not to fight for equality.

We had another agenda.

You have to justify yourself.

White women? OK. But you?

Especially Muslims! "Why are you here?"

Then I was asked about homosexuality

and where I stood on domestic violence

as if I were a victim, or thought women should be subject to violence.

Or that you're not a woman?

I've never been sure.

I was at the World March of Women in 2005.

They didn't let us speak.

French women, especially.

We turned to Spanish women for support

and we said: "Can you believe this? It's a woman's march

"and women are silencing other women. Women are victimizing us!"

That's when they realized we're women too. And they stopped.

We heard slogans like:

"Solidarity with all women except those who wear hijabs."

That's a slogan I heard in Marseille.

"Except for women in hijabs." The World March of Women...

A woman can choose what to do with her body,

and that means undressing her body however she likes.

Can or can't we choose?

If you don't see it that way, you're not a woman.

I dealt with that violence in 2004-2005.

"We've fought for years so that our bodies could belong to us!"

What do you think I'm doing?

They didn't even realize they were

subjecting women to the very thing they were fighting.

And it's all the more violent when women do it.

It's all the more violent.

In the name of equality.

But, once again, it's equality for white women.

White women are the norm.

Either you conform

or, in the end...

you do your own thing.

But that's ethnic separatism.

Of course, it is.

When white people are together, it's not sectarian.

But when you do it, it is!

"You must mix with everyone."

But we don't want to blend in.

Personally, I don't think I've ever wanted to blend in.

I come as I am. But it's hard

because, when I'm accepted...

"Accepted..." See that?

When I'm accepted,

there are aspects, like my faith, that are immediately rejected.

"We fought to be free from religion

"and now a woman wants to bring it back?"

That's the crazy part.

I've heard that sentence verbatim.

I didn't invent it. I'm not surprised you've heard it.

"We fought to be free from religion. You're not going to bring it back."

That's why we need to reclaim terms...

Yes, you fought religion,

but others are fighting to reclaim religion...

To make it a tool for emancipation.

Why impose your struggle?

These old ladies are suspicious of young people.

Even if I'm not young,

I'm still young in these struggles.

But they want to own it.

"This is how we did it. We own the truth. That's it."

It's often those on the Left,

which is even more violent...

You'd expect that question to be taken into account.

But, no.

There's always something more urgent.

Which is ironic,

since feminists would often hear that.

"Class struggle is more urgent. You can wait."

And now they're doing that to us.

"Equality among sexes is more important.

"Your black issues? We'll get around to them."

More urgent...

The same people always define what's urgent.

They won't let you decide

which issue is more urgent. To me, they're all urgent.

I simply want to defend them all

and fight from every angle.

VISITORS ARE NOT ALLOWED

I was born in Tours.

My mother is a Polish Jew

and my father is a Muslim from Gambia.

They're still together and get on fine.

They decided I should study the Talmud.

So, I've had a religious education since age 7.

And, if I may, I'd like to thank Rabbi Sayagh,

who gave me an open-minded education.

So it wasn't an issue for me.

When I got to Paris,

I thought, I'll observe Kippur, as always.

I went to a synagogue with a friend,

an ad hoc one set up in a local gymnasium.

And, when I walked in, I felt a sort of tension in the air.

When we got to the women's section,

two security guards

walked right up to my friend.

They wouldn't talk to me, maybe because

it might dirty them on Yom Kippur: the day of atonement...

They told her: "Visitors are not allowed.

"Do you know this person?"

And that word: "visitors"...

By the way, my mother's family was sent to the concentration camps.

It was devastating.

You told me that,

following that incident, on Yom Kippur,

you decided to join a group:

an international Jewish community?

Exactly. It's...

a Jewish-American community

and there's a branch in my town.

It's incredibly pleasant, and isn't at all...

How to put it?

It's American, so it's open-minded.

It's open-minded and very playful.

I signed my daughter up

so she could learn about the Talmud

to start learning how to write and read.

And, in this community, you find

people originally from Asia, India...

You read and write in Hebrew?

I can do both, yes.

Like I said,

I was raised in a very religious family.

My father taught religion to young people

when he was in Comoros.

He continued in France.

I'd go to a Koranic school every Sunday,

where I learned to read and understand Arabic.

I'd also learn religious stories.

So, religion was a strong base for me,

and was very valuable for my education.

Religion was also a... let's say a beacon for me.

Whenever I was confronted with difficult situations,

if I felt lonely or misunderstood,

I would often turn to religion,

especially regarding racism

because, in stories told about the Prophet,

many of them are concerned with...

with the condition of black men.

That was very formative.

Do you know the story of Bilal?

Bilal was a slave

who was freed by one of the...

the Prophet's companions

to become the first muezzin: the man who leads the call to prayer.

Bilal became an important man

and his story tells us

about the prejudice he faced when he wanted to get married.

Lots of situations.

For many black people I know, he's a reference.

We saw him as a sort of Kunta Kinte.

We saw him gain his freedom...

That was one of my favorite stories as a kid.

I found freedom through religion.

Especially regarding the questions I was asking,

like what kind of woman I wanted to be now and later.

I've often found answers in religion.

It acts as a base for my life.

It's an inseparable part of me.

My spirituality is part of who I am.

I really think religion can be a base.

Because if you already feel good in your life,

you can free yourself and improve your life,

as well as the lives of the people around you.

We also have the experience - again, in the US...

of the Civil Rights Movement,

which was supported by the Jewish community.

After Jewish people lived the American dream,

they couldn't accept that black people be treated that way.

I really feel like, within one's own faith,

some things are worth keeping while others aren't.

Especially in Catholicism

which, when it comes to social issues,

has a lot of work to do.

It has a very complicated relationship

to the status of women

in the Bible.

The status of black people, of women...

You have to distance yourself from certain elements.

Some things mustn't be taken personally. That's not the point.

Which is probably why I no longer go to church.

Being part of that system...

it's not a value system that suits me.

I'd rather be religious on my own.

Me and... the divine powers that be.

Having a mediator... I don't believe in all that.

The truth is Arab countries are particularly anti-black.

I've experienced it, I've seen it.

They're anti-black.

I don't really think it's tied to religion,

but based on false interpretations

or societal characteristics that we must also combat.

Catholicism in Haiti is completely different.

Yes, homophobia also exists there,

but here, it's a big mess.

They outright reject people.

It's a religion that preaches...

"Love one another",

but I don't see it.

Many claim to be religious, but they're racist and homophobic.

You can't be religious and reject people.

I can't stand that contradiction.

So, I prefer to practice on my own

and not in a community, or pray in a church.

My belief is that God is everywhere. That's how I practice.

PISS PEOPLE OFF

I often describe myself as a "Hetero-rist".

I like that...

I like the term.

Indeed, I think...

discussing sexualities in the Afro community

isn't easy.

I see it in the work I do

in the fight against AIDS.

Simply talking about sexuality in our communities is hard.

Regarding homosexuality...

I realize that indeed,

the white world sees us as heterosexuals.

At no point can they imagine that black homosexuals exist.

Same for us, as Afros.

I think we don't even realize it.

And yet, it exists.

In our communities, we see a lot of contempt...

homophobia.

But also gender stereotypes.

Once you stop corresponding to the standard norms of femininity

or the norms of masculinity,

very quickly, you'll be rejected...

Anyhow, I try. And, what I find really cool

is that I'm trying to explore the issue.

Especially in my radio show, Nasema,

where I give a voice to...

to gays, lesbians,

bi, transgender people.

It's been interesting, because I now understand

how difficult it is to explore our sexualities,

free from the judgement of our communities.

For a while, I said I was bisexual,

without ever dating a woman.

When it finally happened,

when I was around 23 or 25...

it was immediately obvious, natural and easy.

10 days later,

I dumped my fiancé from Burkina-Faso, then told my family:

"I'm going out with...

"a woman, who happens to be right here!"

I don't really like labels.

I'm with a woman, so you might say I'm a lesbian.

But...

I don't really care about all that.

We've spent years questioning minorities.

Now minorities can question the majority a little.

Question heterosexuality, whiteness...

It was during the anti-gay marriage rallies,

that's where I saw it.

All those French people...

white, protesting in the street,

angry

because two men or women might get married.

There's this thing...

Maybe I'm exaggerating but: "Help! They're taking our privileges!

"Marriage is ours! It belongs to us.

"Only heterosexuals can be good parents..."

I don't know. We're not questioning hetero-parentality.

I don't define myself as heterosexual.

I don't see my heterosexual life

as something linear.

Today, I can't stand how people see their identities as set in stone,

like it was an unshakeable quality.

I don't see it that way.

I asked myself a lot of questions

when I was very young.

Since middle school, I'd say.

Since the sixth grade.

But the first time I went out with a girl

was in eighth grade.

It was well-accepted

even though, later,

my mother had her phase of:

"It's my fault,

"I did a bad job raising you!"

She didn't.

"Maybe it's about your father..."

But I think all parents ask themselves the same questions.

It's about attraction, you can't control your feelings.

You can't just press a button.

It's not like, I woke up one day and said:

"I think I'll try women now, I'll become a lesbian,

"you know, just to piss people off."

But the older I get,

the more I'm exposed to homophobic and racist behavior,

the more politically active I need to get.

It's pretty hard,

especially when you're trying to "find yourself"

and figure out who you are.

No one's talking about you.

No one's talking about black women, or black lesbians.

You don't see or know any,

there's no actress, or icon. You've got nothing.

And I don't think it helps. On the contrary...

you think it doesn't exist.

You're alone. Maybe there are four at the most.

It's a white thing, and it's abnormal.

I'm a lesbian and I'm OK with it...

Now. That wasn't always the case, but I'm fine with it now.

How old were you when you knew you preferred women?

From primary school. Way back.

I just repressed it.

I was outright homophobic for a very long time.

Until middle school, I had this image... I thought...

If homosexuality was mentioned, I'd say violent things:

"That's disgusting!"

Even though I knew it was my case.

But it felt so unnatural, it was so hard for me,

I didn't accept anyone's homosexuality. I know it's contradictory,

but it was my way of repressing my own sexuality.

So, I pushed it aside and stopped thinking.

I focused on school.

But, at some point, you need to express yourself

and have a sense of direction.

When I asked around, I'd hear: "Homosexuality's a white thing."

I decided it wasn't a good time to say anything.

Black homosexuals didn't seem to exist. I found nothing online either.

As if it was a "white disease" and it couldn't possibly concern me.

I felt so alone.

When I was around 16-17,

I met Thara, whom I'm still with.

I realized I wasn't alone. And she knew others.

I said: "There are at least 3 of us on Earth!"

Over time, I saw more and more, at Gay Pride parades.

It was nice to see black women.

But it took years. I'm fast-forwarding, but it was really hard.

I've only been comfortable with it for 4 years,

because I've been with her for 4 years.

But, before that, it was very hard.

I couldn't yell from rooftops, or say openly.

I'd often be asked if I had a man in my life...

Thanks to her, I now feel strong enough to accept myself.

But my coming out was very hard.

Very violent.

Because, my mom... I knew she wouldn't accept it.

I was so afraid of disappointing her,

I preferred to die.

So, I tried to kill myself.

I drank and took pills

and, as I was dying, I told her.

She was crying both because she saw I was dying

and because I was a lesbian.

When I saw how disappointed she was, I said: "I've done the right thing."

But the gods decided otherwise and now I'm here.

I was at the hospital,

in a coma. They pumped my stomach

and saved my life.

But it was close.

I'd downed so many pills and alcohol

I had a 50/50 chance of making it out alive.

So, when I told my mom,

I said: "I knew you'd be so hurt that you'd disown me."

Which is what eventually happened.

She couldn't accept it.

I would've rather been dead than have my mother think I was gay,

because I'd be dead to her anyway.

Today, I've cut off all ties with my mom and sister

since they can't accept me, even if they say they do.

But I can feel it in their behavior.

I'm not strong enough to care for people who only accept 80% of me.

It's either 100% or nothing.

I'd tried once before. She didn't know it was related.

I was 15 at the time.

It was the beginning of my relationship with Thara.

I knew I'd fall in love with this woman.

It was so intense, I knew I'd have to choose:

Thara or my mom. It was too much for me.

I knew she'd change my life, so I chose to end it.

It was too hard.

I took the easy way out and decided not to decide.

If I could change the past, I wouldn't have done it.

But I still find it sad

to think I'm not the only one

who'd rather die than face homophobia at work

racism, homophobia at home.

It's really hard.

It's a lot of discrimination for a tiny body.

Let's put it that way.

I'd like to get married. We both would.

We're taking our time but that's where we're heading.

It feels like a logical step.

It's important for us to unite.

ALL IS NOT LOST

Have you heard black women say they didn't want children in France

for fear of racism?

I don't want to for that very reason!

I've heard: "I don't want to raise kids here

"because I don't want my kids to face the violence I faced."

I'd like to have kids

but would it be in France?

Would it be in France?

Would it be in Paris, or elsewhere?

Would it...

A lot of questions...

I know I'd like to protect them.

I'd like to make sure they know everything about their origins,

their history, etc.

To know they can be whoever they want to be.

But...

no amount of prudence in the world will spare your child,

here or elsewhere.

So, yes. I'm already worried.

If you're white and mess up when you're young,

it's no big deal. You're not a thug.

You're just young.

"Poor thing, he's a good boy. He deserves a second chance."

You can be carefree.

When you're privileged,

you don't have to worry about struggling.

That's also being carefree.

I'd love for my kids to have that, but...

you either protect them in a bubble and risk

that the bubble will eventually burst. And it will.

Or, you take stock of everything and forget about being carefree.

I don't like either situation.

So, there.

But I don't want to give them

a fear of being vulnerable:

gritting their teeth, not being allowed to cry.

Being black doesn't mean we can't cry. We can cry

as well as laugh.

What I mean is...

being solid and standing strong

doesn't mean being numb and dehumanized.

I need them to feel black and proud.

I want them to feel French but also know their history.

Not to think, we're Caribbean, we've always been here. We haven't.

Explaining slavery, colonization,

the hardships they will face when confronting racism

and homophobia. Because they'll have two moms.

Having kids in France is a real question.

But...

oddly enough, I can't see myself elsewhere.

I'm one of those people who criticizes the system but...

who remains here.

I'm attached to this country.

I can't deny it.

I can't foresee the future, and might have to leave.

I've often wondered if I should leave.

I think it's a real question.

Regarding kids,

and passing knowledge on to them,

I think it's important...

I want to pass on to them that there's always a way.

All is not lost. There's a way to live here.

I hope to give them the best weapons,

I deliberately say "weapons," in order to...

to defend themselves

and encourage them to develop their own strategies...

to never forget the fact that they're black.

Like my parents told me.

I thought they were exaggerating.

I didn't get why we had to do "twice as much."

They weren't totally wrong.

I hate that it's so bad.

I like living in France

but the people make it impossible

with their racism.

Once you arrive here, there's a wall of racism

that crushes you.

But I don't know if...

I really can't tell you if I'll leave.

That said,

if things are exactly the same in 10 years...

in 20 years, I don't know.

I don't have a crystal ball,

but even if you like a place, if you're always rejected,

you eventually accept it's not for you.

The worst part is when they say:

"Love it or leave it."

It's a vicious circle.

They don't understand your rage.

It's just horrible

when they belittle you by saying: "Love it or leave it."

If we're asking these questions,

it's because we want to legitimize our status here.

For 10 years, I've been fighting

all these forms of discrimination

and it takes its toll.

I need a change of scenery.

Get away for a bit.

I know that nowhere's perfect.

"Act local..."

I've tried and I'm tired.

I just want to start fresh elsewhere with the kids.

Maybe we'll be back, but I'm looking to leave.

We all have our limits.

In Islam, we say:

"God charges no soul with more than it can handle."

So, it'd be a privilege to leave if possible.

I'm trying to make it happen.

If there's an opportunity,

I have no qualms in leaving.

I think I've fought hard enough.

It's not like I just sat around,

waiting for change to happen.

No, I've fought.

I've done my time.

It's time to turn the page.

I sometimes wonder, but I'm still attached to France.

I'm not sick of it enough yet to want to leave.

I feel a sense of responsibility...

If we want France to change, we have to do it here.

You have to do it in France.

You can't do it from afar.

It's true

when I discovered the US for a month and a half

and discovered the way they work, create, think...

Because all those things feed off each other.

It's a virtuous circle.

I thought it was amazing.

Brooklyn, with all the Jews and Afros... I felt right at home.

Then I realized I had to continue here.

It'd be a step backwards...

if I didn't stay here and take advantage

of what France also has to offer.

France has a lot to offer,

but some people don't want us to have access to it.

That's all.

You're more of a James Baldwin. It's your country, don't let them chase you out.

In some way, I'd hate to go because there's so much left to do.

It would mean preventing France from moving forward.

If you look closely, those who leave

are often people that can teach France a lot.

And that isn't helping France move forward.

Everything remains to be done.

Especially regarding my struggle for black lesbians.

In the US...

things are well on their way.

But here, there's nothing.

If only for that reason, I won't leave yet.

It's strange but I feel at home in France.

Especially in Paris.

You could say the worst things to me

but I don't care. This is my home.

Be as racist as you like, that's on you.

That's your problem.

As a result...

sometimes I think:

"I can't stand it. I'm in a country

"where I'm home yet unwelcome."

And I think of leaving.

That wouldn't be freedom for me, but more like exile.

If I have to leave

to live somewhere else for a long time,

it'd be seen - at least, for now - as exile.

I want to be somewhere.

I know I'll travel, but I want a few places I can cling to.

Back home, it'd be Zaire and Rwanda.

It'd be France, especially Brittany.

After that, I'd spread out.

But my home is here. It's here.

It's my struggle against those who say: "You're not really French."

I'm French and I'm staying here.

My kids will stay too, and we'll be here a while.

That's also the idea. I'm not going anywhere. I'm from here, period.

SPEAK UP

Subtitles: Christopher Silva

Subtitling: HIVENTY