Rice Village, East Village, Global Village

(Self-portrait, November 2002. Copyright © by MA Shumin.)

My life is a journey from one village to another.

I was born in a small rice village in Taishan, Guangdong province, China. My parents were rice farmers. My grandparents were rice farmers. The ancestors before them were rice farmers. It looked very likely that my elder brother and I were to also become rice farmers in our village too.

Then fate changed. In 1985, when I was not yet six years old my family left the rice village to come to New York’s Manhattan Chinatown. My surroundings changed from rice fields and vast mountains and giant fields of sugar canes and running pigs and chickens – to giant skyscrapers and honking, speeding cars and all these people who didn’t speak my Taishanese dialect.

Though I left China at a young age to go to America, I still am very Chinese. Growing up in New York’s Chinatown and East Village, I learned American English while upholding my Chinese heritage. I went to ten years of Chinese School on Mott Street from age seven to seventeen, and my family always spoke Chinese at home. The Manhattan Chinatown environment, my family and my childhood Chinese friends all reminded me of my Chinese roots.

When my mother passed her US citizenship exam in 1992, my brother and I automatically became US citizens (and lost our Chinese citizenship) since we were both under 18. Not only did I not have any say in the matter, I did not even realize I became a US citizen. To my parents, it was not a matter of pride and patriotism but about practicality. It is beneficial to have American status.

Despite holding an American passport, I have never felt like a true American. In America I had a minority face and did not speak the perfect American English. But it is when I leave America that I realize I am more American than I am aware of. Living in France, when people detect my American accent they immediately classify me as an American. As I do not speak French with a Chinese accent, they do not see me as a true Chinese from China.

During the many times I returned to visit Taishan with my family in the summer vacations during my childhood, and when I studied abroad in Hong Kong during college, the Chinese in mainland China also viewed me as an outcast too. I am a stranger in my own native land. I am not a pure Chinese. I am different because I have been westernized. I dress differently, I act differently, and I don’t speak Chinese as perfectly. It’s tough. I can’t help but have a case of lost identity. What identity am I? Where do I belong?

I studied in France during college, and made the decision on my own to move to Europe after graduation. I appreciate Europe for its history, its love for the arts, the different cultures, and see it as a ‘home’ that I’ve chosen for myself to live in. I did not choose to be born in China, or to immigrate to America, but as an adult, I have chosen to live in Europe. And it’s a wonderful feeling, to be able to have the freedom to choose where you want to be at. I know that this is one of the most important opportunities that America has given me: the freedom to live anywhere.

And I love being a Chinese-American in Europe.

I am comfortable now being not 100% Chinese, not 100% American, and not 100% European. Perhaps that is a symbol that I am living in a Global village. My brother lives in Shanghai, my parents live in New York and I live in Paris. The world is getting smaller and we are not just restricted to one city, one country as home. I love that I am able to speak Chinese (and all its many dialects), English, French, and other languages I have the chance to learn in the future, all in one location. I have become an international citizen living and working in a global village. The more I travel to work and learn, the more I want to continue learning. And I hope as a filmmaker, I will be able to make films that link China and USA and Europe.

Malaika Africa

(A Girl and Her Ball, Park Belleville. Copyright © 2007 by MA Shumin.)

I think one of the things I’ll forever be grateful for while living in Paris is in learning more about the people and the continent of Africa. Today I know more about the geography of the Africa continent than I do about the fifty states in the United States of America. It’s no joke that I had to look at a map to find where the state of Rhode Island is (it’s not far from New York City).

Growing up in the big metropolis of New York I was exposed to African Americans very early in life. Though their origin can be traced back to West Africa, their ancestors have been on American soil as early as the first European settlers. They most likely took the same the same Mayflower boat across the Atlantic. Dark in skin, these Americans are as American as what being an American can be. They speak American English just like me, and share the same American culture.

In United States, there is the history of slavery; and in France, there is the history of colonialism. Because of France’s colonial history in Africa, here in Paris you will find various African enclave neighborhoods particularly located in northeast part of the city. The neighborhoods of Barbès, Porte de Clignanourt and Belleville are just a few of these neighborhoods. Here you will find many foyers (residence halls) where the men and women live. They come mostly from the sub-Saharan countries of Mauritania, Mali, Senegal, Ivory Coast, Cameroon, and the list is endless.

They are the ones who came to France to rebuild the country after the war. They are the construction workers who built the famous Stade de France (stadium). They are the cleaning ladies in law offices. They are the garbage truck workers who pass by my window and every other residents’ every single day exactly at 8pm. They are the nannies pushing the baby carriages in the streets and in parks. They are such a big part of Paris that I can’t imagine how the middle class French Parisians can function without them.

I had an especially in-depth study of Africa in 2006 when I attended the European Social Documentary workshop in Italy and Hungary. This EU Media Plus funded training initiative brought together 22 filmmakers/NGOs from over 17 old and new EU countries, from West and East Europe. The 6 month experience was quite an eye and mind opening experience for me, both intellectually as a filmmaker and emotionally as a person.

We saw a documentary film, “AFRICA LIVE: The Roll Back Malaria Concert” by Mick Csáky. It was both a raising awareness and fundraising effort to improve the health situation in Africa. In the opening of the film was an old Swahili song from Tanzania sung in a powerful voice without any instruments. The name of the song is called “Malaika” (Angel), this version is by the popular Benin singer, Angelique Kidjo.

A continent dominated by famine, disease, exploitation of natural resources, poverty, tribal conflicts, and manmade or natural misfortunes, I always find hope in music from Africa. It is uplifting to hear music, and I am especially touched by the power of the human voice as an instrument. It is not something that money and resources can buy. It’s a talent, a gift that is in the person. And that is precious.

Coming to live in Paris, meeting Africans and learning about their culture gave me a glimpse to what life can be like in Africa. It is an introduction to a very diverse continent that I would like to see for myself one day.

Listen to: Malaika

La Vie En Rose

(A painting of Edith Piaf, 72 rue de Belleville. Copyright © by MA Shumin.)

Love...

It is that ever timeless subject that we ordinary beings seek in all our lives, perhaps ever more diligently than fame and fortune. It is something that writers, artists, filmmakers and singers have been spending eons dwelling on. Though what are shown in movies, described in books and sung in songs do not begin to represent the diverse authentic forms of expressions of love amongst couples, some artistic endeavors do come close. Edith Piaf’s song, “La Vie en Rose” (1946), one of the most memorable and endearing love song of all time relates to the sincere feelings of being in that moment of love. The life of this great legendary iconic French singer began in Belleville.

The legend is that Edith Piaf was born on a cold winter day of December 1915 on the pavement of 72 of rue Belleville in the heart of the working class immigrant neighborhood. Whether it is true or not, today on the door along side a painting of her, there are the words: “Sur les marches de cette maison naquit le 19 Décembre 1915 dans le plus grand dénuement Edith Piaf dont la voix, plus tard, devait bouleverser le monde. “

Edith Piaf’s life is that of real legendary singers, actors and artists. She came from what is known as ‘the slums of Paris’ and went as far as the world-renowned concert hall of New York City. At the mere height of 4 feet 8 inch, it was not the height that stood out for Edith Piaf, but her voice. Though she was raised in poverty in Belleville, Edith’s unique voice, at times touching, heartbreaking but altogether undeniably powerful brought her out to the world. Through her romances as well as friendships with the great names of her time, Yves Montand, Jean Cocteau, Marlene Dietrich, etc, Edith Piaf became a star.

And like all great stars, Edith Piaf’s life was to sing and survive, to live and love. It was all or nothing, and finally she died in 1963 at the tragic age of forty-seven. Today Edith Piaf is remembered well and thought to be one of the greatest singers France has ever produced. Her signature song "La vie en rose" was voted a Grammy Hall of Fame Award in 1998 and while the award may mean nothing or everything to her listeners, which woman does not want to be held in the arms of her love and feel these sentiments:

“ Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,
Voilà le portrait sans retouche
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens

Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose.

Il me dit des mots d'amour,
Des mots de tous les jours,
Et ça me fait quelque chose.

Il est entré dans mon coeur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause.

C'est lui pour moi. Moi pour lui
Dans la vie,
Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie.

Et dès que je l'aperçois
Alors je sens en moi
Mon coeur qui bat “

City of Dim Light

(Drawing of the homeless. Copyright © January 2003 by MA Shumin.)

It is not easy being poor in the City of Light.

When the weather gets cold, the homeless and the beggars around Paris are more apparent. No matter what background we are coming from, and no matter how humble, we are fortunate compare to the homeless and the beggars. We have a roof over our head, food in our stomach and the luxury of shower each night when we want.

The other way of life confronts us each morning when we leave home and each evening when we return. The foul odors of those who have with them bags of their lifelong belongings are detected afar; they have come to the metro stations to escape the cold. Throughout the streets of Paris, refugees and the homeless loiter and beg. Often times they are women and young children who sit around.

In the RER B line, running from north to south Paris, Charles de Gaulle airport to Robinson are seen both men and women who panhandle. These people represent different race groups. Some are fallen French residents, many others are refugees from Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and still others are unidentifiable. There are those who make music, play the violin or accordion to earn their money. Others pass out little slips of paper, saying they are homeless, without a job and need people’s help. And still some others just go from car to car informing the passengers that they have no work, no home to live in, have 2 to 3 children to care for and need help. Any change or restaurant tickets will help them out a lot.

In Paris’s 20th arrondissement at Jourdain metro station every morning a gentleman greets the commuters. This chubby elderly man is always positioned there. If in a red Santa suit, he can very much be mistaken for Santa. He is a friendly looking fellow and if dressed otherwise one would never imagine him being homeless. He smiles and rocks about, nods his head when someone drops some change into his held out hands. He has become such a regular that people would often have conversations with him, asking how he is doing.

There are a lot of beggars and homeless people in Paris, lingering around the metro station and on the streets. Most say the same things or have with them a similar sign: No work. No money. Hungry. Please. The word “s'il vous plaît“ has a whole new meaning for me now than when I first learned it in my French class in America. This is what I cannot help but notice about Paris; the great number of tourists is mixed in with the immense population of beggars, homeless and gypsies.

There is a very dim side to the City of Light.

Paris loves Artists

(Raoul Velasco in his studio. Copyright © by MA Shumin.)

I first fell in love with Paris during a weekend class trip when I was studying in Dijon, summer 1999. The class took a Bateaux-Mouches night cruise on the Seine and the city lights were just mesmerizing against the warm summer evening. On the Eiffel Tower looking over the city, with the lights and the romance, I thought to myself that I had to come back again, and I didn't want to wait too long. Most Americans like to wait until they are older, with more money, perhaps during retirement to experience living in Paris. But for me, I had no problem with being young and poor. Young just means I will have more energy and poor means learning to be more thoughtful, creative and resourceful. This was what I got out of watching RENT musical in New York City, "If not now, then when?" "No day but today".

So I came back to Paris right after college. I did not intend for my stay to be so long. I came in the summer but I liked the life here so much, more than I could have ever imagined, I decided to stay for longer. I fell in love with Paris for the second time in my life. This time, not for it being the City of Lights and glamour, but for it being the city of diversity, culture & inspiration.

Paris has been luring expatriates since the beginning of time. In the 1920’s, at a time caught between the first and second world war, the city was opened to change and new ideas. Paris then was a haven for artists, offering them the freedom, support and inspiration they needed. People from all over the world came here to write, to compose, to paint and to learn. One famous group of expatriates called "Lost Generation" included Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and Gertrude Stein.

There was also a great migration of African-American writers, artists, and musicians to Paris at this time. The black Americans were eager to come to Paris to escape the oppressive racism and segregation of the United States. The African-American musicians popularized jazz in the Parisian nightclubs so much that Montmartre was known to be "the Harlem of Paris." On the list of well known African-American expatriates were Josephine Baker, Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, James Baldwin, Miles Davis, and Charlie Parker. In the 1950s and 1960s there was another famous group of expatriates called “Beat Generation”. This group included Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Harold Norse, Gregory Corso and Gary Snyder. Other expatriates included jazz musician Steve Lacy, rock musician Jim Morrison, and singer-songwriter Elliott Murphy.

The neighborhood of Belleville also had a share of this flux of expatriates. In the 1980s artists and musicians were drawn to Belleville because of the cheaper rents, the numerous vacant large spaces, as well as the old Paris charm of its smaller cobbled stoned streets. There are so many artists living and working in Belleville today that it is reputed to be the most concentrated area of studio workshops in Europe.

On 49 bis rue des Cascades, one of the many quaint cobbled stoned streets in Belleville is the studio of artist, Raoul Velasco. He is a 56 year old Mexican artist, originally from Mexico City. He claimed he has lived two lives. The first life was in Mexico, as a professor until the age of 34 when he had the epiphany to change his career. He wanted to do something new that works with his hands. He felt Paris was the city to make the change and came here to start his second life as a self-made artist.

Raoul arrived in Paris in 1989, knowing no one and speaking little French. He rented a little studio in Belleville on rue Cascades where he still works today. He learned various art techniques (painting, wood-sculpting, etching, etc) by himself, as well as from the many artists who were also renting studios in the neighborhood. Feeling immense gratitude for the neighborhood that gave so much to him and helped him develop as an artist, Raoul wanted to contribute to Belleville. From 1993-1997 he became president of the “Ateliers d’Artistes de Belleville” (a non-profit association that supports the artists in Belleville). In 2000 he created “Association pour l’Estampe et l’Art Populaire” in his own studio. Other than workshops and courses, the studio also does exhibitions of local artists, as well as foreign artists from Japan. These events give artists the opportunities to show their work, as well as get their artworks sold.

Raoul came to Paris with nothing but a dream to start a new life. Today he has become an important part of his community, and known to be “the most famous artist on rue des Cascades”. The culture and the arts are really vibrating in Paris and is an inspiration to any one who wants to create. But perhaps what is even more important is the solidarity among the artists themselves. The coming together, helping one another to grow and improve with their arts is what makes Paris a great place. Paris has been and will always be a haven for artists.

The Red Balloon

(Nemo's The Red Balloon on Rue Henri Chevreau. Copyright © 2007 by MA Shumin.)

The first film I remember seeing in my life was in my seventh grade French class in fall of 1992. Madame LaFarge showed us “The Red Balloon” (1956), by Albert Lamorisse and I just fell in love with the story. It is a short film about a small boy in the Parisian neighborhood of Menilmontant, just next to Belleville who gets a magic balloon that follows him everywhere. Since that autumn afternoon sitting behind my desk I have not seen the film again and vaguely remember the details. I’ve even forgotten it took place in northeast Paris. But the memory that stayed with me was how much I love this small story about a unique friendship and the imagination it inspired in me.

“The Red Balloon” became my favorite French film, and ironically there are no dialogues in the film. The film was shown to me at the beginning of the first semester of my first year in junior high school, at I. S. 131, Sun Yat Sen on Hester Street in New York Chinatown. The students were required take up a second language and there were only two choices: Spanish or French. Most of my classmates opted for Spanish, feeling it’s more useful given that we have lots of Spanish-speaking people in New York. That summer my family had just moved out of Chinatown into Alphabet City in the East Village. The main population of my new neighborhood were Spanish-speakers from Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. I was hearing Spanish every day at the bus stops, in the laundromat, at the supermarkets.

A quiet and happy thirteen-year-old, I had a rebellious inner side and didn’t want to be like others. The beginning of fall semester I made the decision to study French. Not because I found the language romantic and beautiful to the ears, or that I appreciated the great philosophers and literatures, but simply I just wanted to be different. Never would I think I would continue to learn French after junior high school, or that I would live in France one day, and that I would be making films for my career.

Fast forward to ten years later, after my film studies from Syracuse University I was still a fish trying to swim against the current. While my classmates opted to go west to Los Angeles and to New York to pursue their film careers, I headed east to Paris. My justification was I was seeking a European and international perspective in filmmaking, that it made all sense for me to go and live abroad in France as it’s the origin of documentary filmmaking with the Lumière Brothers showing the first films of people coming out the train station in 1895 in a Paris cafe.

An unconscious but powerful desire to be different started the history of how I first studied French to eventually coming to live in France. And as if it was all meant to be, in the unique Belleville neighborhood in Paris that I eventually settled, I saw again what first inspired me.

Belleville is a living art neighborhood. It is an open museum with 24 hour free entry, opened 365 days a year, rain, snow, sleet, hail or shine. No entry ticket is necessary. The building walls are the giant canvases. Anyone and everyone who passes by can appreciate the artworks. The streets are the studios of the artists. Some of these artists are professionals, where they dedicate their whole life to art. Others have day jobs and do art on the side.

“The Red Balloon” is part of a mural painting on one of the gigantic walls in Belleville. The series of paintings first appeared on the walls of the 20th arrondissement in the early 1980’s and was created by a street artist named ‘Nemo’. He was a math professor who worked during the day, and the rest of the time began painting using stencils. The nickname Nemo was inspired by the detective comic, “Little Nemo” that came out in 1905 by Winsor McCay.

Nemo’s paintings are imaginative and the style is simple, convincing me that it does not take a lot to make great art. He created the silhouette of a man in black who wears a coat and hat following a series of different adventures. Nemo mastered the concept of space and filled it with a remarkable universe of magic. The stenciled images are strong: a suitcase, an umbrella, a ball, a cat... etc. The story is up to the viewer to imagine and for nearly 30 years Nemo’s paintings have provoked the minds of children and adults in the neighborhood.

Having lived in Belleville all these years, I can see how this neighborhood has inspired the 1956 film, “The Red Balloon” and the 1980’s of a man creating arts on the neighborhood walls. Belleville is just forever magical and inspiring.

Café Social

(Café Social outing in Montreuil Garden. Copyright © 2007 by MA Shumin.)

What does one do in ‘retirement’ when all one knows in one’s whole life is work for survival, and concepts of hobbies and leisure vacations are non-existent? I have been interested in this question ever since my father retired in 2003.

My father was a peasant farmer for thirty years in our village in Taishan of Guangdong Province, China. It was small rice village by the name of ‘Stream Factory’ of about a hundred people with the same family name. When we immigrated to New York, he worked for twenty years as a dishwasher and chef at a Chinese restaurant on Canal Street. When both of his children graduated from college, my father decided to have an early retirement. I was relieved that he was no longer working so hard, but was worried what he would do with all his free time.

“Located in the heart of Belleville, a multi-ethnic neighborhood of Paris and a place of nostalgia, the association Ayyem Zamen opened in January 2003, a social café to welcome, help the elder immigrants and to accompany them in their old age”. The people who come here range from age 60-90. The majority are men from North African countries of Tunisia and Algeria, but there are also men and women from other parts: Morocco, Senegal, Ivory Coast, etc. It’s a warm place, not only in the yellow pastel color of the wall paintings, curtains, and tables, but also in the familiar and cozy atmosphere. Here, you will find that people always greet one another by shaking hands. The three full time employees are friendly, dedicated and sincerely care about helping the people who come in.

One of the three employee is Moncef Labidi who is also the founder and manager. Originally from Tunisia he has been in Paris for 25 years. He was a sociologist by profession before noticing that too many retiree/senior citizens are uncared for. Four years ago he established the Café Social. The Arabic name is “Ayyem Zamen” which means those days that are gone. Moncef wants the people to not only remember fondly of the days that are gone, but to also enjoy their old age in Paris.

These North African men first arrived in France in the late 1950’s and 1960’s to rebuild France after the war. They came young, in their 20’s, at my age and only expected to come to work for a short while, make money and then to return to their country. Instead they stayed for much longer, some for 50 years. In between they would return to their home country to get married and have children, but they would never go back to live for permanent. Today these men are in their 60’s to 90’s.

How does an elder immigrant deal with ‘retirement’, when all he knows in his life is work for survival, and concepts of hobbies and leisure vacations are non-existent? The same Spring 2003 that my father retired in New York Manhattan Chinatown, the Social Café opened in Paris Belleville. The Social Café has since become a haven for elder immigrants, a place for them to come for aid, to help with translation and social papers. It is a place for them to meet, to have exchanges and to find solidarity. Each week is filled with events such as film screenings, Tuesday and Friday morning breakfasts, and outings, such as to the sea in Normandy and to the Paris suburb garden.

Every Thursday the Café Social takes the elders to a garden in Montreuil, the eastern Paris suburb. A dozen or so men would participate. These men eagerly work on plowing the earth and plant seeds for growing vegetables, herbs and flowers. The men are happy to get away from the busy Paris city for a while and to be around with nature. All these Arab men used to be farmers in their native Tunisia and Algeria. They had no education, and cannot read and write. But here in this Montreuil garden, everyone is equal, working with their hands, and it doesn’t matter if you are not highly educated with many degrees and speak perfect French.

At that moment, standing there and looking around me, appreciating the natural landscape and seeing the elders working, it reminded me of my own father working in the rice fields in our village.

From a distance someone might ask what does this Chinese-American girl have in common with these Arab elder immigrants. And the first reply, they may say there is nothing: we come from a different generation, a different country, a different culture and different language. But I would say, while there seems to be nothing, there is also everything: we all speak French with funny accents and we are all immigrants from a village, whether China or Tunisia or Algeria. And while we all have left our home country to survive and thrive in a foreign land, we did not forget where we came from.