These days I’ve had a lot of friends and family tell me,
“Emmy, I don’t know how you do it.
You’re so brave.”
To which, I laugh—hysterically—as
only a scared little American girl can.
I sure fooled you!
I mean I always appreciate your kind words and your support,
but let me be honest with you. I’m
not Lewis and Clark bravely voyaging where no man has dared before. No. I’m just a little kid chasing the wind. I run blindly toward this greater goal
of being abroad and living my dream, and I’m so busy running and looking ahead
that I don’t realize I’ve stumbled onto trouble until I hit my hands and
knees. Then I cry and cradle my
boo-boos and whine, “This isn’t fun
anymore. I don’t want to play this
game. I’m telling my mom!” Yeah. I never said it was pretty, but it’s the truth. Of course moments later I have an
officemate bring me a cup of soup or share a kind smile with me, and I brush
myself off and keep running.
So these past two weeks at my internship have just been
another addition to the Belgian rollercoaster that is my life right now. There have been highs. There have been lows. And there have been moments when I
thought I was going to go shooting out sideways!
For those who don’t know, I’m an intern at the Centre pour l’égalité des chances et la
lutte contre la racisme (Center for Equal Opportunity and Opposition to
Racism). It’s located in the heart
of Brussels on the Rue Royal, which is an absolutely beautiful part of the
city. Every morning I come out of
the metro on the edge of the Parc de Bruxelles, and I walk along cobblestone
streets where impressive detailed stone facades line the way to my office. In fact, if I keep walking past the
entrance, I walk right up to the Colonne du Congrès (Sorry, I don’t have a photo,
but you can google it!). I’m a
lucky, lucky, lucky girl.
Once inside the doors, the reception is on my left, but I
scan my badge (Oh yes, they gave me a badge!) and continue straight. Every few days I see two of my
colleagues seated behind a massive stone desk dealing with complaints from
various clients who fill up round tables to the left of the room. This is one aspect of the Center that I
admire and find worth noting: They
do literally work on the front lines of discrimination. They take calls; they listen; they
advise you. More over, they always
have freshly brewed coffee, an assortment of tea, and little cakes for the
people who come in to nibble on while they wait. It’s a proud moment for me to walk past those people and
know I’m part of the Center that is helping them.
From there, I take a right and walk toward the
elevators. Occasionally I’ll see
people from accounting of higher levels and give them a smile before I turn
left, scan my badge again, and continue toward my office. I’m in the Diversity Division of the
Center, so my office is one in a row of others who are specializing in gender,
sexuality, or religious diversity and equality. My colleagues wander in around 9 AM, looking less like the
professional businessmen in tailored suits I saw getting on the elevator
earlier than perpetual Ph.D. students.
Take Mihael for example. If you saw him on the street in his Doc Martens, tight Levis
rolled up to his ankles, hair slicked back from his face, and scuffed up
leather jacket, you’d probably assume he’s the bassist in a steam-punk band who
shoots the middle finger to institutions on principal and dropped out of school
before he finished college. And
you’d be very, very wrong. He
works on creating a barometer for diversity, that is a report on diversity
trends in Brussels, which entails interacting with an untold number of surveys
and different governmental agencies, processing all that information, and
neatly condensing it into a report published by the Center. Don’t let the tattoos fool you: He’s a
sharp guy. He’s also a very nice
guy that usually gives me a lopsided grin in the hallways and wiggles his
eyebrows when he tells me, “Hello!”
(I’ve gotten to where I look forward to this exchange so that when I
hear his Doc Martens in the hallway in the morning, I find a reason to wander
outside and greet him).
Of course they’re not all uncanny rebels like Mihael. There’s my officemate Fatima who’s
Parisian, but whose parents originally come from Morocco. I love her. My first day, I walked into her office wide-eyed with a
giant smile plastered across my face, and she swept out of her desk, all
confidential winks, purring French in that gorgeous accent only Parisians can
master, and charmed my socks off.
Or maybe it was the cookies she gave me. Yeah. She gave
me cookies and tea and chatted with me my first day. You would love her too. It doesn’t hurt that she keeps an eye on me either.
When one of our colleagues asked how Fatima liked having me
in the office, Fatima told him, “Oh, I’m very happy. It’s great to have another face there, so that I’m not
cooped up all alone!”
“But,” he said, looking confused, “she never says anything.”
“She talks to me,” Fatima replied. “And sometimes we don’t even have to talk: We just laugh!”
That’s right. Fatima’s
got my back, though I’m not sure if it’s just because she’s an angel or because
she genuinely likes me. To be
honest, I think it even surprises her.
She told me that she isn’t usually so friendly with her coworkers
because she tries to keep her professional and private life separate, but “For
some reason, I just find myself telling you things that I don’t tell the
others. It’s so weird. There’s just something about you that I
can connect to,” she told me yesterday.
Little American Emily just smiled and started laughing which led Fatima
to laugh, so we laughed together without saying a word for a good five
minutes. And I’m ok with
that. Like Fatima told our
colleague, we don’t have to talk.
We just laugh, and somehow we understand.
I have to admit on the heels of this story that I was so
disheartened when Fatima told me what our colleague had said. She hadn’t brought it up to make me
feel bad. On the contrary, she was
affirming that she was happy with me being there. Still, it hits home to know that my effort isn’t always successful. Because I try. I try so hard that I am bone-deep, saggy-eyelids exhausted every single
day.
I try to say hello to everyone who passes me. I try to make small talk around the
coffee machine. I try to remember
everyone’s projects so that I can ask about them. I try to be useful.
I try to be memorable. I
try. I try. I try…
In fact, I try so hard that sometimes I wonder if people are
staring at me waiting for my eyes to bulge out. A prime example is a meeting I had with my immediate boss
Michel and my liaison Francois on my third day at the Center. Afterwards, I walked out of Michel’s
office and let out a long breath.
Francois gave me a smile and patted me on the back like, “Hang in there,
kid. You’ll get it one of these
days.” I think my shoulders just
sank a little lower knowing how obvious I was. I’m sure I’m the little American girl running around the
hallways with a grin on her face looking so eager and happy when she makes eye
contact with someone just so she can blurt out, “Bonjour!”
I jump at the opportunity to do anything like I’m always coiled up waiting for the opportunity to
spring into action. I ask for more
work. No really. I’m that person. Last Monday, I pestered Francois (via
e-mail) to tell me what I could do to be more useful to the Center because I
didn’t think I was doing enough.
“Well,” he responded, “I’m going to Namur tomorrow to give a
lecture. You can come with me if
you want. There are also two
conventions coming up later in the month that you can go to. And if you still want to do more, you
should talk to Michel and see if he has anything to give you.”
You can read the subtext, I imagine. I still said yes—to all of the above.
I’m sure Francois’ head hit his desk. But the following Tuesday, he showed up
in my office door to pick me up and take me to Namur. I literally jumped out of my chair and started packing up my
things to go with him. I was
moving a mile a minute while he and Fatima made small talk. Honestly, I must be so annoying and
silly-looking to everyone else.
In case you haven’t already realized it, by inviting myself
along to Namur with Francois, I have committed to spending an entire day with a
man I barely know who is my superior in the Center and who speaks French
fluently (usually under his breath with all the words rolling together). This is what I do: I push myself into
these situations every single day.
And when I say, “I push myself,” I literally push. Because at the
end of the day, no it is not my dream to spend my day with colleague trying to
make small talk in another language.
It’s hard. In fact, I would
argue it’s harder to make small talk in another language than it is to talk
about a subject. You don’t know
what the topic will be; you don’t know what the other person’s response will
be; you have think of short, interesting things to say at a moment’s notice;
you’re on your toes the entire time.
But I do it because I know that I need to have Francois as
an ally, that I need to show him I work hard and that I care, and that Francois
needs to remember I exist above all.
So the sage part of me that knows best gives the scared, young part of
me a not-so-subtle kick in the ass, and off I go to Namur.
After an awkward hour-long train ride with sporadic small
talk, Francois and I get lost in Namur trying to find the center where he’ll be
speaking. I’m wearing my heeled
booties which normally are no big deal in Brussels because I’m accustomed to
wearing heels, they’re not that high, and they’re comfortable. However, walking around Namur for 20+
minutes in heels is another story.
I have blisters on my feet.
I’m sweating because the day heats up. I’m breathlessly trying to speak French to Francois while I
follow him blindly around Namur. Against
all odds, it turns out to be a blessing in disguise.
Flustered and embarrassed, Francois lightens up. He starts making jokes with me. He gives me the map at one point and
asks me to help him. Suffice it
say, Francois and I kind of bonded while we were lost in Namur. Crazy, right?
It also gave me a chance to dazzle Francois a little. When I told him, I was also taking
classes two nights a week in addition to working full-time, he gave me a look
and shook his head. “You’re a
machine, aren’t you?” he said.
“I’m an opportunist,” I corrected, making it clear in case
he didn’t get the message with me sweating and following him around Namur in my
heels that I am eager and willing.
I think he got the message.
The next day I had two meetings because in my first week of
work, I somehow managed to worm my way into two meetings with the Diversity
Team working on the subject of Rroma and another meeting with Michel. Did I mention I also showed up to two
meetings the Monday before? I’m an
opportunist, guys. I just say,
“Yes,” even when I don’t want to!
This seems to surprise my colleagues—probably because they
don’t ever know who invited me or how I found my way to the meeting rooms (They
probably think I just crouch down and hide next to the water cooler listening
to them). Case in point: there was
a general meeting last Monday, to which everyone was generally invited. It
was open-ended though, so only a third of the Center actually showed up to the
meeting, but I thought it was important to be there because as usual I want
people to see me and know me.
They made a point to introduce the new recruits to the
Center, but they don’t mention my name.
At the end, Patrick Charlier, the director of the Center and my real
boss, leans over and whispers to the woman announcing the new recruits that she
didn’t name me.
“Yes, but she’s not here, is she?” the woman says and looks
out into the crowd.
My hand goes up instantly, and I say, “I’m here!”
Both Patrick and the woman look shocked that I’ve shown
up. Then Patrick grins proudly and
announces, “This is our new intern from America, Emily Mullenax.”
Everyone noisily turns in their seats to look at me, and I
grin and blush like the silly American I am.
Quentin, one of my colleagues from the Diversity Division,
is sitting next to me and gives me a golf clap. I blush even more and start doodling on my notepad. Yeah. I’m twenty-three going on twelve.
Of course there are drawbacks to my eagerness. I think I’ve somehow fooled all these
people into thinking I’m a competent, professional addition to their team. Not that I’m not that, but I just don’t feel like I’m that yet. I’ve still got
the training wheels on, people. I
once got lost in the Center trying to find the vending machines and ended up on
the street and had to get back into the Center through the underground parking
garage—which was interesting because I didn’t even know before then that there was an underground parking garage. I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m
faking it until I make it, acting like I’ve got this all and am leaping over
every obstacle thrown my way.
This is great because it makes me look good. The only thing that sucks is when
someone calls me on it. It’s like
running face first into a brick wall.
This is how I felt last Wednesday at my meeting with the Diversity
Team. I should preface this be
noting that I had hit a funk in my week.
I was exhausted, my French was stalling if not regressing, and I just
couldn’t seem to get things in order.
So while in this funk, I had to go to this meeting. Of course it would have been nice
beforehand to know that two of the Big Kahunahs in the Center would be
there. It also would have been
good to know too who the Big Kahunahs
were before walking into the meeting.
Patrick Charlier I already know, and even though he is
incredibly kind with warm brown eyes that crinkle around the edges when he
smiles, he intimidates the heck out of me—because he’s the Director of the
Center! He’s the one who hired
me. I rue the day he tries to talk
to me and realizes he hired a flustered, quiet American girl.
The other Big Kahunah is Josef who is directly under Patrick
in the pecking order, and whom I haven’t seen because he works on some higher
level in a glossy office with big glass windows and a view. I didn’t know who Josef was, which
explains why we had a very awkward conversation before the meeting started.
“Josef, have you met Emily yet?” Patrick asks.
“No,” he answers.
“I don’t think so.”
“We’ve met,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he says and smiles. “Right. I must
have seen you in the corridor or something.”
“No,” I correct him.
“We met when I did a tour of the building with Suzanne my second day
here.”
He’s clearly put off and uncomfortable at having been
corrected and also at having forgotten me. “Of course, but it was only for a short while,” he mutters
and turns from me to talk to someone else.
At the start of the meeting, when he takes a seat at
Patrick’s right and proceeds to lead the meeting with Patrick, I feel the need
to open my mouth and stick my foot in it.
I wasn’t trying to be rude, but it’s probably not very flattering on my
part to have corrected and embarrassed a high-ranking guy in the Center. Oh, Emily…
The meeting only gets worse from that point. Brussels is a primarily bilingual city,
meaning that most people speak Dutch or French from birth but also learn the
other language during school, in addition to usually speaking some
English. This is so prevalent and
ingrained in the daily life that literally even the meetings at the Center are
bilingual. And no, I don’t mean
bilingual in that someone says something in French, and someone translates it
into Dutch. I mean someone says
something in French, someone answers in Dutch, another person asks a question
in French, someone answers in Dutch, two people argue half in Dutch and half in
French… You get the idea.
I’m like a spectator at a tennis match: I just look from
face to face following the conversation without actually understanding what is
being said.
Then, at the end of the meeting, Patrick looks at me and
gives me his TV-worthy, crinkly-eyed smile.
Eager Emily grins back.
Then he asks me, “Emily, why don’t you tell us about your
research and your project?”
Oh shit. I
think I messed the memo that I was going to have to speak at this. I mean what should I say? I’ve only been at the Center for eight
days. I just figured out how to
change my signature on my e-mail account and how to use the copy machine. Those were my two big defeats this past
week. Oh no.
Because I am taken completely off guard, because it is
Patrick who asks me, and because I have been in a French funk all day, I
falter… and go beet red from toe to nose.
Then I open my mouth, and the tailspin sets in. I’m talking, I’m talking, I’m talking… Why am I still talking??? Shut up, Emily.
Abort. Abort. I shut my mouth and slam the breaks on
the word vomit soliloquy that will haunt my dreams. I’m afraid to look at Patrick’s face. I just smile from ear to ear and hope
to spontaneously combust into flames.
I’m so uncool. I’m so
red. I so suck at French.
“So you don’t speak Dutch?” one of my colleagues realizes,
and I stare at him like I could bore a hold through him.
That’s what you got
out of everything I said?! Can’t
you see I’m trying to melt into the floor here?!!
“No,” I answer.
“But I’m taking classes.”
“Oh, well maybe next time Francois can translate for you,”
he says.
Yeah. I’m too
embarrassed to look at Francois either, so I don’t know if he agreed. I just want to go back to my office and
hide. The meeting ends, but my
public humiliation is not yet finished because right after this meeting, I have
another one with my immediate boss Michel.
Rather than face it right away, I follow one of my
colleagues up to her office because she has a contact at another organization
that might be able to help me with my research. I take the sticky note from her and know that I have to
hurry to Michel’s office and face him now. I can’t exactly sprint out of the building in tears and cry
to my mom that I just verbally face-planted it in the middle of my first
important meeting at the Center.
I suck it up. I
put on my big girl panties. I
hurry toward Michel’s office, so that he doesn’t have to wait for me. On the way there, I pass by Josef and
give him a smile, which he doesn’t return. I think I should make cookies and try to win back my
colleagues favor.
When I arrive at Michel’s office, he’s already busy working
on his computer, so that I knock on the door and awkwardly feel like I’m interrupting
him. He ushers me in and proceeds
to give me a quick and dirty lesson on the very
complicated political system that is the Belgian government. Every few comments, he stops, looks at
me, and asks if I understand.
“Oui,” I tell him weakly. I might have committed French language suicide before your
eyes moments before, but I understand.
At the end of the meeting, my very kind boss Michel sits
next to me and asks if the meeting was ok. He was there.
He knows I sucked it big time.
But Michel reminds me of a redheaded Santa Claus. He has that sort of appearance and
personable warmth. Part of me
wants to admit how embarrassed I was and how horrible I spoke and unleash all
those little insecurities crowding up inside of my head. Instead, I smile brightly and tell him
it was really interesting even if I didn’t understand the Dutch, but it gave me
a chance to see how bilingual Brussels is. I make a point to tell him how much I enjoy the opportunity
of being at the Center, how nice everyone is to me, and how I appreciate his
taking the time out to give me a lesson on the Belgian government.
I take what little dignity I have left, wish him a good rest
of the day, and head off to my office.
Fatima isn’t there, so that I crave for her warm smile and laughter to
soothe my embarrassment. I know
she would listen to my tired broken French, give me the perfect words of
encouragement, and probably fetch me a cup of tea. But Fatima is not there, so I just sit at my desk and
proceed to replay the scene over and over again in my head—because I’m only
human.
The following day I’m still a little down from the
experience. Fatima is off working
in a different city for the day, so I don’t have her to help me shake off my
brood. I set about my work,
separating myself from my colleagues because I need a little bit of space and
fresh air so I can get my feet back under me. It might sound silly to you, but confidence is a huge part
of speaking another language daily.
I kind of got the wind knocked out of me the day before, so my
confidence is not there to help me get through a day in another language.
Somehow, I think my colleagues feel it. At lunchtime, Quentin goes downstairs
to get some soup (Tuesdays and Thursdays they make free soup for everyone) and
brings me a cup of it. He tries to
start up a conversation with me, but I’m lagging behind, asking him to repeat
things too many times, so that inevitably I give up.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m just kind of tired today, and French is not working so
well for me.”
“We can speak in English,” he offers kindly.
We continue our conversation in English even if I feel
guilty about it because I’m happy someone is being nice to me, and it feels
good to talk to someone beyond “hello” and “how are you” and “good bye.”
“You must be lonely,” he says like he can see right through
me. I must cringe because he
immediately corrects himself, “Not in a bad way. I just mean—”
“I’m on my own,” I finish for him, and he nods. “Yeah. I am alone.”
I’m not retelling this story so that you guys can feel sorry
for me. Because you
shouldn’t. I’m living my
dream. I am happy. But I’m also on my own in another
country and another language. And
this conversation I had with Quentin sticks in my head because it’s a perfect
example of something I’ve begun to notice during my time here.
In English, I’m master enough of the language that I can
read the subtlety in what’s not being said, I can eloquently deflect a
question, I can put a certain spin on an answer, but with all of that, I don’t
always say what I mean.
In French, I’m not adept enough for all those things, so it
strips away all the unnecessary fluff.
I say what I want to say but at its base level. This may not make much sense to you
being that you probably haven’t found yourself in a situation like this, but
it’s very interesting. At times
you end up being candid with someone or honest because you don’t know how else
to put it.
Granted, Quentin and I were speaking in English, but even
then he’s not a native English-speaker so his question didn’t have the elegance
to soften it. It was just at the
base what he meant to ask, and I didn’t take offense because I understood. Still, I chose to be honest. It was a nice moment with one of my
colleagues especially after the two weeks I had had—to know someone sees me in
the midst of my running around like a chicken with my head cut off.
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