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[notkidnappedyet]

Chapter 1

Sometimes the Fish Jumps Out of the Bowl by Choice

“So," I smiled at my parents. It was important to look as unassuming as possible, and I had everything going for me. It was Christmastime, and the parents were happy to have their kiddos home from college. I nestled against my brother on the couch. He pushed me off.

My mom looked up from the quilting book she'd been gifted early this morning, "What is it?"

"So," I repeated, "I found a study abroad opportunity.” I said, carefully laying the words down and measuring their response. “It’s in Switzerland... for next year.”

My mom nodded slowly closing her book, “Switzerland, wow.”

“Is that the one with the yodeling? Why Switzerland? What language do they speak there?” Dad seemed intrigued

I smiled, “French! I’ll be able to continue the engineering degree and work on actually becoming fluent in French at the same time.”

"I think there are three official languages there. Maybe four." My brother added, our attending encyclopedia. He leaned over onto me, and I pushed him off, as heavy as ever.

“Ok. That’s nice.” Mom said helpfully. She took a diplomatic sip of water from her glass and placed it back onto the side table. “Are there other black people there?” She added less diplomatically, deepening her voice. 

It was a good question though. I didn’t even know. I shrugged. “I am currently going to school in Iowa so..” 

Mom snorted. 

“When does the program start?” Dad asked. 

“June. For an intensive French course, and then classes start in September. And they’ll throw in a scholarship for students who stay a full year… so I went ahead and accepted that.”

“You what?”

…...........................................................................................................................

When I look in the mirror, I see normal. Not bad, per say. Just normal. 

Ok, so maybe it’s bad in the morning, or puffy. But it could be much worse. 

But nothing irreparable, or even broken in the first place. Most of the time, I would even say I look good. No Rihanna or Lupita. But good, normal. The basic blank slate, as normal as it gets.

My looks have served me well over the years. I never quite grew out of the willowy and awkward stage from adolescence—my legs are too long, and weight doesn’t stick easily, particularly given my European lifestyle (and the fact that I refuse to hit the gym for more than two sessions every half year).

I look like I’m from the 70’s– just long and braless. My posture leaves a lot to be desired, which my mother rightfully reminds me every time I see her. And now, after seeing the issue in a posed photo shoot, I’m working to correct this. I walk everywhere. I grew into my ears, and I look normal. That’s the point.

I know objectively I stick out due to my height—which I’m not that tall, 5’10 isn’t ridiculously tall. In certain countries, ok. It’s enough above average that people comment on it. It’s enough that I have an advantage in concerts. 

I also know I stick out due to my color. I consistently inhabit places where I’m in the minority and the ratio has only become more unfavorable since birth.

Yet still, when I look in the mirror, I see a Plain Jane. Not in the negative sense. But in the sense that this is the face that I see every day. That I’ve seen every day. And this face is normal, human, and mine.

One common aspect of being female or perhaps presenting female seems to be the feeling of being unsafe. Or maybe this is my internalization of the root issue. I feel unsafe often. To the point that the most perfectly nice guy can hold a door open for me, and my first thought is, what do you want? If he’s gone out of his way to hold the door, if he's raced in front of me or waited for an ungodly extra minute, it always occurs to me that I’m capable of getting the door without the help. In fifth grade, I remember the after-school care leader for the ROTC course informed me that a lady must never touch a door and should always be the first to enter. Such a bizarre additional responsibility to put on the backs of men. 

Sometimes I feel stared at. And sometimes I am stared at, called at from cars, followed on streets that are universally considered safe by people who don’t stick out the way I do. By friends who really don’t seem to know that different people have different experiences. And either I’m emitting some strong weird pheromone or my problem is societal.

These stories are a love letter to those I was too nervous to approach. They’re an I-told-you-so to the acquaintances who didn’t believe me. They are a thanks to the friends who know this happens, and an inside joke to those who have witnessed it with their own eyes. 

To the people asking, well, how do I approach a beautiful stranger on the street? My bad experiences have molded how I handle the innocent approaches– they've marred my ability to discern the difference between a great guy and sleazeball. As I’ve grown to realize that I’m skewed towards assuming the worst, I reflect on certain approaches with the thought, 'ok, I wasn’t into him, but that approach was perfectly acceptable'. I don’t have an answer to the perfect approach, but some support with the bad approaches goes a long way towards a lady (me) being open to the good ones. So here is a perspective in which I’ve loaded the good, the bad, and forgettable into a single boat. 

Finally, to my friends, family, and parents in particular, I’m proud to say, I’m not kidnapped yet. 

[notkidnappedyet]

Preface

For the record, this is not a work of art.

I'm not pouring my moments over finding the right words, only sharing my story with the goal of sharing alone. I'm not overthinking this at all. I just wanted to make sure we understood each other.

Here are my experiences based on my understanding of the world. I have a very US American mindset. And a black female US American mindset at that. There are other important descriptors--let's see. Nerdy, possibly avoidant, pretty funny, Aquarius, if that's your thing. Good or bad, it is what it is.

Now, there is some dialogue in French and German. My French is much more reliable than my German, and I'll note it as it's relevant. But keep space in your head for disbelief.

And finally, I began retelling these stories during the more tumultuous times. Cue covid-19, which hit the family hard, the BLM movements of 2020, the elections to set the scene. I was living no less than 13 hours away from home by plane and working on wrapping up a PhD in isolation. When I had time to just be again, I sat down and began write. So please enjoy me, putting it all back together.