This blog is where I write the worst things I can think of. They’re the things you can’t say in public. Sometimes, I write about good things, but often, I just need to vent. I do that here because it helps keep from being negative in real life.
How can two people witness the same event yet have completely conceptions of what really happened? Two people who witness the same crime often tell different narratives to the police. Regarding current events, all of the United States is that way, and the viewpoint is split along the party lines.
On a winter afternoon, I left work at the Institut and walked up a hill to the south. The wind funneling between the buildings and over the streets was strong and chilled me at first, but I warmed up as I walked. Overall, it was refreshing. I passed the Odéon Theatre, the Sénat (parliament), and then walked through the sprawling Jardins de Luxembourg. The sun was low in the sky, hanging just above the Observatory of Paris. Despite the cold, the huge park was just as crowded as it is in the summer. People were reading, painting, picnicking, strolling , talking, sitting, and playing pétanque.
I arrived at the café Les Clocheries des Lilas where I write sometimes. At most cafés and other less formal restaurants in Paris, one can order a cup of coffee and sit for hours without being bothered by the waiters. Thousands of people write all day at cafés, only ordering a single cup of coffee. It is a custom in Paris. Many books have been written this way, and some of the world’s greatest thinkers wrote at the same places I go: Sartre, Hemingway, Crowley, Burroughs. I find that motivating.
Later, my girlfriend Laetitia would join me here. It was early enough to have time to write before she arrived. I picked a table outside on the terrace and under a heater where I could watch the sunset. It overlooks a large, busy town square. An endless stream of people walked by. I ordered a cup of coffee and wrote for a long time - I bring writing material with me wherever I go.
I sipped my now cold coffee. The sun had dropped below the skyline and the bronze statue of the General Michel Ney outside the restaurant had taken a blue cast as the lighting shifted into a crepuscular palette.
Laetitia arrived. She wore a black dress, black coat, green scarf, heels.
In the Middle Ages, the people known as Gypsies or Roma migrated out of India and arrived in Europe. Just as they were when they arrived, they remain Europe’s largest and poorest minority. For a millennium, most of them have not yet integrated into the society of their host countries. According to many, this is because they face discrimination across Europe.
I suspect it is more than discrimination that has kept the Gypsies poor for more than 1000 years. I hope all the Gypsies will eventually live normal lives. Many have. Roma don’t look unusual or different physically, and one would not know they are Roma/Gypsy unless they told you or unless they wore traditional clothing. I'm only talking about street people in this blog. I don’t want to rant about ethnic groups with incompatible values immigrating to the West but only to provide some context for what happens next.
When one has spent countless days walking past and observing the same people going about their lives every day, some patterns and trends become obvious. Street Gypsies, or unsettled Roma as the EU officially calls them, are interesting to watch. Sadly, it’s their bad behavior that makes them interesting.
Professional beggars have turned the art of evoking sympathy from strangers into a business. Giving money to a professional beggar relieves the acute need, but it perpetuates the life condition. It encourages them to return. France, like most of Western Europe, has a publicly funded social safety net that distributes food, money, education, and housing to the needy, especially when they have children. Nobody starves here. Also, but not related, fat beggars always rub me the wrong way.
Almost immediately after Laetitia settled into a chair beside me, a chubby Gypsy beggar woman pushing a baby wheelchair stopped in front of us and asked for money. She was twenty something years old, had greasy hair, and wore a soiled track suit. We ignored her at first. She asked two more times in a grating voice, a little louder and more nails-on-a-chalkboard obnoxious each time. For emphasis, on the third time she asked for money from us, the beggar’s hand reached down to the baby. The dirty blanket covering its face partially fell away as the woman’s groping fingers found the baby’s mouth. The whole time, she looked pleadingly at Laetitia, asking for money again and again.
“Please miss a little money for my baby,” she said, and while she recited her line, her strong fingers pinched the baby’s lips hard.
Timed to punctuate her sentence, the baby let off a pitiful cry pain trailed by a burst of faint sobs. The crying sounded like the baby could barely summon the energy to make a sound. The “mother” either didn’t know or didn’t care that the blanket that had been hiding what her hand was doing had fallen away and that I could see everything.
“Give me your money,” the Gypsy whined yet again. She pulled another face, a little more nuanced and sadder than before..
Laetitia was looking at her, moved. She focused her pleas on Laetitia.
“Please miss my baby is hungry I’m hungry money money money,” she said, her voice still sadder now that she had Laetitia’s full attention.
She pinched the baby’s lips again, harder this time, and the baby let out an urgent but exhausted cry of pain that spluttered and died off with fatigue. For a moment, I wondered whether it was exhausted because it was tired from being pinched and made to cry all day or because the “mother” was starving it too.
Last year, I photographed this baby with an injured mouth, “Madonna with Child.”
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Intervening is not likely to have a positive outcome. There are reports that when the police are called, the Gypsy perpetrators (and the majority of “Madonna with Child” scammers are Gypsies) disappear into the crowd before the police can arrive. Some who tried to intervene reported that they were quickly surrounded by a gang of the Gypsy men, beggar masters, who own the beggars. They usually make threats and demand money, and if the police arrived, they tell lies. Thus informed, I didn’t say anything. If I were to try to restrain her or defend the baby, I would be the only one who gets in trouble, accused of a hate crime. When caught, the Gypsies usually don’t carry ID and are hard for the police to identify. Without a solid case against them, they are released. I wouldn’t be able to prove anything anyway in a “he said she said” scenario.
Laetitia whispered to me, “ she looks desperate, and that poor baby sounds so sad. Maybe we should give them something.“
The "mother” had been watching us like a predator, and her eyes glinted when she realized her mark was about to give her money.
I said, “didn’t you see what she did to the baby?”
Laetitia ignored my question and handed the beggar woman a couple of euros accompanied by a smile.
Then I noticed that a chair was blocking Laetitia’s line of sight to the baby, and she hadn’t seen her sleight of hand. Laetitia only saw an oppressed mother comforting a suffering baby. Without seeing the physical torture that took place, she did not hear that the pain in the cries was the result of being tortured 3 feet away from her.
Peer pressure is a weakness that can be manipulated by the clever. Encouraged by Laetitia’s handout, the Gypsy “mother” turned to me and dramatically and expectantly pleaded for more money. I put the word mother in quotes because police (including Scotland Yard) report that criminal gangs rent trafficked and drugged/vodka’d babies by the day to beggars. Beggars’ babies sleep all day and rarely stir, hence the alledged use of soporific drugs to make them manageable. Codeine is a cheap over-the-counter drug, and a rented baby can dance for less than 3 dollars a day. Codeine and other opiates are convenient because they cause constipation and retention of urine, thus eliminating the need to get up and change diapers during a day-long begging shift.
She turned directly at me asked for money. She had still not noticed that the blanket had fallen away and that I could she was doing with her hand. She pinched the baby’s lips two more times, and each resulted in the same tired squawk followed by run-down cries. By now she had been here for a couple of minutes. Like a stray dog you feed once out of pity, she knew where to get a handout and neither telling her “no” nor ignoring her would make her go away quickly. Laetitia looked at me, trying to will me into feeding the demon. Beggars target couples, and with her expert manipulation of peer pressure, I realised it didn’t matter that I knew what she had done, and she doubtless knew this. A waiter came around, aware that she was bothering us, and the Gypsy turned and quickly walked away, pushing the baby wheelchair in front of her.
As I watched her leaving, I realized it would always be this way with Laetitia. She believes everyone grew up in the same upper class household she grew up in, and that everyone is humane. Her views are the product of her family and her caste. Her mind is confined by her upbringing. Her perspective of the world does not change when exposed to a different reality that, although it is in front of her, only needs a willingness of the observer to shift her point of view to be recognized.
Laetitia prefers a joke, a happy anecdote about the wonderful world, and a cheerful disposition. Over time, I’ve found myself not expressing how I really feel, my wishes, or pointing things out to her. Instead, I will add them to my collection of blog entries titled Tales of Misogyny.
