Zoé Mahfouz
Dear Industry People,
I am in pain. I am from an ethnically ambiguous background, an underrepresented community, and my mom was an immigrant from the Middle East. I mean, she is an immigrant. She’s not dead, but she did emigrate to France when she was seven. That’s still trauma. Trauma that passes down from generation to generation. As an only child, I inherited all of this suffering in my penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Zoé Mahfouz
As a child, I rejected all dolls and figurines, especially the Caucasian ones. I only played with Legos, because Lego constructions were a metaphor for the rapidly growing population of immigrants. Low buildings replaced by high-rise blocks, rebuilt constantly. I couldn’t endure Caucasian food. As a result, not only did I sprinkle cinnamon on all my meals to taste my roots, but I refused to listen to children’s songs that weren’t carrying the burden of physical displacement. I had to know that Bob Dylan was pitying the poor immigrant. That Led Zeppelin was searching for the western shore. That Hamilton was counting the dead. Zoé Mahfouz
Sometimes, after picking up bread at the local bakery, I would wander around the busy streets of Paris and allow myself to get lost, to build this emotional urgency that would fuel my internal conflicts. I would stop in front of a pile of pistachio shells, to remind myself that these fragile materials evoke both structure and disintegration. Then my eyes would land on an antique doll thrown away in the trash, and I would think about how outside danger coexists with joy, though joy is often out of reach. I would take the antique doll and throw it at the face of a white homeless man and let him believe he could catch me even though I was a track champion, just to experiment with desperation and resilience. The desire he had to hit me back would be what drives my narrative beneath the surface. At that moment, the absence of home was shaping the stakes of my story and defining the conflict at its core. I was an immigrant crossing the Sahara on foot and escaping the Moroccan police. And then it hit me. Not the doll. He was far behind. I think he tripped on a beer can. I was a survivor. I was choosing not to let the high concentration of melanin in my skin define me, but rather hope, as a coping mechanism. To cross bridges. To inspire other immigrants. One day, I’ll make a difference. I’ll create a hashtag. Or a Snapchat filter. Or a protest to ban all white-colored food.
I realized I’d lost the homeless man. Good riddance. I was bored anyway. I thought I should probably get home soon, or my white Tuscan truffle pasta plate would be cold, and I’d have to throw another tantrum at the Filipina maid.
So on the basis of that very moving story, and tokenism, I am asking you to hire me for this industry job. In exchange, I will stop collecting hair from your brushes for my voodoo dolls, and you, your wife, your kids, and your mistress Shelly from accounting will be safe. Zoé Mahfouz
