About Change
by Édouard Louis
Édouard Louis wanted to change his name, body, and accent to escape poverty, violence, and exclusion and succeeded(?).
He indeed changed his name — he used to be called Eddy Bellegueule, he changed his body by dressing up, standing up straight, and fixing his teeth, and he changed his small-town accent from the north of France — the poorest region of the country — to a bougie Parisian accent, thus escaping poverty — he is now a bestselling author and university professor, he escaped violence when he got away from his neighbors and family who called him a faggot but did he escape exclusion?
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One of his mentors, Didier Eribon, now an author and philosopher, also escaped poverty and violence by being gay. Still, he accepts that he hid inside another closet — the closet of the working class — he was ashamed to admit while debating with Parisian intellectuals, that he grew up poor and that his parents had not studied, the working class was even a target of ridicule from his new peers and friends.
Like Édouard and Didier, my parents grew up poor, my father grew up in misery, living his childhood in a cardboard house. I am proud to say that they managed to escape poverty and violence on their own merits but I am ashamed of their bodies and their accents. Sometimes I have to remind them that they have enough money to eat in expensive restaurants and I also remind them of the dishes they should order, how they should address the waiter, and how to pay the bill. I exclude them as I have been excluded from the upper classes since truth be told, my family is middle class.
I admire the Americans I am friends with, I get the impression that they do not have a class system as exclusionary as the Mexican or the French. In the United States, there are rich and poor but their names, bodies, and accents can coexist at the same table more easily.
I detest the fashion trend of dressing “old money” with the help of loafers and plain sweaters in neutral colors yet I detest the “new rich” with their logo-studded shirts, fluorescent cars, and vulgarity, too.
Like Édouard and Didier, I want to have access to the intellectual circles of Mexico City by studying and writing. I escaped poverty thanks to my two hard-working parents, I escaped violence when I stopped living with people who called me a faggot, but will I escape my class status? Or will it be my name — with no known last name, my body — hunched, and my accent — or my noisy laugh — that will always give me away?
