Once upon a time I had a junk drawer filled with bits and pieces of inspiration. Nuts and bolts and rocks. Little things useful for nothing and yet, useful for everything. I knew then, somewhere back in an old, old post you can find it, I knew it would be one of the things I missed. Little things to pick up and create something else entirely with my hands.
Because we are all stuck here in Kinshasa this summer, it's just my hands that get restless. And this sense of failure that I can't entertain my boys. There are plenty of websites that say- it's good for kids to get bored- to create games of their own and find a solution to occupying themselves. I believe in this. I believe in made up games and inventions. I believe that life is not a circus and the greatest asset is having skills. Some kind of passion and motivation that moves you to create and design and develop to keep the mind occupied and the hands busy. Sure enough, sometime around 2 o'clock this afternoon they let me know they were going "spying." They donned their best gear and went out into the world armed with their imaginations, ready to fight the good fight against the imaginary bad guys- not the electronic ones.
Once upon a time I did the same thing. We were a small group of neighborhood kids. We loved to play Transformers. Apparently the Transformers are still around. I marvel at the things that still exist. The movies that continue to be remade, the music that just incorporates sounds from my youth as opposed to creating new sounds. I've heard the quote, from somewhere, here perhaps, something about everything being a remake. It;s impossible for artists to have truly new ideas. But still, I am left with a sad feeling, when I hear songs from my 8h grade prom folded into the newest remix. I guess, in the end, it makes me feel closer to my kids. We can still listen to the same music, no need to hide behind teenage closed doors. Not yet, hopefully never.
But once upon a time, I was a person who started a business. Drifting Woods. And I scoured the banks of the reservoir, picking up bits and pieces of wood, fashioning them into lamps and tables and boxes. I can't remember who that person is, that shamefacedly tried to sell bits and pieces of nothing, no solid craft behind her, boxes with crooked edges and hinges slightly off. I had power tools at my disposal and Home Depot. I miss Home Depot. Home of the entrepreneur. I had a love of art and belief in myself that I can't quite remember now.
Instead, I am left to question what it means to be white in Africa. Because, while I've always questioned what it means to be American. I am not sure I have ever really examined what it means to be white. It's on every Black kids list, African or not. What it means to be black. If you ask students to make a list of who they are, inevitably the black kids write Black and the white kids write nothing.
But I have a friend who told me in her seventh grade year she set out for two goals, to lose weight and to understand what it means to be Black. Most white kids never go through this. Identity seeking on the basis of skin color. White kids just don't think that way. In America.
In Africa, you get a chance to be the minority. To be white. And to feel the frustration of why you can't just drive down the street without being a target, why you can't just go shopping and get a fair price, of why all the artists call you up and want to meet with you. Second guessing, every single minute, what do they want from me? Friendship? Advantage? Connection? Prestige?
Because, being white in Africa, is never just about being in Africa. It's always about second guessing. Never really being sure. And I guess it's just the equivalent of being Black in America. You never really know what's about skin color, what's about economic status, what's about who you truly are. Everyone should experience it. The frustration, the doubt, the constant worry about what is real versus what's imagined. Being a foreigner in a strange land- and caring about it. Not just a tourist, but someone who lives there.
Because this is us now. Living here, in Kinshasa, no vacation to fly off to, no family to go visit and welcome us with loving, open arms. How we missed you. Nope. We are just here. And I miss the hardware store. Because at the end of the day, making a cozy home, with painted walls and fun fixings is what gives comfort. Traveling down to Victoire and haggling with prices three times the worth only reminds me - I'm white in Africa.
I suppose the only thing that can help me is the language. I understand it but can't yet speak it. A summer project perhaps. It will go a long way to helping me navigate the outside stalls and road side venues that serve as our version of Home Depot. And right now, I really need a good good hardware store.
