The small batik stall we were headed to was tucked in off the roadway. It was the kind of place you would have to know about from a friend in order to realize it even existed. We walked down a crowded dirt path strewn with the remnants of working artists. It was the kind of dirty that inolved ashes and burnt fire pits and discarded pieces of metal. Buckets filled with blackened water sat on a small crest just above the shoreline of a small lake.
She was standing there, in the midst of it all, on a worn metallic plate. Her skirt slightly open to reveal a long, sensual leg. One of her arms was extended behind and I could imagine a child just there, reaching out to grab her hand. The woman's skin was the color of beauty and the weathered blue-green of her clothing made her appear as if the sea itself were wrapping her up in waves of allure. She was magical, standing there in the blackened aftermath of creativity.
I was not the only one affected by her beauty. My artist friend was also captured. We made circles around her, admiring the beauty from every angle. We wondered what she was doing there, this exquisite sculpture that threatened to spring forth into life. Why had she been placed there, on the ground, in such a random way?
After several inquiries, the artist was finally located. He confirmed, as we'd suspected, that she was drying. He also told us she was already sold. She'd been made as part of an order. He pulled out a companion piece dripping in white and gold. She was admirable but lacked the magic and charm of the woman on the ground.
Her price was astounding. Far out of reach. I lifted her briefly, just to see, and she was solid, as heavy as a baby. It's been awhile since a piece of art has affected me so. After a week or more I am still reminiscing about her, the lady of Grand Bassam.
The artist was happy to share his phone number and invite us back to view the process. We were interested in the molding technique and the application of color. Though I remain intrigued by witnessing, and possibly learning, a new process, I am certain there are some things that can't be explained.
She was vivid, surely living in some other world.
22.12.15
18.12.15
African Retirement
I have a sneaking suspicion I am nearing the end
of writing here. Abidjan has worn me down
in more ways than one. It's not official,
of course,
anything could change, anytime
and maybe I'll be writing other things
but it is fitting
that I found this draft of a post
I'd meant to write months ago
about retirement.
I went to talk to....
Our school hosted
a guy-
A money guy
Investment funds, 401K
That kind of talk
Future talk that makes
my heart beat fast
25 years? Do I still even have
25 years?
Of course I do,
Maybe.
Planning for the future has been
an up and down thing for me
A thing I want to do
But just never have the funds,
the time, the frame of mind
to do.
He talks about my future in
number of years that don't seem possible
unless I put my kids ages to it
For some reason,
Thinking about their future is
a lot
easier
than planning for my own.
The numbers just don't add up
and I guess in many ways
my own life is beginning to feel
like a wash
Not much left to do
but make theirs better
The dollars he wants me to invest
Are more than I even earn
And the numbers we do crunch
Come up dismally low
"That's all?" I say. "Some people
make that much in a year."
After 25 years of saving
I couldn't live on that.
What's my real plan A?
We talk about my kids.
They have a plan for me. Like good African children,
they've already planned to take care of mom.
But when that tax guy talks-
"I don't want my kids to have to
take care of me and worry about dad
because he doesn't have enough money.
I want them off living their own life-"
It sounds bad, my plan A.
Just for a minute.
As I listen longer, I can see
only lonliness in his words.
His kids off in their financial wonderland
and he in his.
Mohamed has had an idea
since he was 5. He's always talked
about homes for his family.
It started with his grandparents and has now
expanded to include me.
He's ready, prepared, willing
to provide for me,
when I get old,
though I am ready to work forever.
He's got me covered, he says,
full of ideas for things
I don't even want.
It's the African retirement plan-
Invest in your children
100% return. Plus.
It was an interesting talk with that money guy.
I'm sure he left there
shaking his head
At my foolish plan
to invest in family
to place all my bets
on that little boy
who once wished
to be strong enough
to carry me on his back
as he sprinted
through a rain storm.
I listened to that money man's version
of retirement
without
burdening
his children and it just seemed
weird to me.
I've put my life into them.
Every second, every hour,
weeks and months and years.
It is an investment of love and time
and duty.
It should be
returned.
I thought back to the Quran,
its prohibition of making money
from money.
In that moment, I saw it as
a protection.
Investing in people is the alternative.
Feeling duty for family is
the original plan.
And still my only
plan A.
of writing here. Abidjan has worn me down
in more ways than one. It's not official,
of course,
anything could change, anytime
and maybe I'll be writing other things
but it is fitting
that I found this draft of a post
I'd meant to write months ago
about retirement.
I went to talk to....
Our school hosted
a guy-
A money guy
Investment funds, 401K
That kind of talk
Future talk that makes
my heart beat fast
25 years? Do I still even have
25 years?
Of course I do,
Maybe.
Planning for the future has been
an up and down thing for me
A thing I want to do
But just never have the funds,
the time, the frame of mind
to do.
He talks about my future in
number of years that don't seem possible
unless I put my kids ages to it
For some reason,
Thinking about their future is
a lot
easier
than planning for my own.
The numbers just don't add up
and I guess in many ways
my own life is beginning to feel
like a wash
Not much left to do
but make theirs better
The dollars he wants me to invest
Are more than I even earn
And the numbers we do crunch
Come up dismally low
"That's all?" I say. "Some people
make that much in a year."
After 25 years of saving
I couldn't live on that.
What's my real plan A?
We talk about my kids.
They have a plan for me. Like good African children,
they've already planned to take care of mom.
But when that tax guy talks-
"I don't want my kids to have to
take care of me and worry about dad
because he doesn't have enough money.
I want them off living their own life-"
It sounds bad, my plan A.
Just for a minute.
As I listen longer, I can see
only lonliness in his words.
His kids off in their financial wonderland
and he in his.
Mohamed has had an idea
since he was 5. He's always talked
about homes for his family.
It started with his grandparents and has now
expanded to include me.
He's ready, prepared, willing
to provide for me,
when I get old,
though I am ready to work forever.
He's got me covered, he says,
full of ideas for things
I don't even want.
It's the African retirement plan-
Invest in your children
100% return. Plus.
It was an interesting talk with that money guy.
I'm sure he left there
shaking his head
At my foolish plan
to invest in family
to place all my bets
on that little boy
who once wished
to be strong enough
to carry me on his back
as he sprinted
through a rain storm.
I listened to that money man's version
of retirement
without
burdening
his children and it just seemed
weird to me.
I've put my life into them.
Every second, every hour,
weeks and months and years.
It is an investment of love and time
and duty.
It should be
returned.
I thought back to the Quran,
its prohibition of making money
from money.
In that moment, I saw it as
a protection.
Investing in people is the alternative.
Feeling duty for family is
the original plan.
And still my only
plan A.
15.12.15
grateful
We have naked kids
who live around the corner.
They're not always naked,
it just happens
that the times we are passing by
coincide
with their morning bath
or evening tub.
It's hard not to
take a moment
to be grateful
for indoor plumbing.
I have seen
the girl on the corner
in her school uniform these days
I am
grateful
for that
too.
And the young boy
I used to pass and wish
I could send home for a sandwich
and a mug of hot tea
sweetened with sugar and milk
I see that boy sometimes
wearing a mechanic's
uniform
covered with a mechanic's
grease and dirt
even as I wonder about
school
I am
grateful
he's not alone.
who live around the corner.
They're not always naked,
it just happens
that the times we are passing by
coincide
with their morning bath
or evening tub.
It's hard not to
take a moment
to be grateful
for indoor plumbing.
I have seen
the girl on the corner
in her school uniform these days
I am
grateful
for that
too.
And the young boy
I used to pass and wish
I could send home for a sandwich
and a mug of hot tea
sweetened with sugar and milk
I see that boy sometimes
wearing a mechanic's
uniform
covered with a mechanic's
grease and dirt
even as I wonder about
school
I am
grateful
he's not alone.
12.12.15
Congo kid
I still find myself missing Kinshasa with the deep longing that is generally reserved for people. I will be somewhere, or even passing through a place and something about the energy there will transport me back in my memories. I remember a street corner or a path I walked or a favorite drive. It all comes rushing back, enveloping me in the sights, the sounds, the smells and the rhythms. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a physical ache and an intense nostalgia for that other space in Africa that feels like home.
The boys don't often talk about it. At most they remember friends from school with fondness, but I don't get a sense they miss the country in the same way I sometimes think I do. (I'm still trying to determine if I really miss it or if it is all part of the settling into a new city phase.)
In the last few months, however, Nabih has shared his thoughts in a way that makes me proud. On more than one occasion his responses to an activity in school have resulted in him presenting a sort of mini-history of Congo to the class. I am impressed when I hear him speak so knowledgeably about the past political scene and the present implications. I am impressed with his ability to make connections and use his past experiences to inform his present learning. Maybe I did something right after all.
This past Friday we went out with a few of his friends to celebrate his birthday. Although our first intention was to go karting, when we arrived they were in the midst of remodeling. We took our cake and our carful of boys and headed over to the bowling alley.
It was a first for Nabih and he had a lot of fun. We had the place to ourselves, which often seems to be the case in terms of African entertainment. There was no customary changing of the shoes (what fun is bowling if you don't have the inconvenience of wearing someone else's ill fitting shoes!!??) and the bumpers were up, but none of that took away the pleasure of hefting a heavy ball down the lane and watching it knock over a bunch of pins with crashing success.
When it came time for cake, Nabih insisted his friends sing happy birthday first in Lingala. He taught them the words and then listened with a satisfied smile as 3 eleven year old voices sang slightly off tune. Next came the French version, followed by the English. Not to be outdone, one of his friends insisted on singing the Dutch version. It was all topped off by the completely bizzare, "Attieke, poulet, frite" version which I have never heard. Maybe it was their on the spot tribute to Ivorian food favorites.
Nabih had also insisted at Mbalia's birthday that we sing the Lingala version first and he is always ready to speak to her in whatever Lingala he knows, sometimes asking for the right way to say something. Often he reverts to this when he feels like she is not listening to his command in French or English. As if she has some deeper understanding of Lingala that will inspire her to obey his command.
It's quite heartwarming to me and leaves behind a bit of hope that maybe those Kinshasa years weren't as hard on him as he'd led me to believe.
The boys don't often talk about it. At most they remember friends from school with fondness, but I don't get a sense they miss the country in the same way I sometimes think I do. (I'm still trying to determine if I really miss it or if it is all part of the settling into a new city phase.)
In the last few months, however, Nabih has shared his thoughts in a way that makes me proud. On more than one occasion his responses to an activity in school have resulted in him presenting a sort of mini-history of Congo to the class. I am impressed when I hear him speak so knowledgeably about the past political scene and the present implications. I am impressed with his ability to make connections and use his past experiences to inform his present learning. Maybe I did something right after all.
This past Friday we went out with a few of his friends to celebrate his birthday. Although our first intention was to go karting, when we arrived they were in the midst of remodeling. We took our cake and our carful of boys and headed over to the bowling alley.
It was a first for Nabih and he had a lot of fun. We had the place to ourselves, which often seems to be the case in terms of African entertainment. There was no customary changing of the shoes (what fun is bowling if you don't have the inconvenience of wearing someone else's ill fitting shoes!!??) and the bumpers were up, but none of that took away the pleasure of hefting a heavy ball down the lane and watching it knock over a bunch of pins with crashing success.
 |
| A real bowling alley...complete with chain smoking Lebanese grandma running the place |
When it came time for cake, Nabih insisted his friends sing happy birthday first in Lingala. He taught them the words and then listened with a satisfied smile as 3 eleven year old voices sang slightly off tune. Next came the French version, followed by the English. Not to be outdone, one of his friends insisted on singing the Dutch version. It was all topped off by the completely bizzare, "Attieke, poulet, frite" version which I have never heard. Maybe it was their on the spot tribute to Ivorian food favorites.
Nabih had also insisted at Mbalia's birthday that we sing the Lingala version first and he is always ready to speak to her in whatever Lingala he knows, sometimes asking for the right way to say something. Often he reverts to this when he feels like she is not listening to his command in French or English. As if she has some deeper understanding of Lingala that will inspire her to obey his command.
It's quite heartwarming to me and leaves behind a bit of hope that maybe those Kinshasa years weren't as hard on him as he'd led me to believe.
10.12.15
An Open Letter
To You,
an open letter because
I cannot contact you, though I know
You have moved. On to better things?
I know you are not where
we were
Were we knew each other
When we talked of deeper things
And watched the moonlight setting on the river
When you
flew
through the air, setting
the world on fire
when you taught me how
to slow down,
to speed up
to feel the rhythm of another
by looking deep into their eyes
anticipating the next move
I did not see it coming
If only
you
were real
I remember
what you promised,
presented
pretended to be.
I remember you and sometimes
I miss you.
Setting the world on fire
and believing in me.
You did.
Believe.
I can't.
Remember how we were.
Once upon a time
By the river
In Congo.
an open letter because
I cannot contact you, though I know
You have moved. On to better things?
I know you are not where
we were
Were we knew each other
When we talked of deeper things
And watched the moonlight setting on the river
When you
flew
through the air, setting
the world on fire
when you taught me how
to slow down,
to speed up
to feel the rhythm of another
by looking deep into their eyes
anticipating the next move
I did not see it coming
If only
you
were real
I remember
what you promised,
presented
pretended to be.
I remember you and sometimes
I miss you.
Setting the world on fire
and believing in me.
You did.
Believe.
I can't.
Remember how we were.
Once upon a time
By the river
In Congo.
9.12.15
neighborhood watch
After my last post, I got to thinking- do my neighbors have guns? I sort of just assume there aren't as many weapons hanging around, but I guess I can't really know. Just as I was pondering this question I heard a series of pops going off like a drive by.
Mohamed assured me they were just kids with firecrackers- like I should worry less. I do see an awful lot of machetes around- I even have one myself. But they are mostly used as a gardening tool- yup, I planted some of my flowers in our small dirt patch with a rusty old machete. Oh, the skills I am learning.
Today when I came home Christine greeted me with tales of a snake in our yard. She even snapped a few photos with her phone which she eagerly shared. It was a king snake. Bigger than the spread of both arms. Really. Huge.
She told me a man had been passing by and saw it slither into the yard. He came banging on the door to let her know. A different kind of neighborhood watch. She was freaking out herself, screaming a bit but still courageous enough to wave a broomstick around. The man did more than just alert her, he came in and killed the snake as well. Neighborhood watch plus.
Considering how the crab managed to get inside, I am feeling a bit uneasy. There are just too many gaps between doorways, holes in the walls, and hidden entryways that only the animals seem to know about.
In the meantime, I am grateful for concerned citizens wielding heavy sticks.
Mohamed assured me they were just kids with firecrackers- like I should worry less. I do see an awful lot of machetes around- I even have one myself. But they are mostly used as a gardening tool- yup, I planted some of my flowers in our small dirt patch with a rusty old machete. Oh, the skills I am learning.
Today when I came home Christine greeted me with tales of a snake in our yard. She even snapped a few photos with her phone which she eagerly shared. It was a king snake. Bigger than the spread of both arms. Really. Huge.
She told me a man had been passing by and saw it slither into the yard. He came banging on the door to let her know. A different kind of neighborhood watch. She was freaking out herself, screaming a bit but still courageous enough to wave a broomstick around. The man did more than just alert her, he came in and killed the snake as well. Neighborhood watch plus.
Considering how the crab managed to get inside, I am feeling a bit uneasy. There are just too many gaps between doorways, holes in the walls, and hidden entryways that only the animals seem to know about.
In the meantime, I am grateful for concerned citizens wielding heavy sticks.
7.12.15
the way they are
My nounou has a nounou. I am not sure if I mentioned this but surely I posted a cutie photo. My nanny/housekeeper left us early last year to have a baby. We had several fill-ins for her maternity leave, but this past October she came back to work for us.
I really wasn't sure how that would work out- and heard several stories in the interim of other families experiencing the same dilemma. Their nannies were not asked back, simply let go. As a woman who suffered the same fate just a year ago, I felt the injustice all too close to home. If she was willing to come back, I guess I was willing to have her.
The small bump- she brought a nanny along with her- to take care of the little guy while she was busy taking care of my growing princess. Christine is the only nanny that Mbalia was sad to see go. She paid us visits throughout her wait for delivery and also just after. Mbalia cried every time she left. Because she has been with Mbalia since birth, there is a clear attachment.
Christine's nounou is a young girl. At first inquiry, I was told she was about 13. The second inquiry bumped her age up to 'around 15.' Either way, she is too young, newly arrived in the city from the "village." The ever elusive and always present "village," where people go to 'rest and heal,' to visit family and escape from to the city.
She doesn't speak much French and apparently came in search of work. A teenager. She stays with her older sister and now, she works for my nounou.
I struggled with mixed feelings for awhile. How can I have such a young girl here in my house, taking care of children and not going to school? What is my responsibility in this matter and how do I really feel about it?
The scary part is, it might be easy to just accept it - thinking, 'that is what they do.' Abidjan is really knocking the life out of me. But who are 'they' and why is this the only choice available?
Christine herself did not go to school. Her mother was a farmer and so she was rasied to cook and clean and keep things tidy while her mother worked in the fields. Yes, the 'fields' here in M'puto- home of lettuce farmers.
I still wondered what to do about this. After awhile, I wondered why I was even wondering. Of course there is only one solution. When I mentioned it to Christine she told me that she thought the girl was pregnant. My heart sank - literally. I felt it plummeting right out of my chest cavitiy and landing somewhere around my feet. "All the more reason for her to be educated," I said.
The plan is really for both of them to benefit. Christine said there is a night school in the neighborhood and she plans to go. "Yes," I agreed, "it is a great idea. A good intention. But is it possible? I know what it is like to get home from work. There is the baby and cooking and cleaning your own house. It is a good intention, but is it possible? Better to have someone come here during the day. I know you both have time." I am a little playful, but I suspect there is a lot more TV watching going on during the daytimes than actual down and out scrubbing.
So I have now been on the search for a tutor. Cours domicile is quite popular in Abidjan. Our neighbor children have a teacher come once or twice a week- honestly I am not sure how often he comes- but occasionally I see them sitting under the tree learning their lessons on a large black board propped up on a table.
I am in search of a tutor- but not just anyone, a real teacher who will help this girl, and this lady, to make progress in their language and literacy. What else can I do?
I really wasn't sure how that would work out- and heard several stories in the interim of other families experiencing the same dilemma. Their nannies were not asked back, simply let go. As a woman who suffered the same fate just a year ago, I felt the injustice all too close to home. If she was willing to come back, I guess I was willing to have her.
The small bump- she brought a nanny along with her- to take care of the little guy while she was busy taking care of my growing princess. Christine is the only nanny that Mbalia was sad to see go. She paid us visits throughout her wait for delivery and also just after. Mbalia cried every time she left. Because she has been with Mbalia since birth, there is a clear attachment.
Christine's nounou is a young girl. At first inquiry, I was told she was about 13. The second inquiry bumped her age up to 'around 15.' Either way, she is too young, newly arrived in the city from the "village." The ever elusive and always present "village," where people go to 'rest and heal,' to visit family and escape from to the city.
She doesn't speak much French and apparently came in search of work. A teenager. She stays with her older sister and now, she works for my nounou.
I struggled with mixed feelings for awhile. How can I have such a young girl here in my house, taking care of children and not going to school? What is my responsibility in this matter and how do I really feel about it?
The scary part is, it might be easy to just accept it - thinking, 'that is what they do.' Abidjan is really knocking the life out of me. But who are 'they' and why is this the only choice available?
Christine herself did not go to school. Her mother was a farmer and so she was rasied to cook and clean and keep things tidy while her mother worked in the fields. Yes, the 'fields' here in M'puto- home of lettuce farmers.
I still wondered what to do about this. After awhile, I wondered why I was even wondering. Of course there is only one solution. When I mentioned it to Christine she told me that she thought the girl was pregnant. My heart sank - literally. I felt it plummeting right out of my chest cavitiy and landing somewhere around my feet. "All the more reason for her to be educated," I said.
The plan is really for both of them to benefit. Christine said there is a night school in the neighborhood and she plans to go. "Yes," I agreed, "it is a great idea. A good intention. But is it possible? I know what it is like to get home from work. There is the baby and cooking and cleaning your own house. It is a good intention, but is it possible? Better to have someone come here during the day. I know you both have time." I am a little playful, but I suspect there is a lot more TV watching going on during the daytimes than actual down and out scrubbing.
So I have now been on the search for a tutor. Cours domicile is quite popular in Abidjan. Our neighbor children have a teacher come once or twice a week- honestly I am not sure how often he comes- but occasionally I see them sitting under the tree learning their lessons on a large black board propped up on a table.
I am in search of a tutor- but not just anyone, a real teacher who will help this girl, and this lady, to make progress in their language and literacy. What else can I do?
 |
| Schoolhouse tree |
6.12.15
small but significant
My writing has become of questionable quality- it seems fair to acknowledge. I could chalk it up to the early, intense harmattan which has blown into Abidjan and covered everything with its slow moving haze. But I know it is simply because I have gotten out of the habit. And since arriving in Ivory Coast, I spend too much time alone with my thoughts. Surely good conversations- and more importantly- meaningful experiences- can be found but I haven't spent a lot of effort searching.
I am still ruminating on my last thoughts about happiness- suspecting that using it as a measure of job satisfaction is probably more closely correlated to those who feel they have a higher degree of choice. While my choices appear to be opening up in the near future, I still tend to count myself among the "waiters" as the time is not quite right for a bunch of upheaval or future planning. I am just trying to deal with my present.
I have spent a lot of time reflecting about the process of immigration and when exactly the tables turn from immigrant to resident to citizen. Although the time for processing papers differs by country, I am more intrigued by the internal process. A friend posted this article about assimilation in Belgium and alluded to a conversation she'd had with friends. It is something I've spent a lot of time examining, though without benefit of friendly conversation.
It seems the basic tenets of the article can be true of most any place that has a dominant physical characteristic- something easily identifiable by sight. China is one example. It is hard to imagine a blond haired, blue-eyed somebody claiming they are Chinese and having the general population accept that without further inquiry. The same could be said for countries in Africa. Though I might live here for 20 years, I will never be able to claim to someone that I am African. Even Mbalia, born here and possibly growing up all of her life here, will always be asked about the "other" part of her heritage and identified as non-African because of it.
Presumably the difference is that in European countries- and America- the host country has more benefits to offer that immigrants are not always able to take full advantage of- discrimination based on their "other" status while in African countries, the "other" status could more likely lead to "positive discrimination" (or the ability to secure privileges more easily based on being non- African.)
Last year, the boys attended Ivorian schools and had a chance to experience a bit of a flip side to this. While they were singled out as being "other," I'm not sure there were too many privileges that came with it.
In either case, or in all cases, I start to wonder if there isn't a basic human tendency in all of this- the idea of using appearance to create a sense of community or tribe. In Ivory Coast, you can still see remnants of this in facial markings that were used to identify tribal affiliations. Upon sight you could be marked as friend or foe based simply on where you- your parents- came from.
Of course, the idea is that as an evolved species, we should be able to put physical markers of human difference aside and concentrate on inner connections. I get a sense of this when I stop converting money, or when I feel a sense of obligation about the customary kiss hello (or when I am about to meet an American and think to myself, this time I need to handshake) or when I "get" the humor of social and political cartoons - and even more so when I find they apply to me- or any of the other small but significant signs that show themselves in daily routine and interaction.
The adopted culture has become first response and when confronted with something from my home country, it occasionally sounds odd to me or slightly familiar but no longer useful. So I must assume that after 7 years, I am on my way to assimilation. The question remains how can I mark that in my appearance so everyone will know (and stop asking me where I am from, you know, originally?)
One solution is simply to wait for a time when appearance is less likely to be so drastically different. This article supplies some of the science behind the idea, while this one shares a few images. The future certainly does look beautiful- reminding me of a quote from a grandma I used to know, commenting on her mixed hued grandkids. "The golden children....they are the new generation."
I can't follow this logic through to a debate of whether that will ultimately heal racism or intensify it (being all too able to imagine a minority of white skinned, blue eyed, light haired dictators in control of the masses, Orwellian style) but surely it will allow us to confront the other topics that continue to divide- class, wealth, occupation...or any of the other subjects we concentrate on when we can no longer ask....where are you from?
I am still ruminating on my last thoughts about happiness- suspecting that using it as a measure of job satisfaction is probably more closely correlated to those who feel they have a higher degree of choice. While my choices appear to be opening up in the near future, I still tend to count myself among the "waiters" as the time is not quite right for a bunch of upheaval or future planning. I am just trying to deal with my present.
I have spent a lot of time reflecting about the process of immigration and when exactly the tables turn from immigrant to resident to citizen. Although the time for processing papers differs by country, I am more intrigued by the internal process. A friend posted this article about assimilation in Belgium and alluded to a conversation she'd had with friends. It is something I've spent a lot of time examining, though without benefit of friendly conversation.
It seems the basic tenets of the article can be true of most any place that has a dominant physical characteristic- something easily identifiable by sight. China is one example. It is hard to imagine a blond haired, blue-eyed somebody claiming they are Chinese and having the general population accept that without further inquiry. The same could be said for countries in Africa. Though I might live here for 20 years, I will never be able to claim to someone that I am African. Even Mbalia, born here and possibly growing up all of her life here, will always be asked about the "other" part of her heritage and identified as non-African because of it.
Presumably the difference is that in European countries- and America- the host country has more benefits to offer that immigrants are not always able to take full advantage of- discrimination based on their "other" status while in African countries, the "other" status could more likely lead to "positive discrimination" (or the ability to secure privileges more easily based on being non- African.)
Last year, the boys attended Ivorian schools and had a chance to experience a bit of a flip side to this. While they were singled out as being "other," I'm not sure there were too many privileges that came with it.
In either case, or in all cases, I start to wonder if there isn't a basic human tendency in all of this- the idea of using appearance to create a sense of community or tribe. In Ivory Coast, you can still see remnants of this in facial markings that were used to identify tribal affiliations. Upon sight you could be marked as friend or foe based simply on where you- your parents- came from.
Of course, the idea is that as an evolved species, we should be able to put physical markers of human difference aside and concentrate on inner connections. I get a sense of this when I stop converting money, or when I feel a sense of obligation about the customary kiss hello (or when I am about to meet an American and think to myself, this time I need to handshake) or when I "get" the humor of social and political cartoons - and even more so when I find they apply to me- or any of the other small but significant signs that show themselves in daily routine and interaction.
The adopted culture has become first response and when confronted with something from my home country, it occasionally sounds odd to me or slightly familiar but no longer useful. So I must assume that after 7 years, I am on my way to assimilation. The question remains how can I mark that in my appearance so everyone will know (and stop asking me where I am from, you know, originally?)
One solution is simply to wait for a time when appearance is less likely to be so drastically different. This article supplies some of the science behind the idea, while this one shares a few images. The future certainly does look beautiful- reminding me of a quote from a grandma I used to know, commenting on her mixed hued grandkids. "The golden children....they are the new generation."
I can't follow this logic through to a debate of whether that will ultimately heal racism or intensify it (being all too able to imagine a minority of white skinned, blue eyed, light haired dictators in control of the masses, Orwellian style) but surely it will allow us to confront the other topics that continue to divide- class, wealth, occupation...or any of the other subjects we concentrate on when we can no longer ask....where are you from?
5.12.15
small signs
Things are shifting- not just in the big world, where it seems obvious (even in my small hometown I ran across an FB post of a scary letter by the sheriff- encouraging citizens to get and carry guns. Everywhere. As in, always carry your gun when you leave your house. ??!!!)
While I am glad not to be in that environment right now, there are always changes underway, no matter where you are. Our neighborhood has gone through some small changes of its own.
Before I ever got a chance to take those inside photos, Diallo is gone. He was the young kid at the corner boutique. We are now on our fourth corner boutique guy. They all leave the same way.
One day there are two of them. They stay together for a few days and then one of them goes. "Off to Adjame," they always say, "to man the shops there."
I'm not sure how the conversation began but I learned more this time. The new guy tells me that Diallo was transferred because he was too friendly with the customers.
"But it's good to be friendly, no? It helps to build the business." I wonder about the strategy at work here.
"He gave too much credit," he explains. I remember seeing the owner in the shop one day, maybe checking out the books? That day, as on several others, Diallo gave me some extra. Often I would buy something for 100 franc and he would offer 1 more than expected. It was kind of random and I couldn't quite figure out why or when. I chalked it up to me not quite understanding the prices or maybe his own mood swings through generosity and good days vs bad days. I imagined the confines of the store-box would feel quite limiting and play havoc with one's emotional state.
But that day, I sensed something else at play. Right there under the boss' nose he is giving out freebies. It seemed more like a rebellion. A way of taking control in a powerless situation. I saw him once more, walking down the neighborhood street. He looked odd without his store around him, smaller and yet, more determined.
Now he is off to the crowded streets of Adjame, or whatever store he is next calling his home. And we are left with the new guy, who burns a slightly unpleasant incense, but appears to have cleaned up the shop to create a bit more room for himself.
Other things are changing too. Small signs that suggest maybe I am blending in more with the neighborhood than I thought. Or the country.
I bought a bag at the school concert, having been in need for awhile. The zipper on my last bag had broken and I'd been using it open for the last month or so. I had my eye on a stylish new design hanging outside a shop in Palmeraie- one of those window shopping excursions that I'd always promised to go back and buy but never did. Happily, the owner had a booth at the craft section of the show and I was able to make good on my private vows to purchase one.
I passed a few colleagues who remarked on the bag and so began a conversation about bags and prices and pockets and the real need for a bag anyway. (I had a real need, they viewed it as an accessory they did not really need.) But the most interesting part was as soon as I told them the price, in francs, they both looked at each other and said the amount in dollars. Something I hadn't even considered, couldn't consider.
I never deal in dollars anymore. And I'd long ago mentioned, if I ever want to buy something, converting money in my head is the surest way to kill the deal. I was happy with my price (until they converted it to dollars, which I pretended not to hear.) There is no "stock up" trip coming or vacation to a cheaper place and so I have committed to Abidjan prices. There's no sense waxing nostalgic for prices from the past.
The second hint of an inner shift came by way of a question. One of those questions I have been wondering about over the years. My principal asked me...."Are you happy?" I had mentioned on my intent to return letter that I wouldn't mind being considered for some other positions- the art position I had originally applied for, a middle or high school position (that I also applied for.) He was expressing his surprise and stating that he didn't really know if I was happy.
The question surprised me but not as much as my internal response. It felt odd to be asked this question. My kids go to school, they have friends, we eat everyday. What's this happiness business? I have a job that I need. Happiness is not related. Or rather, happiness is not dependent on my job.
I didn't say this. I enjoy teaching and I can do it well. But it is not the source of my happiness (or unhappiness.) I am reminded of the dishwasher turned day cook that I posed this very question to some 20 years ago. He must have felt this very same puzzling way at being asked such a question.
I have a job, of course I am happy. But I have so much more and so of course, I am happy. It doesn't really seem to be the right word that I use to measure my satisfaction ( or dissatisfaction) with life lately. Small signs of age- or maturity- or just merging with my adopted culture. Most likely a mixture of each.
While I am glad not to be in that environment right now, there are always changes underway, no matter where you are. Our neighborhood has gone through some small changes of its own.
Before I ever got a chance to take those inside photos, Diallo is gone. He was the young kid at the corner boutique. We are now on our fourth corner boutique guy. They all leave the same way.
One day there are two of them. They stay together for a few days and then one of them goes. "Off to Adjame," they always say, "to man the shops there."
I'm not sure how the conversation began but I learned more this time. The new guy tells me that Diallo was transferred because he was too friendly with the customers.
"But it's good to be friendly, no? It helps to build the business." I wonder about the strategy at work here.
"He gave too much credit," he explains. I remember seeing the owner in the shop one day, maybe checking out the books? That day, as on several others, Diallo gave me some extra. Often I would buy something for 100 franc and he would offer 1 more than expected. It was kind of random and I couldn't quite figure out why or when. I chalked it up to me not quite understanding the prices or maybe his own mood swings through generosity and good days vs bad days. I imagined the confines of the store-box would feel quite limiting and play havoc with one's emotional state.
But that day, I sensed something else at play. Right there under the boss' nose he is giving out freebies. It seemed more like a rebellion. A way of taking control in a powerless situation. I saw him once more, walking down the neighborhood street. He looked odd without his store around him, smaller and yet, more determined.
Now he is off to the crowded streets of Adjame, or whatever store he is next calling his home. And we are left with the new guy, who burns a slightly unpleasant incense, but appears to have cleaned up the shop to create a bit more room for himself.
Other things are changing too. Small signs that suggest maybe I am blending in more with the neighborhood than I thought. Or the country.
I bought a bag at the school concert, having been in need for awhile. The zipper on my last bag had broken and I'd been using it open for the last month or so. I had my eye on a stylish new design hanging outside a shop in Palmeraie- one of those window shopping excursions that I'd always promised to go back and buy but never did. Happily, the owner had a booth at the craft section of the show and I was able to make good on my private vows to purchase one.
I passed a few colleagues who remarked on the bag and so began a conversation about bags and prices and pockets and the real need for a bag anyway. (I had a real need, they viewed it as an accessory they did not really need.) But the most interesting part was as soon as I told them the price, in francs, they both looked at each other and said the amount in dollars. Something I hadn't even considered, couldn't consider.
I never deal in dollars anymore. And I'd long ago mentioned, if I ever want to buy something, converting money in my head is the surest way to kill the deal. I was happy with my price (until they converted it to dollars, which I pretended not to hear.) There is no "stock up" trip coming or vacation to a cheaper place and so I have committed to Abidjan prices. There's no sense waxing nostalgic for prices from the past.
The second hint of an inner shift came by way of a question. One of those questions I have been wondering about over the years. My principal asked me...."Are you happy?" I had mentioned on my intent to return letter that I wouldn't mind being considered for some other positions- the art position I had originally applied for, a middle or high school position (that I also applied for.) He was expressing his surprise and stating that he didn't really know if I was happy.
The question surprised me but not as much as my internal response. It felt odd to be asked this question. My kids go to school, they have friends, we eat everyday. What's this happiness business? I have a job that I need. Happiness is not related. Or rather, happiness is not dependent on my job.
I didn't say this. I enjoy teaching and I can do it well. But it is not the source of my happiness (or unhappiness.) I am reminded of the dishwasher turned day cook that I posed this very question to some 20 years ago. He must have felt this very same puzzling way at being asked such a question.
I have a job, of course I am happy. But I have so much more and so of course, I am happy. It doesn't really seem to be the right word that I use to measure my satisfaction ( or dissatisfaction) with life lately. Small signs of age- or maturity- or just merging with my adopted culture. Most likely a mixture of each.
Visitor from the lagoon
Our bedtime ritual has changed a bit in the last year. Since Mbalia has come to join us, it often works in reverse. She and I go in to lay down and Nabih- ever the searcher of that one last goodnight kiss- comes in puckering and procrastinating bedtime. And so it ends up that I am usually the one asking him to tuck us in. The mosquito net, that is. We sleep soundly inside the net which keeps out (most) mosquitoes and any other creepy crawlies that might be about.
Sleeping inside the net has lent a princess-like appeal to my otherwise dreary bedroom. It's also provided a sense of calm and safety (there are a lot of potential creepy crawlies in this humid, close-to-the-lagoon house.)
One morning I wandered sleepily into the laundry room to grab a towel and find something to wear. A usual morning ritual. When I turned on the light I noticed a round large critter supported on thin legs. My just awakened mind could not make sense of what I was seeing. I wasted several minutes trying to morph the ideas of spider (waaay too big to be a spider- I hoped. It couldn't be a spider my mind insisted as, at the same time, it couldn't register anything else. It had to be a spider...could it really be a spider?) and alien (it had to be an alien, right? Hard, round shell. Robot-like spindly legs.)
"Oh my, oh my oooooh my," was all I could say as other options flitted briefly through my thoughts. Nightmares were fresh in my memory. I backed away to grab my phone and hopefully snap a photo.
Of course, the whole time I was muttering oh mys and this eventually scared him away. He went click clacking off into a corner and secured himself underneath the car seat sitting there. The clatter of his legs? hooves? made me think 'crab' but he wasn't red, or flat or speaking with a Jamaican accent.
Mohamed insisted I didn't see what I saw and we spent a bit of time wondering how to get him out of there. When Christine showed up, we told her about it and she promised to search high and low. "It might be a crab," she said. "I'll get him out of there." She waved a stick around to show she meant business. Mohamed gave me his trademark smile and winked.
"She's a real African woman," he said. "She's not afraid of anything. She can kill a rat." He was referring to our previous mouse problem which Christine tackled with gusto- planting mouse catchers and removing the critters without remorse.
When we came back home, however, she had nothing to report. Despite a thorough cleaning, she hadn't turned up the click-clacking offender. Perhaps he'd gotten out on his own? I couldn't really imagine how he had even gotten in in the first place. He was large, larger than my fist. And the shell was hard- not conducive to squeezing beneath cracks. After reflecting all day, it seemed likely what I'd seen was a crab, even though my google search didn't turn up any crabs walking in full blown puffer fish mode. Based on my quick sketch, everyone seemed to think crab (after ruling out jelly fish) especially given how close we live to the lagoon. But it only seems close in people terms, if you have long legs to traverse the distance. It seems more like another country when thinking in crab terms.
When it rains, the streets do become littered with small ponds and lakes. In a few heavy downpours, the water has flooded our small road entirely and even covered most of our front yard. Maybe it was possible he puddle hopped all the way? I still couldn't figure out why. What do crabs eat anyway? The more I thought about it and talked it over with Nabih, the more I realized I don't actually know very much about crabs.
Just after dinner, I grabbed a small bag and intended to run over to the corner boutique. As I made my way for the door, I stopped and breathed in deeply. There he was. Proof! This time, he wasn't "up" in his round mode, but laying flat and distinctly more crab-like just in front of the screen door, like a puppy waiting to go out for his evening walk.
I wondered how he had gotten there without any of us noticing. There was nothing small or indiscreet about him. How did he skitter along the baseboards (of our very pale yellow and still quite empty house) without being seen- or heard on our tile floor?
I went to get my phone (again- this time trying to be more quiet- though now the boys were running around up in arms.) They let me take some grainy shots in our flimsy evening light and eventually we opened the door for our guest who scuttled out into the yard taking cover by the palm tree.
I've been prepared for lots of "visitors"- cockroaches bigger than fingers, mice, rats as big as cats, termites, spiders and lizards (the large blue and orange ones, the medium greenish-gray ones and the tiny almost see through ones.) In other countries, I've encountered bats (inside,) raccoons (outside) and even bears. My path has crossed snakes, turtles, goats and dogs. I guess now I can add hard-shelled, click-clacking, alien-cousin-resembling crabs to the list. Hopefully he won't be able to make it past my mosquito net.
Sleeping inside the net has lent a princess-like appeal to my otherwise dreary bedroom. It's also provided a sense of calm and safety (there are a lot of potential creepy crawlies in this humid, close-to-the-lagoon house.)
One morning I wandered sleepily into the laundry room to grab a towel and find something to wear. A usual morning ritual. When I turned on the light I noticed a round large critter supported on thin legs. My just awakened mind could not make sense of what I was seeing. I wasted several minutes trying to morph the ideas of spider (waaay too big to be a spider- I hoped. It couldn't be a spider my mind insisted as, at the same time, it couldn't register anything else. It had to be a spider...could it really be a spider?) and alien (it had to be an alien, right? Hard, round shell. Robot-like spindly legs.)
"Oh my, oh my oooooh my," was all I could say as other options flitted briefly through my thoughts. Nightmares were fresh in my memory. I backed away to grab my phone and hopefully snap a photo.
Of course, the whole time I was muttering oh mys and this eventually scared him away. He went click clacking off into a corner and secured himself underneath the car seat sitting there. The clatter of his legs? hooves? made me think 'crab' but he wasn't red, or flat or speaking with a Jamaican accent.
Mohamed insisted I didn't see what I saw and we spent a bit of time wondering how to get him out of there. When Christine showed up, we told her about it and she promised to search high and low. "It might be a crab," she said. "I'll get him out of there." She waved a stick around to show she meant business. Mohamed gave me his trademark smile and winked.
"She's a real African woman," he said. "She's not afraid of anything. She can kill a rat." He was referring to our previous mouse problem which Christine tackled with gusto- planting mouse catchers and removing the critters without remorse.
When we came back home, however, she had nothing to report. Despite a thorough cleaning, she hadn't turned up the click-clacking offender. Perhaps he'd gotten out on his own? I couldn't really imagine how he had even gotten in in the first place. He was large, larger than my fist. And the shell was hard- not conducive to squeezing beneath cracks. After reflecting all day, it seemed likely what I'd seen was a crab, even though my google search didn't turn up any crabs walking in full blown puffer fish mode. Based on my quick sketch, everyone seemed to think crab (after ruling out jelly fish) especially given how close we live to the lagoon. But it only seems close in people terms, if you have long legs to traverse the distance. It seems more like another country when thinking in crab terms.
When it rains, the streets do become littered with small ponds and lakes. In a few heavy downpours, the water has flooded our small road entirely and even covered most of our front yard. Maybe it was possible he puddle hopped all the way? I still couldn't figure out why. What do crabs eat anyway? The more I thought about it and talked it over with Nabih, the more I realized I don't actually know very much about crabs.
Just after dinner, I grabbed a small bag and intended to run over to the corner boutique. As I made my way for the door, I stopped and breathed in deeply. There he was. Proof! This time, he wasn't "up" in his round mode, but laying flat and distinctly more crab-like just in front of the screen door, like a puppy waiting to go out for his evening walk.
I wondered how he had gotten there without any of us noticing. There was nothing small or indiscreet about him. How did he skitter along the baseboards (of our very pale yellow and still quite empty house) without being seen- or heard on our tile floor?
I went to get my phone (again- this time trying to be more quiet- though now the boys were running around up in arms.) They let me take some grainy shots in our flimsy evening light and eventually we opened the door for our guest who scuttled out into the yard taking cover by the palm tree.
I've been prepared for lots of "visitors"- cockroaches bigger than fingers, mice, rats as big as cats, termites, spiders and lizards (the large blue and orange ones, the medium greenish-gray ones and the tiny almost see through ones.) In other countries, I've encountered bats (inside,) raccoons (outside) and even bears. My path has crossed snakes, turtles, goats and dogs. I guess now I can add hard-shelled, click-clacking, alien-cousin-resembling crabs to the list. Hopefully he won't be able to make it past my mosquito net.
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| grainy lochness monster-type photo of my alien-crab- he really does exist, though- the boys saw him too! |
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| our flooded walkway- although the morning of the crab sighting all was dry |
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