I haven't traveled out of Africa in the last 5 or 6 years. In June, I took a quick trip to Paris, which was like visiting a foreign country in a way I'd never quite imagined France (which is, in fact, a foreign country.) In November, I had the chance to visit again and took every opportunity to stay in the same neighborhood, eliciting a cozy sense of the familiar.
That trip, the basis of which was research, expanded my perspective on future initiatives in Congo. I began to sense the construction of a foundation and structure which I haven't yet had time to fully process.
I'd arrived home for less than 24 hours when I was flying off again, to the far away and even more foreign land of America. A family emergency called. While the flight to Europe is highly doable, even including the roundabout layovers often accompanying cheaper fares (I am still not able to comprehend how the long-cut equals less money- surely the short-cut requires less expense?) the trip to the US is unbearable. 3 flights, 8 hour layovers and, on the return, the uncharted but by-now-to-be-expected "hop" through a neighboring country.
Since I've been flying to Africa, I have frequently experienced this touch down in a country bordering the final destination. It usually comes at the end of a long series of flights and is just enough to play havoc on the last vestige of patience. Essentially, it is like an additional flight- meaning I really took 4 flights home, rather than 3. But it is not listed on the itinerary and so, despite it's regular occurrence, still manages to come as a surprise.
But my story is not really about the flights, although allowing for a moment of motherly pride, my girl turned out to be the best travel buddy ever. At three, she managed to weather the planes and airport layovers with an energy and enthusiasm that was inspiring.
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| Best travel buddy ever |
I decided to approach it as I did any travel- a foreign culture to be observed and wondered at. Curiosity makes for a great lens. I mustered up enthusiasm for the huge hay bales that lined the grassy plains on the way from the airport. They resembled a Van Gogh or a Monet. I allowed myself to be enchanted. And when we passed a collection stacked to resemble a caterpillar and painted green, I smiled with childish delight. So this is America.
My trip included a family reunion of sorts, and surely that is a story of it's own, especially since it's been a good 20+ years since we have seen each other. How do you even begin a reunion like that? In some cases, it is easy enough to just pick up where one left off. That is to say, pretend like the 20 years never passed. I suppose the ability to do this is what makes us family, as opposed to a collective group of strangers assembled in the same vicinity?
The plan went well enough. I'd thought of a few questions to ask my brother, who's never been much of a talker. I'm potentially not much of a talker either, so the reunion with him left me feeling a bit nervous. What the heck do you say to someone after 20 years? I decided to focus on the present and our main reason for being together- the ill health of our mother. I also had a few questions prepared about his life in the small town and his aspirations in business, which I'd thought he'd recently started. (Later that day, I managed to pick up some more tips from my great aunt, who has a gift for random conversation starters. At 88, she hoovers between sounding extremely intelligent and occasionally unpredictable. With her in the lead, we covered topics from the political leaning of the mayor to Trump's proposed tax plan to the local educational system. My brother did his darndest to answer in between summarizing the story of Ray Kroc and the McDonald's brothers.)
And through it all, my girl was shining. She is undeniably cute and has a way with people. She charmed up to her uncle immediately. He'd barely opened the door when she stepped outside and gave him a huge hug- or embraced his shin, in any case. She wasn't intimidated in the least by his 6'2 frame. We went out for coffee and the entire time she engaged him in a silent coloring game that included a ton of hand signals, thumbs up and random kisses.
Though her English is coming along, generally in unexpected spurts of words strung together in nearly complete sentences, she still prefers French, and often settles for a mix of both languages in her daily speech. While she was winning hearts with her charming ways, a translation was occasionally called for. As we left the restaurant, we stopped for a creature from the pirate/santa who was creating animal balloons. (This was a rather odd affair that resulted in him calling out, "Balloon popping, balloon popping," every 15 minutes or so throughout our entire hour and a half stay. His fire alarm alert was a bit anti-climatic as it was generally followed by a muted puff of air nothing like the large explosion we'd been led to believe was coming.)
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| Pirate/Santa's kaleidoscope of colored balloons |
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| Pirate/Santa and his French accent for my girl |
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| Blue puppy, black kid? |
I tried processing this with my aunt later that evening. I wasn't sure where my discomfort was coming from and why. I am generally proud of my children's' African heritage and usually find myself emphasizing this over their American side. Perhaps it was the word black. Mbalia is not black- there are few people who actually are graced with the beautiful, deep skin tone we might call black. Most of us are hues of brown and tan and beige and peach. Generally, I see her as golden. And in Africa, she is definitely not passing as African. At most, people may suspect her of being a multicultural child (can I say mixed? I am not even sure anymore.) She is clearly foreign and I am not exactly sure how others see her. It is something I have thought of occasionally in terms of the boys as well.
We are most often surrounded by the many hues of whatever international school we are currently connected to, however, and this is a perfect fit. The student body is a healthy mix of shades representing the colors of the world. There are soft browns and golden sunsets, there are dark tans and milky whites. There are a million in betweens and no one seems to remark on skin color all that much. Rather, kids delight in exchanging country of origin tales ("I was born in.....but really my mother is from....and my dad is from....so I am all three!) They compare where they've been and what sights they've seen in each country. They take pride in knowing the cities of the world and having experienced a bit of them, even if limited by age and allowance. (One girl admitted that all she did on her great European vacation was spend time in a hotel room watching tv and swimming in the pool. She wasn't allowed at the grown-up parties and the family stay-over had been dedicated to business. She'd experienced a restaurant and a shopping trip, but not much more.)
Then there are always the half-remembered stories (I went there when I was three) and the familiar places (we always visit my grandma's village in Cameroun) but rarely is there anything about skin color. I think there is where my discomfort was coming from. America and it's preoccupation with race. My aunt assured me that my daughter "presented as black," but I honestly didn't see it. It wouldn't have mattered to me either way, except it felt false, an exaggeration. I guess this is the dilemma of multi-cultural children everywhere. They don't belong on one side or another, but somewhere in between.
I think, with a bit of reflection, the one-drop rule was being applied and something about that infuriated me. To be fair, Mbalia is more than one-drop. She is half African and half-American, a much more authentic version of the term African-American than many black Americans (how many generations live and die in America before you drop the country/continent of origin?)
Perhaps if I'd felt they were referring to her African self, I wouldn't have felt as miffed. Somehow, simply referring to her as a color (that didn't even apply) seemed to negate both her heritage as an African and her heritage as an American (which I readily admit to emphasizing only when advantageous, ie passport country.)
Ironically, I remember feeling the exact same way in reverse shortly after Nabih was born. Someone on his dad's side of the family referred to him as "toubab," a word often reserved for whites or foreigners. I was upset because Nabih was, again, a golden child, and 50% African. Didn't that count for something? His dad tried to reassure me at the time that the relative had only meant "toubab" as in "one with no worries," and perhaps this is right. The words that Africans use to describe the foreign white people are generally not related to color but to location or economic status. One dictionary has this interesting suggestion about the root of the Lingala word mundele, used to reference white foreigners, or even black foreigners. (Note the actual word for white in Lingala is mpembe.) A similar situation is true of the Sousou word fote- which signifies a wealthy foreigner. And during one of my trips to Guinee, I heard my dance teacher, who'd been born and raised in the country but had lived outside for about 10 years, referred to as the "white Baga," obviously not related to his skin color but the fact that he returned to his Baga village a wealthier version of the man who'd left so many years before.
I hadn't ever considered my reaction to the question of race before. I have an undeniable pride in my children's African heritage, though perhaps I could do more to make sure they understand the nuances of their particular ethnicity. If this is my confused response to the question of being black, I wonder how my children will sort through their own experience of actually being the ones to straddle the color line. Mohamed has already confirmed he feels "more African than American," though I chalk this up to world view rather than skin color. In essence, I agree. I understand and feel much more comfortable among Africans than I do Americans. I suppose there will be no accusing me of presenting as black, however, at least not among the single minded Americans. A few Africans have wondered aloud at my country of origin, much to my delight. Sadly, I have to admit that no, I am not Guineen or Ivorian...merely American. And a white one at that.
