Glimmers of Potential - Part I

I am going through a bit of a personal crisis and, for the first time, am too tired to write. But as I can’t ask to be let off this ride, here’re a few salient memories of the past few days...

***

I have officially been through two earth tremors – one on Saturday and one on Wednesday.  This last felt much stronger as I was lying down on the couch and eating my weight in cookies.  Added to the earthquakes in South Korea, I found myself envisioning a zombie/ice age crisis.  

As all scenarios end in me lying on my couch and eating, I’m not as worried as I should be. 

***

On the way home one day, I passed a woman and her small toddler.  The woman did not have her hair done – automatically indicating a certain level of poverty.  When she saw me, she stooped down and started murmuring something that probably sounded like this:  Here we have Exhibit C – the dark-skinned white person, possibly Chinese – a wild card.  Usually found behind a stethoscope, computer, or cash register, but incredibly hardy and suited to a wide variety of climates, they are gentle creatures.  This one is female – as evidenced by her long fur.  Standard procedure upon seeing one is to point and scream Muzungu!  Make me proud, baby.

She then pushed the child towards me.  He pointed and practised:  “M-mu-zungu!” 

Mission thus accomplished, she murmured the equivalent of Good job, honey, and they walked away together. 

Homeschooling at its finest.

***

At our Bible study, I faced horrified censure for wearing clothes my mom wore in the 90s. 

(Please, hold your applause till the end.)  

One member of our church has, over the past five months, tried to sell me bags, scarves, pagne cloth, eggs, soap, and jeans before finally losing it when I wouldn’t buy this last product on offer.  When I tried to say that I didn’t like shopping and still have very old clothes, she was horrified:  “You should give away!  You’re selfish!”

Selfish because I don’t give away something to buy another like it for $20? 

I call this consumerism; if we could use only as much as we needed, I imagine there would be less waste.  I also imagine the world would stop turning.  Making a little money go the extra mile makes me happy – which frustrates everyone who thinks of what they could be doing with my billions (saved because I still wear my mom’s clothes from the 90s).  

I will never win. 

A few days later, she asked if she could have my groceries.  For no purpose, really – she’s middle class and doesn’t need them, but I imagine that she would have taken it as another example of my greed if I’d refused.  Pastor’s wife convinced her not to take my food, but she walked away with a bell pepper anyway. 

Not because she needed it, you understand, but because I am a foreigner and this is the benefit of relationship for some.

***

A man came to visit the doctor with whom I share an office.  He later introduced himself as a doctor from the hospital next door and said he’d seen me from his office, which is why I assume he had this entire conversation (conducted within the first 2 minutes of his entry) saved up:

“Hi, Madam.”

“Hi!”

“Is it madam or mademoiselle?” 

Here we go. 

“Mademoiselle.”

“Mademoiselle.  Are you South American?”

“Nope”

“Italian?”

“Nope.”

*other doctor takes pity and gives him the answer*

“Indian, okay.  I’d like it if you got married here.”

“Really.”

“It is the best way to be fully integrated!” 

Private to Mission Control – Private to Mission Control.  They’ve worked out our desperate desire to integrate and are using it against us.  Abort!  Abort! 

“After all, there was so-and-so who recently got married to a Congolese!  And so-and-so who had a baby with a Congolese.”

*proceeds to tell me love story, including the fact that said paramour is now in Oslo to give birth to her little bundle of unwed joy*

“Ah.”

“Now, I’m not saying you should just have a baby, but...  to be integrated...”

Darn the missionary instinct.

“I’ll think about it.  Thank you.”

The doctor in my office later apologized on his colleague’s behalf.  I think he was shocked when I gently told him that I get worse on the street.

***

I recently wore a low-cut shirt that I assumed I could get away with because I have meagre assets.  My mother has tried to disabuse me of this notion, but she’s my mom; she thinks I’m being provocative when I smile.   

Men on the street addressed their salutations to my necklace for the remainder of the day. 

Even though there was nothing on display.

Is it instinct?  Habit?  Maybelline?

I was warned not to wear cheap boots in the rainy season lest I look like a worker (oh, the unimaginable horror of it all), but I’m thinking it might be an improvement to having men murmur something like ‘One love,’ ‘I love,’ or ‘My love’ as I pass. 

***

At work, one of my colleagues has been heavily pregnant for the past five months. 

Granted, I’m not too good at reading pregnancies, but I swear to you, she has been waddling since April and is still going strong with three other children at home (two of whom haven’t started school yet).  When she goes on field visits, I’m terrified that the baby will fly out on a particularly large bump and zoi-i-ing back with the umbilical cord.

...Okay, so I don’t know too much about labour either.    

Having discovered this, she revels in telling me horror stories that cause me to hop away with my legs crossed and my hands over my ears to avoid pregnancy and insanity, respectively. 

***

One morning, a girl with a backpack, in nice (if worn) clothes and makeup point-blank told me to give her money. 

She'd said Hi the previous day, which apparently indicated that we had progressed to a level of intimacy in our relationship that allowed for more personal requests.

Incidentally, I had also noticed that any time I reached in my bag (for my phone, scarf, ipod, etc.), there would be at least one person in the vicinity who would hold out her hands – never mind if she was working, eating, or waiting for someone.  Of course, she would be poorer than middle class, but she may look well dressed and well-fed.  And she will instinctively hold out her cupped hands, waiting for something I have to give.  My receptionist, who is also likely lower than middle class, has jokingly done the same thing, which makes me think that it’s not normal.  It should go against every fibre of your being – to beg when you likely have enough.  And I don’t think they would do it to anyone; people are proud here.  They do it because I’m a foreigner.  And foreigners give handouts. 

Pavlov would have been fascinated.

After six months of this, I think this young girl took me over my limit.  I asked her why I should give her money - had she done something for me?

I hope I didn’t encourage her into prostitution with this question, but I know – I know – that there are poor people who have more pride.  I have seen them, spoken to them.  They offer to work, to help, to give, rather than demanding or begging.  Because they have worth in themselves and faith outside both of us that they recognise will be diminished if they grant me the power or the duty to change their lives.   


Part II