Though he tends to ruin my innocent joys – at the reception of my new nationality with laughter instead of polite disdain, he only bemoaned the noise level, showing a level of distress rarely seen outside of unauthorized spatula-usage – Butters and I do not, as has been insinuated, hate each other. We're... friends. Of a sort. We're just... very different... and... Look, this would be easier if I didn't feel like I were explaining our imminent divorce to our children.
He's very musically gifted! And peaceful! He even complimented me the other day!
...In truth, he said that everyone would be able to tell if I were pregnant. Which was, in retrospect, perhaps his idea of a brotherly warning.
Gee, tha--
“And everyone'd be able to tell if I were pregnant too,” he finished, in the tone of a man to whom literalism is not merely the apex of humour, but a way of life.
So while he wasn't complimenting me so much as he was hanging on to the flaming remains of a fatally derailed train of thought, I choose to see leaden clouds as silver-lined.
Sometimes I don't have to try as hard. One evening, as I was absentmindedly hunting for a pen to sign out for the day, our cleaning lady leaned over.
“Whaat do you waant?”
I mumbled a response before registering the caterwaul of unfamiliar English vowels in her mouth, shrieking in joy, and pumping her hand while she beamed.
I will never be able to convey the satisfaction of hearing this woman – fluent in Swahili and possibly other regional languages, but not in French – start to speak English. She's not learning anywhere near as fast as she should because I'm not dedicated about teaching her every day, but she is learning, and this makes a difference, even if it's solely in her life, to increase her value in the eyes of her children studying in the big city with fees paid by their mom's scrubbing, to know that she has worth that stems from her mind, from her thoughts, her desires, and the words she has to say in the lives of others. Don't get me wrong – she's as loud and bossy a maman as any you'll meet, but (and I've seen this in India and here) women are so used to being sidelined or put down for expressing personal thoughts or ambitions (by both sexes) that any tiny victory over this mentality gives me hope to fight this uphill battle another day with another Ariel who thought she needed to give up her voice to be accepted.
I look on the bright side so often that I'm having more than my fair share of eye problems. After my short stint with an eye infection, I'd just transitioned back to wearing contacts when I subconsciously decided that the only way to be rid of any lingering bacteria would be to douse my eye in acid. You know the kind of contact lens solution that fizzes in a sort of iron maiden-esque contraption and needs six hours to neutralize? This is the acid in which I accidentally pickled my lenses in a normal lens case and then tried to wear on a Sunday morning.
It was thus that I went to church, and then to visit Pastor's brand new baby, with candy cane-themed eyeballs.
Luckily, very few people noticed (or I have many very polite and nervous friends); I got more attention when I wore jeans the next day. I feel like women here wear much more skintight clothing to accentuate much more beautiful figures, but muzungus must be held to a different standard. The unfortunate resemblance that my name bears to cherie means that I turned smilingly more than once to an appreciative stranger. I realised my mistake when I got to work and was complimented again on my sartorial sense (I was wearing a button-up shirt, jeans, and glasses). When I ruefully mused that maybe this wasn't the best look for this country, I was hastily reassured that it was fine for Protestants.
If you've never watched Little Mosque on the Prairie (you should), here's a snippet:
“I can see your bellybutton! You look like a Protestant!”
“Don't you mean 'prostitute'?”
“No! I meant 'Protestant'!”
Labels matter. And people here are highly aware of that.
I've mentioned this before, but people are often named for blessings or virtues. For example, Espoir and Esperance are the respective masculine and feminine forms of Hope in French. But having a large, bearded man introduce himself in English as Hope is jarring, to say the least. Likewise for Pendo (love in Swahili, though the Pendos of my acquaintance keep the Swahili word instead of translating it). Another man smarmily introduced himself as Lion (his name was Simba). Along with a Bonheur (goodness) and Don Beni (blessed gift), I've also had the pleasure of meeting Bonne Idée (good idea) and Bien Fait (well done).
These are all strapping young men, and I have to fight hysterical giggles every. single. time. I see them because I can't help but think of the origin of their names.
“Remember around this time nine months ago when you said you had a headache? I told you it was a good idea! Speaking of which... ”
“Jack.”
“No.”
“John.”
“No.”
“Egbert.”
“Ha, good idea.”
“YAASSS!”
“Just look at 'im, honey! We did a good job – really well done! Heyyy...”
“You named him what?!”
“I was hungry!”
In the same way, 'humanitarian aid' is an interesting name for the $22 billion that the UN is requesting for next year. I am struggling with this level of intervention for the increasing wars, refugees, and starvation around the world. While I can't deny that emergency aid is necessary in the short-term, continuing to treat the symptoms of huge political and military issues is not going to change reality. The line that aid agencies draw in staying far away from these causes is basically ensuring that they must remain forever the heroes – forever the knights in shining armour wondering why Africans and Middle Easterners can't just get their sh--awarmas together. Zooming in a little, identifying certain practices as 'cultural' gives a blank cheque to corrupt individuals to continue their current practices because someone else is taking care of their population's food, education, and healthcare while they line their pockets and fight petty battles in which the average Joes (and Josephinas) are target practice at worst and caught in the crossfire at best.
The fact is that certain 'Western' economic, governmental, and societal rules have been most proliferated and therefore apply in this world. That may change in the future, but right now, success means playing by those rules, as much as the noble savage (PC: traditional) way of life is glorified. Allowing 'a certain measure' of corruption, fraud, and nepotism to soothe the shame of slavery and abuse not only prevents certain countries from learning these rules, but effectively bans them from ever entering the playing field.
And how long do you think a growing young population is willing to sit peacefully on the sidelines cheering the best players?
He's very musically gifted! And peaceful! He even complimented me the other day!
...In truth, he said that everyone would be able to tell if I were pregnant. Which was, in retrospect, perhaps his idea of a brotherly warning.
Gee, tha--
“And everyone'd be able to tell if I were pregnant too,” he finished, in the tone of a man to whom literalism is not merely the apex of humour, but a way of life.
So while he wasn't complimenting me so much as he was hanging on to the flaming remains of a fatally derailed train of thought, I choose to see leaden clouds as silver-lined.
Sometimes I don't have to try as hard. One evening, as I was absentmindedly hunting for a pen to sign out for the day, our cleaning lady leaned over.
“Whaat do you waant?”
I mumbled a response before registering the caterwaul of unfamiliar English vowels in her mouth, shrieking in joy, and pumping her hand while she beamed.
I will never be able to convey the satisfaction of hearing this woman – fluent in Swahili and possibly other regional languages, but not in French – start to speak English. She's not learning anywhere near as fast as she should because I'm not dedicated about teaching her every day, but she is learning, and this makes a difference, even if it's solely in her life, to increase her value in the eyes of her children studying in the big city with fees paid by their mom's scrubbing, to know that she has worth that stems from her mind, from her thoughts, her desires, and the words she has to say in the lives of others. Don't get me wrong – she's as loud and bossy a maman as any you'll meet, but (and I've seen this in India and here) women are so used to being sidelined or put down for expressing personal thoughts or ambitions (by both sexes) that any tiny victory over this mentality gives me hope to fight this uphill battle another day with another Ariel who thought she needed to give up her voice to be accepted.
I look on the bright side so often that I'm having more than my fair share of eye problems. After my short stint with an eye infection, I'd just transitioned back to wearing contacts when I subconsciously decided that the only way to be rid of any lingering bacteria would be to douse my eye in acid. You know the kind of contact lens solution that fizzes in a sort of iron maiden-esque contraption and needs six hours to neutralize? This is the acid in which I accidentally pickled my lenses in a normal lens case and then tried to wear on a Sunday morning.
It was thus that I went to church, and then to visit Pastor's brand new baby, with candy cane-themed eyeballs.
Luckily, very few people noticed (or I have many very polite and nervous friends); I got more attention when I wore jeans the next day. I feel like women here wear much more skintight clothing to accentuate much more beautiful figures, but muzungus must be held to a different standard. The unfortunate resemblance that my name bears to cherie means that I turned smilingly more than once to an appreciative stranger. I realised my mistake when I got to work and was complimented again on my sartorial sense (I was wearing a button-up shirt, jeans, and glasses). When I ruefully mused that maybe this wasn't the best look for this country, I was hastily reassured that it was fine for Protestants.
If you've never watched Little Mosque on the Prairie (you should), here's a snippet:
“I can see your bellybutton! You look like a Protestant!”
“Don't you mean 'prostitute'?”
“No! I meant 'Protestant'!”
Labels matter. And people here are highly aware of that.
I've mentioned this before, but people are often named for blessings or virtues. For example, Espoir and Esperance are the respective masculine and feminine forms of Hope in French. But having a large, bearded man introduce himself in English as Hope is jarring, to say the least. Likewise for Pendo (love in Swahili, though the Pendos of my acquaintance keep the Swahili word instead of translating it). Another man smarmily introduced himself as Lion (his name was Simba). Along with a Bonheur (goodness) and Don Beni (blessed gift), I've also had the pleasure of meeting Bonne Idée (good idea) and Bien Fait (well done).
These are all strapping young men, and I have to fight hysterical giggles every. single. time. I see them because I can't help but think of the origin of their names.
“Remember around this time nine months ago when you said you had a headache? I told you it was a good idea! Speaking of which... ”
“Jack.”
“No.”
“John.”
“No.”
“Egbert.”
“Ha, good idea.”
“YAASSS!”
“Just look at 'im, honey! We did a good job – really well done! Heyyy...”
“You named him what?!”
“I was hungry!”
In the same way, 'humanitarian aid' is an interesting name for the $22 billion that the UN is requesting for next year. I am struggling with this level of intervention for the increasing wars, refugees, and starvation around the world. While I can't deny that emergency aid is necessary in the short-term, continuing to treat the symptoms of huge political and military issues is not going to change reality. The line that aid agencies draw in staying far away from these causes is basically ensuring that they must remain forever the heroes – forever the knights in shining armour wondering why Africans and Middle Easterners can't just get their sh--awarmas together. Zooming in a little, identifying certain practices as 'cultural' gives a blank cheque to corrupt individuals to continue their current practices because someone else is taking care of their population's food, education, and healthcare while they line their pockets and fight petty battles in which the average Joes (and Josephinas) are target practice at worst and caught in the crossfire at best.
The fact is that certain 'Western' economic, governmental, and societal rules have been most proliferated and therefore apply in this world. That may change in the future, but right now, success means playing by those rules, as much as the noble savage (PC: traditional) way of life is glorified. Allowing 'a certain measure' of corruption, fraud, and nepotism to soothe the shame of slavery and abuse not only prevents certain countries from learning these rules, but effectively bans them from ever entering the playing field.
And how long do you think a growing young population is willing to sit peacefully on the sidelines cheering the best players?
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!