One day, back in training in Molepolole, my friend Caitlin and I were walking, and a man walked past us, did a sort of double take, and desperate to convey something to grab our attention and unsure of the proper English yelled, “ hello black people!” as we passed. This small exchange, the vocabulary of which was skewed but the meaning of which was clear, made me again aware of the race and differences as I see it in every day life here in Botswana.
I noticed it in myself for the first time in a mall in Gaborone. The Peace Corps had let us loose for one reason or another and so there were already 50 some white people around, but I was also aware that there were several others, and as Gabs is the capital and somewhat near South Africa this makes sense. There’s plenty of Afrikaners and ex pats of various other persuasions. It happened again in Ghanzi. I found myself staring and rubbernecking at them, just as most of the Batswana stare at me, wondering what they were doing here.
Although in the United States we are taught the politically correct mantra that everyone is the same, and race doesn’t matter, here in Africa, it just does. It’s constantly surprising me, as I foolishly anticipated that in a place of predominantly black people, I would find black pride in ways I hadn’t seen in the US. However, Botswana, bordering South Africa, still feels the effects of their relatively recent battle with apartide in ways you don’t hear about on the news. I’ve had intelligent, educated people of color adamantly insist to me that black people and white people are just too different, and that we should all just accept it. This goes against everything I’ve been taught and have subsequently grown to believe in some pretty big ways…
People here constantly ask me about the political events going on in the United States (people here manage to remain embarrassingly up to date on the goings on in my home country, often more aware of what’s going on than I am, and certainly they are more aware than most people living in America.) and I’m always being asked if I think America is ready for a black president. I’ve been asked this same question several times, usually with the slightly resigned or incredulous belief that there’s no way America will vote for a black man, and many express the belief that they shouldn’t. I’ve read studies about the impact of racism on those who are oppressed and this internalization of decreased worth is something that is real and that I never thought I’d find on this part of the globe. I never thought that I would hear people that are black telling me that black people aren’t as good as white people. (An additional note on Obama, many other Africans I've spoken to think of him as their "Kenyon brother" and his potential influence as a uniting figure around the world, not just amongst the United States that so badly needs his unifying influence. (so much for my impartialism....) Many are wait hopefully to see the results of our election in Novemeber....)
My response to these political inquiries (which in themselves inherently present a problem as the Peace Corps is supposed to be politically non-affiliated) is that I would choose a candidate for president based on his or her political platform and energy, not their skin color. People mostly smile thinly at me as though they think that’s what I was programmed to say, similarly to what they think I was programmed to say about HIV and AIDS. I can only hope that my credibility will increase with time.
I’ve actually had a man tell me that black people are just not the same, their wiry hair is screwed into their brain in ways that makes them incapable of sound reasoning and good decision making, which is why Obama should never be president. The women at the clinic were upset when I cut off my hair, and were reticent to teach me how to wrap my head as they do, because they “have bad course hair that should be covered,” while mine is “nice and soft and should be out so people can see it.”
In Seronga, as a white person, I’m often treated differently-sometimes the product of curiosity, sometimes as what people see as a wealthy donor. There are many white tourists in Seronga, as we are near the delta and the Poler’s trust. I often find myself getting annoyed at the white tourists, coming to visit the children of the daycare/orphanage, taking pictures, teaching the children songs in English. I can easily imagine myself as one of them, on a mission trip or service vacation of some sort and hell, I speak to the children (and everyone else for that matter) in English, and take their pictures all the damn time! (I don’t really know what this irritation on my part is about, but I have a lot of time to think on it, and at night, under my mosquito net in my bed somewhere in the dark of my heart of hearts I have to ask myself if I’m jealous that they get to leave after a few weeks.) Another theory is that my reactions are a result of some screwed up attempt at bonding with and developing a sense of pride in and protection about my community. Sometimes I feel like the elephant in the Dr. Seuess book “Are you my mother?” -who keeps asking all sorts of wildly inappropriate animals and- I think, objects- if they are his mother as he doesn’t know he’s an elephant. I delusionally forget that I’m white and American and different and thus become annoyed at those like me. Some sort of reverse Stolkholm syndrome? Who knows? I clearly have way too much time to think about these things…..
Many wealthy people (you have to have some level of wealth just to get into Botswana with their high price, low traffic policy of ecotourism) come through the village and will often indulge the adorable black shoeless children by granting them the pula ($) they so sweetly ask for in English. This “beggar mentality” has caused many of the children here greet me by asking for a sweet or money, not realizing I am their new neighbor. I am constantly vigilant in my efforts to rework their greeting of “Lekgowa” to “Lorato” as they encounter me in the street, this being the first Setswana phrase I have mastered, that I am called Lorato, not Lekgowa. Occasionally I will ask them for money or a sweet right back, or yell Motswana back at their exclamation of Lekgowa (these phrases are not insults unless you take them that way. In this culture it is like calling someone French, or Canadian. This can be hard to remember on really long days.)
I try to never give them what they are begging for as I’ve come to understand that when they learn begging as a way of life, it will be the only means through which they know to achieve and obtain things and relate to others. It’s annoying because when I have so many oranges that some are about to go bad, I would love to hand them out like the candy the children are asking for. And God knows that there are children here who could use the nutrition and vitamins (I have to admit, I’ve given them the oranges. Now kids scream after me as I walk asking for money, candy and oranges. I don’t know if I’ve won or lost this battle.) But it’s a dangerous habit to reinforce. I’ve even had people who work for the clinic ask me to buy them shoes, when I’ve watched them come home from their offs (vacation days) with nicer stereos than I have in the states. The woman at the post office asks me for my shoes every day. When I gave my colleges at the clinic some of the sweets I had received in the care packages they know I got I was sure to clearly state that the sweets were a thank you for all the hard work and patience they had all had with me in the past two weeks. I want to share with my coworkers as I would my friends, but I don’t want to be seen as the “wealthy” American who is just around to give stuff.
It’s exceedingly difficult to know who your friends are (or will be) in this type of environment, as it’s tough to achieve the balance of power and mutual beneficially of bond that is necessary to form friendships. How can I know what people really want from me? People are constantly asking me for sex, candy and money, and what I’m here to give is my time, energy, skills, knowledge and assistance. And how do I reconcile what they are asking for with what I have to give? And how do I go on without losing myself in this hierarchy of power and start thinking I AM inherently better than those around my in some way? Or that I have some unexplained additional gifts as a result of my skin color or nationality? How can I mentally keep wealth and skin color separate in my mind as I live in a community in which they are very often the same? These are challenges that have come completely unanticipated, and I would imagine will take more than two years to answer.
1 comment:
possibly your best article yet
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