Do you remember playing telephone with Abby, Cristina, and me? We were boy-crazy, giggling 6th graders. I said something stupid and mean to make Abby cry. I don't remember you glaring at me, but I know you did. You weren't going to let unkindness slip by.
Of the few memories I have of you, that's the one that came to mind when I found out you had gone elsewhere. At first, I hated that my strongest memory of you was one I had to guess the details for, one I hadn't thought of until I heard that it was all I had left of you. But it fits: We were closest in 6th grade, so my heart caught what had slipped my mind. It preserved your conscience and kindness so I'd never forget that you stood for those two things most. Thank God for the power of spiritual intuition, eh?
When my mama told me you were gone, I had just reached the top of Mt. Longonot. I sat on the peak and cried. Through dust and tears, I could see the valley: It was vibrant and alive and everywhere, like you.
I love you Gladys. Thanks for nestling in my heart. See you later,
Wanda
ps...
Me, Cristina, and you at graduation. Remember how we cried b/c Abby wasn't there?
Mt. Longonot's valley ...The fog got in the way of my camera capturing its greenness. But I'm sure you know how vibrant it really is.
Between Maggie's response to my "mzungus..." post and now, I've been doing quite a bit of (reluctant) thinking...
The change in voice between "google meru..." and "mzungus..." disturbs me. "Google Meru..." is open, introspective. "Mzungus..." is pretentiously sarcastic and the posterchild of intellectual elitism. "Mzungus..." makes me a lie: In that post, I don't let Kenya write its narrative through me. Instead, I analyze and critique a culture I've only been in four weeks. Of course, analysis and critique are not wholly inappropriate here; they're key parts of being engaged in an experience. The problem, though, is that there was no humility in my assessment, no hint that maybe I could be wrong. It was just good old-fashioned "objective" academic diarrhea of the word processor. (smh @ myself)
Having been in the formal education system for 15 years, I've had my fair share of the academic runs. While it's healthy to shit, it shouldn't go on for a long time. If it does, or you suspect something's up, you should probably check your system. So, without further ado, I'm checking my system.
So. What, exactly, is wrong with me? What's enabling me to (poorly) forge Kenya's hand? For one, I think thought my Blackness transferable. I can't tell you the number of times I've gone to a shop or street market with other kids on the program, started haggling (unsuccessfully) with the vendor, and thought, "Man, I probably be savin HELLAS if I wasn't with these White ppl..." The truth of the matter is that my broken Swahili, Texas accent, and myriad other dead giveaways that I'm probably not aware of let's Kenyans know with a quickness that I'm American.
Now, don't get me wrong, having dark skin does grant me some privileges: I can walk down the street by myself and no one stares at me. I can... uh... I can... ummmm... damn. hm. I guess that's about it.
Clearly, my Black card has (extremely) limited currency here. Yes, when I talk to Kenyans, they're happy that I'm Black and I'm here. They immediately call me sister, whereas White students have to wait a while to hear that or never hear it. But I'm familiar enough with the culture to know sister is not an instant conferral of the privileges and burdens of being Kenyan.
All of the above should be self-evident, and it is (and was). But here's the thing: I bought into the transferability of my Blackness because I just straight up did not (and do not) enjoy being made synonymous with my White friends. While I realize that American/class identity trumps racial identity here, it's disconcerting that I'm seen as basically the same as students who hold (and accidentally express) tacitly racist views: i.e., A guy asked me if we were good enough friends for him to crack Black jokes. Quite a few of the students (sometimes) switch to "hip hop slang" (whatever that means, but I know you know what I'm talking about) when they talk to me. etc., etc.
Disconcerting as it may be, the Kenyans who call me mzungu - and, in doing so, lump me together with my tacitly racist White friends - may be on to something: I mean, did I not expect discounts at the street market? Did I not (wrongly) feel like an insider and smugly smh when I instantly understood fostering (unofficially adopting children in the family) when my White friends didn't? Have I not hoped for Black privilege?
...shit...
*maggie, if you're reading, don't think of this as biting. the perspective you've shared in your response and on your blog inspires me.
After church last Sunday, we came back to my host family’s house for the usual (Meru) Sunday dinner: sukumawiki, moshimo (mashed food), chapati, ugali, etc. I was having a conversation in the living room with my friend Yvonne and Kandi when two young men came to the house, and one, Jayd, immediately started talking to me: Do you like Lady Gaga? Have you heard of so-in-so? What’s it like in the States?
It was nice small talk until he got giggly as a schoolgirl and whispered to me, “Okay. I have this crazy dream. I’ve always dreamed of moving to America and marrying a mzungu.”
::facepalm::
For those of you unaware (or holding out on googling it in anticipation of me explaining), mzungu is the KiSwahili word used to refer to foreigners, specifically Americans and Europeans, usually White people, but also Americans and Europeans who can’t pass for African. Since my neighborhood was more like a small town, everyone knew everyone and everyone knew everyone’s business. Thus, everyone knew I was a visitor from America. Thus, I couldn’t pass. Thus, Jayd’s comment. Sigh.
Anyway. I wasn’t particularly offended. Eight-ish years since the start of puberty, two of them having been spent in Saint Louis, I’ve been on the receiving end of enough inappropriate passes to not bat an eye. What has me writing about Jayd’s comment, then, is what it says about the perspective of young people, particularly young men, living in rural Kenya.
Before Jayd began telling me his “crazy dream,” his tone was conversational: He didn’t talk too fast or too slow; he looked me in the eye; he never hesitated or stuttered. I took the giggling and whispering that cloaked Jayd’s comment, then, as an indication of bashfulness, as a sign that he thought his “dream” ludicrous. When you say something like that, I sincerely hope that you don’t take yourself seriously, so there’s nothing particularly remarkable about that observation.However, when I asked him what mzungu meant, his explanation shined a light on his perception of self:
He told me a mzungu was someone of high class, someone who doesn’t bring people down; that an African can never be a mzungu because Africans are always trying to stop their brothers and sisters from coming up.
Ouch. Self-hatred much?
A quick analysis of Jayd’s definition, the formal definition ala wikipedia, and my experiences with the word suggests that mzungu is a slur that simultaneously conflates American and European national identity with each respective nation’s power; gives users a pseudo-power over the targets of their slur; and denies the power of African peoples in general.
Though Jayd was joking, his marriage proposal is a tacit way of saying, “Take me to America with you. Make possible the opportunity I can’t have in Africa.” The assumption/implication of “I want to marry a mzungu” is that I have the power (read: money) to sponsor his long-term stay in the States. Such an assumption comes from a conflation of America the nation and American nationality.
How come some Africans (and probably people of many other “underdeveloped” nations) make this conflation? A quick look at TV gives us the answer. While in Meru I spent some time channel surfing. Top item on the news: U.S. pulling out funding for Kenya’s education system. The only thing covered more was Kenya’s constitution and the riot story. The fact that U.S.’s doings in Kenya ranked so highly in Kenyan news coverage suggests that the Kenyan gov’t, and by proxy, the Kenyan people, see America as influential and important. Though the Kenyan gov’t also said that they could do without the funds of powerful nations, it still used the U.S.’s decision to stir up controversy – again, an indication that Kenya views America as powerful.
To counterbalance the ostensible power of Americans (and others from wealthy nations), Kenyans call us muzungu. The first time I felt the sting of “muzungu” was when Jayd went to greet people at my host family’s door and said, “[Something in KiSwahili] mzungu. [More in KiSwahili] mzungu!”
I told him the term annoyed me, and he stopped calling me mzungu when I couldn’t understand what else he was saying. In this way, he abandoned the pseudo-power he could have had over me. When he was calling me mzungu though, he was reducing my identity to my (supposed) money. If I’m money, then I’m just a greenish/pinkish piece of paper to be spent and recycled for another’s use. But, of course, I am not my (supposed) money. Hence, pseudo-power.
Closely related to the pseudo-power of muzungu is the fact that it robs its users of their own power. As defined earlier, mzungu is someone who is American/European and has money. To call me mzungu is also to say, “I am not mzungu.” Tacitly, this says, “I am not American. I do not have power.” The user of mzungu can refute this implication with his or her actions. I have no idea what Jayd did (or does) on his spare time so I can’t say to what extent he felt he had power in the world. However, a conversation a few days after the “crazy dream” conversation gave me a glimpse into his sense of power.
We were sitting on a porch and he again asked me to marry him. I told him no, and he said, “Okay, okay. …Can I be your African nigga?”
Real talk, I died laughing when he said it. Talk about culture shock. I guess Audrey’s right, “That’s globalization for ya!” Anyway. I asked him what nigga meant to him. His response: Someone who’s useless and can be used anyway you want.
Damn. Though I debated with him for a little while, I couldn’t (and wouldn’t’ve) refuted the man. His definition captured the implications of what it means to be a nigga: By definition, a nigga is someone who is ignorant, and therefore, easily manipulated. For Jayd to see himself as a nigga is for him to proverbially shoot himself in the foot before the race (to America, or success in general) begins. So much for self-empowerment.
Sigh.
Though Jayd was the only young person I had an in-depth conversation with about mzungu, many young men I met expressed the negative self-perception and/or a desire to not be African (whatever that means). Young women, however, seemed to not see a conflict between life in Meru (and/or Africa) and a successful life/healthy self-perception. Even still, young women would ask me to take their children to America… It seems, then, to be either an identity crisis amongst young Kenyan men, a silence amongst young Kenyan women about their real goals, or both.
From January 21st to January 30th, I was either in route to, in, or returning from Meru, Kenya. Meru is a town, tribe, language (formally, it's called KiMeru) in Eastern Kenya near Mt. Kenya. There's a lot to say about it, so there'll be more posts than this. But below is the first thing I wanted to say about Meru... (Oh, and pics will be up by the end of the week.)
I spent the 7-hour bus ride back to Nairobi figuring out what I wanted to say here, which pictures I wanted to upload to Facebook, how I wanted to remember Meru. The narrative I’m constructing about my time here would be more about what I want to say about Kenya and less about what Kenya wants to tell me about itself if I didn’t know wakia pembe means roasted corn in KiMeru.
Yvonne, a friend I made while in Meru, taught me several words in KiMeru. I never saw a point in remembering any of it until the day I forgot who her mother was. I was walking with my host mother when Yvonne’s mother passed by. Though I had met her at church earlier in the week, I had completely forgotten her face, and, consequentially, walked by her without saying hello. My host mother called me back, and I bashfully admitted that I didn’t remember her. She was disappointed. Her slightly drooped mouth and heavy eyes asked me why I couldn't remember my friend's - her child's - mother? Was I not a part of their community? Folk remember folk here. Wasn't I folk like them?
She quickly forgave my lapse of memory, but I can’t forget her disappointment. It was in that moment that I knew I couldn’t actively forget certain aspects of my experience simply because I didn’t think of them as relevant beyond the time I’d be there. If I chose to block out the KiMeru Yvonne was trying to teach me because I probably wasn’t going to use it after I left, then I could forget her mother – and other people in the community – because I might not see them again.
Such an attitude seeks to evaluate the usefulness of an experience based on (very) limited assumptions. Such an attitude resists changes in perception and worldview. Clearly, such an attitude cannot survive abroad.
In my first blog post, I made a commitment to reject that very attitude. Bad habits die hard though. Seeing Mama Yvonne’s disappointment brought the necessity and importance of my commitment home to me. After that moment, I was open to letting Yvonne, the people of Meru, the students walking down the street from school, the cattle being herded on the road, the slopes of mountains and hills – the whole of Kenya – write its narrative through me.
