My Infatuation - Confessions

In my rural village, people know that I am engaged to a beautiful red-headed lady. If any of you who are reading this have followed along, you would know that this is not true. I have made up this marital status to reduce harassment, and to cut off any hope (of a trip to America and emancipation from the suffocating poverty around) from all the willing, eligible women in my village. Before I came, I had it in my mind that no woman here in my village could engage me intellectually, challenge me spiritually, be attractive to me physically, and still be unmarried. Once again I find myself proven wrong.

I have two criteria which must be passed before I even consider dating a Kenyan. They are:

1) Fluent in English
2) The same beliefs

In America, I only have one criteria.

Still, this is Peace Corps, right? I am supposed to be living off the radar, where education, food, and gender equality are all in short supply. Nobody, especially women, should be fluent in English. Therefore, that first criteria should be (and has been) enough until now to disqualify every beautiful face so far. This language barrier has barred every potential suit-tress who has prince charming (me) reflected off her dark corneas and the promise of paradise (America) in the front of her mind.

Until now.

Her first words to me were, “Nice laptop.” And I hardly turned from my small, dimly lit screen. But I did turn; the shock of English words in my ears registered, and what filled my eyes was a small Kenyan woman leaning against a desk, her attention devoted in a book. It was nothing impressive, her face was ordinary, her breasts were slightly too large, a small gap nuzzled itself between her two front teeth, and her hair was brilliantly woven. First appearance? No hint of attraction.

But she spoke English. My first criteria was met. We began talking of all sorts of things, and I would visit often because I gained much insight into the Kenyan culture by our conversations. It was not long until I realized that she fulfilled my second criteria as well.

Just by living in Kenya, I have developed a growing respect for the women. The culture and gender roles force them into all of the household chores, and yet they still have enough cheer to sit around the night-times laughing over stories and roasting maize. Whether it is this strong sense of respect, the astonishment of finding a potential attraction, or the rosy-colored Peace Corps goggles I wear, an infatuation was borne.

I tickled myself with the idea of bringing her to America. I could see us together on a plane back home, the cold cabin has her drape a “Swiss-air” blanket over her, as she affectionately leans against my welcoming shoulder. I imagine taking her to all the places I used to live, where I went to school, and the pools where I spent my afternoons swimming. I would laugh when she struggles with her chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant, and I would hold her close as we watch the dark sky light up with fireworks on the fourth of July. Cotton candy, bumper cars, amusement parks, ice-skating...I would see her experience them all for the first time, and even as I imagine this I smile warmly. I would feel like Aladdin and his magic carpet, showing his princess a whole new world...

But luckily she is in a relationship. Kenyans love their secrets, and it took quite an inquisition to get her to confess. My roommate in college (Justin Pollard the Third) and I would always debate over whether it is appropriate or not to pursue someone who is already in a relationship. I am firmly against it. First, because I wouldn't appreciate another guy making his move on a girl I was dating. And second, I wouldn't even want a girl who would leave a relationship for me. I think it reflects a serious character flaw that she would pick up and leave her relationship for someone else, presumably someone better. What if, again, someone better comes along? Either way, her being in a relationship has quelled my volatile feelings.

There's something I find beautiful about unknown suffering (though if what I feel is considered suffering, it is hardly “unknown” anymore). Never will she know these capricious feelings I have had for her, never will I know how it would have turned out, and never would we have to argue over cultural differences or decided whether it was useful to raise a bilingual child with Swahili in America. Still, I am ashamed that I should have these feelings, or that those fanciful thoughts were not so fleeting that I could seize them from my mind and write them down.

And also I question to myself why I would post something so frivolous and seemingly disassociated with my unique cultural experience in Kenya or the work in my village. Matters of feelings and romance can be the most selfish and self-consuming thing this world has to offer, and once they swell up inside, it's hard to keep from bursting. But besides the pages of my journal, there is no one else to tell. There isn't another American within a 10 kilometer radius from me. As far as my Peace Corps experience goes, I am completely alone. Besides me and the locals in my village, no one else knows how the crops in my village are growing, or hears the singing of children every morning from the school. These feelings I have developed for this local girl made me realize how truly alone I was.