Racism

My collection of short stories on racism.

Marriage

“So, will you marry here?” He asked me out of nowhere. I wondered why he cared, because he definitely wasn't asking for his own benefit.
“I don't think so,” I responded.
“You wouldn't marry one of us, would you? You wouldn't marry a baboon.” He said quickly, partially in jest. It was difficult to pick up on his meaning because his words took me by surprise.
“Baboon?” I repeated, my head turning slightly and my eyes narrowing to show my confusion.
“Yes, we are baboons. Look at our skin. We look like baboons.” He replied, still smiling. Though I picked up on his playful tone, I still burned with anger. This mentality that Africans are less than their lighter-skinned brethren makes me sick, and any hinting toward it, whether serious or in jest, makes me respond in kind.
“Baboons are hairy, aren't they?” I stated as I rolled up my right pants leg. Despite my anger, I continued with his jocular disposition.
He nodded in agreement.
“Look.” I said, motioning to my leg. “I have quite a bit more hair on my body than you. It seems I resemble a baboon much more than you do.”
He laughed as if in agreement, but there was no knowing if any of my words got through to him. It was the best I could do with my limited Swahili. Times like this make me ache to have more command of the language so I can delve into this deep-rooted stereotype and fight to dispel it.


Childhood Myths

“Do you know why African's palms and soles of their feet are white, but the rest of their body is not?” my 9-year old neighbor girl asked me.
“No, I don't know. Tell me.” I said.
“Long ago when the world was made, humans came from the mud. They came across some very hot water. Some put their whole bodies in the water, and so they came out white. But the Africans tested the water first with the bottom of his feet and thought it too hot, and again with the palms of their hands, but quickly pulled them out again. That's why our feet and hands are white and our bodies are not.”

It was a cute story, especially coming from my neighbor. But the story implies that dark skin is the same as dirt, or that white skin is cleaner or somehow pure. Where had she heard it? School? Who perpetuates stories with underlying messages of degradation towards one's own race?

Perhaps I am reading too much into a simple childhood story, but the stereotypes are deeply rooted in the minds of both young and old. While talking with one of the primary school teachers who lives next door to me, he told me plainly, “We Africans, we think you Wazungu are so much civilized and so very knowledgeable.” Yet this primary school teacher speaks three languages, and has welcomed more guests over for tea or dinner in a month than many of us Wazungu invite over a lifetime. It seems he is far more civilized and knowledgeable than most Westerners I know.


A Bicycle Ride

There is a certain word in Swahili which refers to all foreigners, or rather all white people. This word is “Mzungu.” To the locals, it is not at all meant to be derogatory; it is in fact meant to be exalting. Some of the connotations associated with this word are: money, sophistication, technology, education, opportunity. But depending on how it is used, this word to me is flagrantly offensive.

As I was riding my bicycle home I heard some familiar shouts. “Mzungu! Mzungu!” she yelled, nearly in my ear as I road slowly by. “Carry me on your bicycle, so that I can say that I have been carried by a Mzungu.” She requested. It is not uncommon that I carry people on my bicycle from time to time, so I told her that I would carry her on a short stretch of road because I was near my home. She enthusiastically climbed on the back, and began to shout, “Look, I'm being carried by a Mzungu!!” I replied emphatically, “Listen, I am not a Mzungu, I am a human just like you. My blood and yours are the same color.”
“I'm being carried by a Mzungu!” She screamed again. It was obviously her first time getting a ride by a foreigner. I sighed deeply as I arrived home, hoping my words had some impact on her deeply imbedded prejudice.

A core goal for the Peace Corps is cultural exchange between Americans and the host country nationals. One of the purposes of this cultural exchange is to provide a living example of someone from a western country, so they may see first hand how our lives are not so much different than theirs. We eat the same food, poop in the same hole in the ground, and pray for the rains together. These efforts are put forth in order to dispel the stereotypes associated with westerners, or at least show that not all westerners fit in to the stereotype of wealth and superiority.

Church

I am a regular at the local church in my village. The messages are all in Swahili, so for me it is more of a language workout instead of a spiritual experience.

About a month ago, the pastor kicked off the service by inviting the announcement lady to the front to give announcements. She was going on about how the church's new goal was to purchase some chairs made for children, because these large wooden pews make it difficult for the children to sit comfortably. While the announcement lady continued jabbering on about different requests and events, I looked around the church and saw it filled with empty pews. I thought to myself how this church already had quite the number of seats and space, especially compared to other churches in the area where the members bring their own stools to sit on (or find a place on the floor) during service. After the lady finished, the pastor looked up at the few of us in the pews and specifically called me out, saying, “Did Mwadime understand all of that?” (Mwadime being my local name). The pastor's words took me by surprise, and I responded to him in Swahili, my voice a little bit shaky. Already it was awkward that the pastor and I were having a conversation in the middle of service, like a teacher quizzing his student on a language exam in the middle of class. I replied, “Yes I have understood. You are wanting chairs for children.” He seemed to be satisfied with my response and he continued on with the service.

I took a few moments to reflect on the events that transpired. Never before had he asked or seemed to care if I understood anything that was going on in the church, though this time he was very concerned. But why the announcements? Isn't it more important that I understand the spiritual message he is giving instead of the weekly calendar of events? Then I realized, he saw me as a donor that would provide the finances for those chairs that he was asking for. And nothing else.

Again, I felt sick inside. It has been close to a year living here. I have been a regular at his church. Yet still I am just a source of funds in his eyes. Will I ever blend in and be treated like everyone else? Does it take two years? Ten? A lifetime? Maybe never. And to be perfectly honest, if it weren't for this special treatment I get from many of the people around, I could see myself living in this village for the rest of my life.


An African

I was sitting on the steps in my nearest town just reading as two small girls passed me by. One of the girls exclaimed, “Mzungu!” both in surprise as well as to beckon my attention. I looked up at her, then I looked around and asked her puzzlingly, “Mzungu yuko wapi?” or “Where is the Mzungu?” She looked at me confused, and the finally the other girl grabbed her and said, “This person isn't a Mzungu, he is an African.” Upon hearing those words, I felt my very soul smiling. I never knew such a simple comment could be so refreshing.

As those girls passed by later, I overheard her saying to her friend, “That African is still here.”

Free Shirts

There are few things in this world better than a free shirt. The shirt could be unfashionable, ill-fitting, and itchy, but because it is free, it warrants no social repercussions. Out of all the shirts I own, the free ones are usually the ones I tend to like and wear the most. I have all kinds of free shirts from different events I've been to: Cal football games, triathlons, and swim meets. Or the shirts I get as gifts on birthdays or Christmas, with some ridiculous saying written on them. Yet to my surprise, these kinds of free shirts often find themselves quickest to be donated. Walk-a-thons for leukemia awareness (a deep purple always), blood drives, international woman’s day: these are all highly popular candidates for the donation box.

And they all come to Kenya.

I approached a teenager and read his shirt out loud, “Donde Esta Mi Cerveza?” with small English letters in the corner reading, “Where is my beer?”
“I think it is German.” He said, as I finished reading the small English writing.
I smiled amiably and felt it necessary to correct him. “Nope! It's Spanish. It's the same language the team from Barcelona speaks.”
“Ohh!” He exclaimed, as if very excited to learn the true language of the shirt he probably had for years. I mistook his enthusiasm to mean he wanted to know more about Spanish, so I continued breaking down the sentence to him, telling him exactly which word meant what. I was excited to read Spanish, the language I spent so many school years studying, but the teenager did not even feign interest and immediately changed the subject of conversation.

In general, Kenyans who wear these donated shirts have no idea what they are supporting. I remember one shirt worn by an older lady, clearly written, “BEER DELIVERY GUY” in all capital letters across the front. And I promise she was not going for the comedic effect. On another occasion I noticed a grandma wearing a shirt with huge bold letters, “Eat. Sleep. Play.” with a picture of an American football on the front. She obviously has no idea what sport she was endorsing (especially since it was “American” football) but her lack of knowledge didn't dampen her precious, nearly toothless smile. Another mama wore a shirt stylishly written, “Geek Squad,” and I bet none of those Best Buy employees on the “Geek Squad” knew that a 45 year old Mama who has never seen a computer in her life was a big supporter of theirs.

But my favorite so far is a very fast walking old man who I pass by every morning. He looks very grisly and determined whenever I see him, as if he had just lost his cow and was now desperately searching for it. Once he was wearing a very faded pink shirt that read, “Official Heartthrob” in playful, girly letters. The “o” in “throb” was in the shape of a heart, and the middle of each letter looked to have one of those reflective glittery gemstones. This shirt did not at all dampen his grim morning look.

What these shirts do for me is remind me of the people from back home. I saw a mama cooking who was wearing an “Auburn” shirt, and it reminded me both of my old swim coach and a girl I used to like. Whenever I see people wearing Pittsburgh Steeler gear, I instantly think of my father and how excited he would be to see a Kenyan “Steeler” fan. When I first arrived to Kenya, I saw a motorcycle driver wearing a hat that read “Cal,” and I reflexively blurted “Go Bears!” at the sight of paraphernalia from my Alma Mater.

I cannot help but think of home when I see references to California or Los Angeles. These shirts pop up at me like scribbled memoirs written of my childhood and stuffed in the pockets of different pairs of my pants – Mickey Mouse, Anaheim stadium, San Diego – all these places resonating with colorful memories. And I'm certain that many of the Kenyans wearing these shirts wonder why I feature a huge smile as they pass me by.

But the most nostalgic moment I have had over a piece of clothing happened in Mombasa. I saw a skinny teenager wearing an NJB (National Junior Basketball) jersey that was from Diamond Bar, California. Diamond bar is literally 12 miles north of where I grew up. And I played in NJB growing up! I could have very well played against that very jersey as 10-year-old. Perhaps I guarded the same boy who wore that jersey – and now I meet up with this garment of clothing 15 years later on the other side of the world.

I have come to find that clothes hold a certain sentimental value. I would consider myself a minimalist, and every so often I sort through my things for donation or recycling. But I must admit, when it comes to some items of clothing, as worthless as they are, I manage to return them to my wardrobe. I still have swimming shirts from 1994, and because I thought it was cool to wear baggy, extra-extra-large shirts back then, some of them still fit. If I weren't so sentimental about my clothing, I might have had a chance to come across one of my very own shirts here in Kenya.