Tuesday, November 29, 2005
The American
I have been meaning to write on this topic for quite a while but I have not found the appropriate vessel to carry the my point. The topic is being white in a black country. It would be fair to say that I am a minority in Burkina Faso. There are many shades of black, but I am not one of them.
In the local languages I am referred to as Bonn bonn Pinto (white thing), or nassara (foreigner). I also am frequently called Le Blanc, which is French for The White. While I know the following statement is a blatant contradiction, I would like to claim that it is objectively annoying to be solely identified by the color of your skin.
To be sure, I must take into account the context of the situation. There are older people who don’t know better and for them calling someone a nassara is a sign of respect. There are children who are acting as children and then there are adolescents and educated people who should know better. To be clear, I am talking about someone yelling these terms at you while you walk or ride your bike past them. It happens each day without fail, usually within five minutes of leaving my house and it persists throughout the day. I usually try to make a game of it, when someone calls to me as the white, I respond in kind by saying “the black”, I speak in the local language when I am called the Nassara and I respond to “The White Thing” by saying the “Black Thing” in Garmanchma. It is especially funny and taxing when the person calling you the white thing corrects you by saying he should be called a black person.
Does a rose by any other name not smell as sweet? Should I not be concerned with how people refer to me? Is this discussion of the ill effects of racial monikers merely a reaction to my politically correct, liberally biased education that I received at the communist ivory tower known as the University of Illinois. (sarcasm)
The truth is that I sleep well at night, so far it has not become an all consuming issue. It should be noted, that being described as something that you take no pride in - does, in fact, suck; it does not role off your back and you really want people to understand that there is a much better or more accurate description that can suffice.
Which brings me to the dance competition. The Tour de Faso, ended in my hometown of Fada. To celebrate the end of the Bicycle race, there was a huge concert/party with nearly 7000 people in attendance. There were also a dance competition and three other volunteers who knew of my reputation for sensational dance moves and an insatiable appetite for dance-offs. So, being white in an all black country it was easy to get into the competition. I climbed up a short flight of stairs onto the back of the stage. The Stage was the type you might find at the Heart of Illinois Fair. There was an adjoining trailer that I sat in before my big moment. It had some lovely wood paneling and I had a wonderful conversation with Miss Ouagadougou and the other 17 spokesgirls I was sitting with. When I was introduced, I said I was the American representing for my home sector - sector 1…
I danced like I never danced before, I pulled out all the stops and completely beat my opponent in the hip hop portion of the competition. Next, we danced in an African Style,… which he won, and for a tie breaker there was were several competitions which culminated in a contest to see who could kiss their spokesgirl the most times on the check. Alas, my French was not all that fluent at the time and I mistook him for saying change clothes. Luckily I started with my shoes.
It is funny when I think of the confusion that must have passed through the audience. “I know he is American, but why must he remove his shoes”, one might say.
So I won second place, a tee shirt and a baseball cap. The story does have a happy ending and it does bring the seemingly unrelated first half of this entry together: I made an impression on my community; and now children, adolescents, the learned and the old often replace the racial monikers with the word American. This suits me well.
In the local languages I am referred to as Bonn bonn Pinto (white thing), or nassara (foreigner). I also am frequently called Le Blanc, which is French for The White. While I know the following statement is a blatant contradiction, I would like to claim that it is objectively annoying to be solely identified by the color of your skin.
To be sure, I must take into account the context of the situation. There are older people who don’t know better and for them calling someone a nassara is a sign of respect. There are children who are acting as children and then there are adolescents and educated people who should know better. To be clear, I am talking about someone yelling these terms at you while you walk or ride your bike past them. It happens each day without fail, usually within five minutes of leaving my house and it persists throughout the day. I usually try to make a game of it, when someone calls to me as the white, I respond in kind by saying “the black”, I speak in the local language when I am called the Nassara and I respond to “The White Thing” by saying the “Black Thing” in Garmanchma. It is especially funny and taxing when the person calling you the white thing corrects you by saying he should be called a black person.
Does a rose by any other name not smell as sweet? Should I not be concerned with how people refer to me? Is this discussion of the ill effects of racial monikers merely a reaction to my politically correct, liberally biased education that I received at the communist ivory tower known as the University of Illinois. (sarcasm)
The truth is that I sleep well at night, so far it has not become an all consuming issue. It should be noted, that being described as something that you take no pride in - does, in fact, suck; it does not role off your back and you really want people to understand that there is a much better or more accurate description that can suffice.
Which brings me to the dance competition. The Tour de Faso, ended in my hometown of Fada. To celebrate the end of the Bicycle race, there was a huge concert/party with nearly 7000 people in attendance. There were also a dance competition and three other volunteers who knew of my reputation for sensational dance moves and an insatiable appetite for dance-offs. So, being white in an all black country it was easy to get into the competition. I climbed up a short flight of stairs onto the back of the stage. The Stage was the type you might find at the Heart of Illinois Fair. There was an adjoining trailer that I sat in before my big moment. It had some lovely wood paneling and I had a wonderful conversation with Miss Ouagadougou and the other 17 spokesgirls I was sitting with. When I was introduced, I said I was the American representing for my home sector - sector 1…
I danced like I never danced before, I pulled out all the stops and completely beat my opponent in the hip hop portion of the competition. Next, we danced in an African Style,… which he won, and for a tie breaker there was were several competitions which culminated in a contest to see who could kiss their spokesgirl the most times on the check. Alas, my French was not all that fluent at the time and I mistook him for saying change clothes. Luckily I started with my shoes.
It is funny when I think of the confusion that must have passed through the audience. “I know he is American, but why must he remove his shoes”, one might say.
So I won second place, a tee shirt and a baseball cap. The story does have a happy ending and it does bring the seemingly unrelated first half of this entry together: I made an impression on my community; and now children, adolescents, the learned and the old often replace the racial monikers with the word American. This suits me well.
Comments:
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I still think it was rigged that you lost the African portion of the dance contest. But I am glad to hear that through the international language of dance you were able to change your name.
To answer your question, a rose by another name would not smell as sweet. Chalk it up to power of the mind, I suppose.
I too have had names yelled at me by passing cyclists. I was lying on the quad with Brittany when some jerk passed us and shouted "lesbians!" Apparently, he thought I looked like a woman.
The world can be a cruel place.
dave fymbo
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To answer your question, a rose by another name would not smell as sweet. Chalk it up to power of the mind, I suppose.
I too have had names yelled at me by passing cyclists. I was lying on the quad with Brittany when some jerk passed us and shouted "lesbians!" Apparently, he thought I looked like a woman.
The world can be a cruel place.
dave fymbo
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