My friend was taken into custody for taking pictures near the American embassy. The cops were cool, though, and let the poor thing go with a warning. At the station, a question on the officer's report caught my friend off-guard.
Cop: Tribe?
F: What?
Cop: Your tribe?
F: I don't have a tribe.
The cop looked up, remembered he was speaking to an Austrian, and laughed.
There's something to be said about having a tribe.
The New York Times ran a story about the thousands of Native Americans being cast out of California tribes on a technicality (http://tinyurl.com/buosr9f).
They receive the news by mail.
Officially, I'm a member of three tribes. (Four, if you count New Yorker.) This is something I'd forget in the States and find myself constantly convincing other people of in Liberia. My middle name used to be something only long-term boyfriends earned the right to know. Here, it's a membership card, a secret password; it says, "Nevermind my accent: I'm one of you."
It also says, "Do not rip me off. I have people. And we will find you."
So to every Liberian I meet, I'm not Avril: I'm Massa. "Massa" rhymes with casa and broadcasts the tribe and county my dad was from. The listener always nods knowingly. Then I wait for the inevitable "Do you speak Vai?" which precedes the inevitable look of disappointment when I reply, "No. Not yet."
I am grateful there is no proper postal service lest they cast me out of my tribes by mail.
Cop: Tribe?
F: What?
Cop: Your tribe?
F: I don't have a tribe.
The cop looked up, remembered he was speaking to an Austrian, and laughed.
There's something to be said about having a tribe.
The New York Times ran a story about the thousands of Native Americans being cast out of California tribes on a technicality (http://tinyurl.com/buosr9f).
They receive the news by mail.
Officially, I'm a member of three tribes. (Four, if you count New Yorker.) This is something I'd forget in the States and find myself constantly convincing other people of in Liberia. My middle name used to be something only long-term boyfriends earned the right to know. Here, it's a membership card, a secret password; it says, "Nevermind my accent: I'm one of you."
It also says, "Do not rip me off. I have people. And we will find you."
So to every Liberian I meet, I'm not Avril: I'm Massa. "Massa" rhymes with casa and broadcasts the tribe and county my dad was from. The listener always nods knowingly. Then I wait for the inevitable "Do you speak Vai?" which precedes the inevitable look of disappointment when I reply, "No. Not yet."
I am grateful there is no proper postal service lest they cast me out of my tribes by mail.
3 comments:
Avril - I am so loving your blog! I think I may never write again - why bother! I've moved from Training over to R+D (new universe, really) and the holiday party is tonight. You'll be missed. Are you having visitors in Liberia? I am intrigued...
Holiday Party! Ugh, I thoroughly miss that -- it's the only night I ever got to get decked out in SF. Thank you so much for the kudos! I love that someone somewhere appreciates my very random observations. Visitors always welcome.
Massa? I love it.
Ok I've got to say it: I'd give anything for an excuse to get decked out in SF, or frolicking about from magical place to magical place as your fb photos show. I love that you choose adventure. I miss you around here.
Bored and too chicken to do anything about it,
Jules. xo
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