Price Check

I have never heard a Liberian say the words, "No, that is not something I can do."

- Can you clean?
- Yes.
- Fix my car?
- Sure.
- Cut hair?
- Definitely.
- Tailor clothes?
- Of course.
- Plumbing? Carpentry?
- Without a doubt.
- Massage?
- Absolutely.
- Drive?
- I'll learn overnight.
- Cooking?
- That's my specialty.

(Note: do not actually hire one of these people to do all of these things. Trust me.)

This is one of the many reasons I have concluded that I am not, in fact, a Liberian. Not only do I have zero areas of 'expertise' ("Da ma area!" Liberians like to exclaim), but I have no compulsion to overstate my abilities.

Despite all of this, my on-paper Liberian-ness is really cramping my style.

Thursday, August 9. Potential Employer #1: "Avril, I know I promised you a permanent position with a respectable salary but the people at HQ can't justify paying you as an international." Translation: You're Liberian and should get paid like one.

Thursday, August 16. Potential Employer #2: "Avril, I don't think this is gonna work out. The last time we hired a Liberian from the States, the environment turned very quickly." Translation: our local staff will eat you alive when they learn your middle name and hear your accent.

Let me explain something.

1. If you hired a local Liberian and an 'international' to do the same development job (and why would you?), you could pay the local $800/month and the international (foreigner) $5,000/month.

2. American citizenship makes me, now and forever, an international.

3. Liberians who hear I'm Liberian decide I must be Americo-Liberian (less affectionately known as Congo), the non-native, minority elite who ruled Liberia for a century and a half. I am not.

4. Ignore the public service announcements: you can still taste the resentment between indigenous Liberians and the descendents of the old elite.

I came here expecting to be super useful and in-demand; really, all I do is upset the natural order.

I left the States, where "parents were too perfect at parenting. You're just so sincere and interested in things! There's a confidence in you guys that's horrifying. You're all A.D.D. and carpal tunnel. I'm freaked out by you kids. I hope I die before I end up meeting one of you in a job interview" (Greenberg).

I arrived in Liberia thinking I was one of those people but I am not. I'm no wunderkind here: I'm just some lucky kid in someone else's way. I no longer saunter into interviews with a spring in my step, but with my tail between my legs. Every day, I contend with "the deference of educated young people towards their unschooled elders" (Richard Dowden).

The way I see it, I've got three options:

1. Hide behind my passport and weird features and lie when asked where my parents are from.

2. Proudly wear my "Hi, I'm Liberian" sticker until payday; sell out immediately.

3. Forfeit American citizenship. Officially become Liberian. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $4,200.

FML.