There's a woman I have seen three times now. She is 60-100 years old. She walks downtown as I drive to wherever it is that I work and she is always, always wearing a red wool hat.
It is 90 degrees in Monrovia.
My mouth hangs open as she passes by. Is she serious? How is she doing this?? It's enough to make you run back to the predictable nudity of the Castro.
Yesterday, I got publicly torn a new one at the end of my own workshop by a team that does nothing but ruin my day.
At the root of the assault was the fact that I am not "one of them."
When I am in the States, I feel mostly American (in mood, in pop-culture) but know there is something vaguely foreign underneath.
Here, to myself and to others, I don't have one un-American pore: I am a Westerner with a Liberian middle name. Hell, I don't even look Liberian; I've got half a mind to interrogate the milkmen of early-'80s Queens, NY. Years ago, I helped a friend (we'll call her Friend) cater a Sri Lankan cultural event; we got cornered by three guys.
Teen (to me): What part of Sri Lanka are you from?
Me: I'm not Sri Lankan.
Teens: Really?
Me: Yeah.
Teen (to Friend): What country are you from?
Friend: I'M SRI LANKAN.
In her defense, Friend had just gotten a perm and was looking especially exotic but her sense of self took a huge blow. I feel that now. Where is the justice in a world in which I leave the States -- where nobody can tell where I'm from -- and come to Liberia, where no one recognizes I'm one of them?
It sucks. I'm having an "I Suck" day.
Maybe I'd fit in in a red wool hat.
It is 90 degrees in Monrovia.
My mouth hangs open as she passes by. Is she serious? How is she doing this?? It's enough to make you run back to the predictable nudity of the Castro.
Yesterday, I got publicly torn a new one at the end of my own workshop by a team that does nothing but ruin my day.
At the root of the assault was the fact that I am not "one of them."
When I am in the States, I feel mostly American (in mood, in pop-culture) but know there is something vaguely foreign underneath.
Here, to myself and to others, I don't have one un-American pore: I am a Westerner with a Liberian middle name. Hell, I don't even look Liberian; I've got half a mind to interrogate the milkmen of early-'80s Queens, NY. Years ago, I helped a friend (we'll call her Friend) cater a Sri Lankan cultural event; we got cornered by three guys.
Teen (to me): What part of Sri Lanka are you from?
Me: I'm not Sri Lankan.
Teens: Really?
Me: Yeah.
Teen (to Friend): What country are you from?
Friend: I'M SRI LANKAN.
In her defense, Friend had just gotten a perm and was looking especially exotic but her sense of self took a huge blow. I feel that now. Where is the justice in a world in which I leave the States -- where nobody can tell where I'm from -- and come to Liberia, where no one recognizes I'm one of them?
It sucks. I'm having an "I Suck" day.
Maybe I'd fit in in a red wool hat.
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