Bui! Nassara!
Nassara! Nassara! LA BLAAAAAAAAAAAANCHE! Three different words, three different
languages, pronounced a million different ways with or without the ubiquitous
Cameroonian “tssssssssssst” and kissing sounds, all in the same city. I hear
each of these words about thirty times a day minimum, and each of them means
the same thing: white person. Sometimes it’s a hoard of small children trying
to catch my attention to say hello, words that depend on familiarity and time
of day, with full salutations being long strings of about 5 questions in both
French and Fulfulde. But, more often than not, it’s not small children—if it
was, I’d probably be more patient and more forgiving because children can be
taught to behave differently. Nope, it’s the motodrivers, the market men, the
boutique owners, the tailors… practically everyone everywhere. Living here is a
social experiment in finding out exactly what it’s like to live in a society
where racial profiling is not only alive and well, but directed totally at you.
Example One:
By country law, everyone
is required to carry identity cards all the time whether you’re walking around
town or travelling clear across the country. The police officers (Gendarmes, as
they’re called here,) have the right to ask you whenever they want to see the
card, although the only random time I’ve been asked to see it is in government
buildings when visiting the Prefect and Commandant. Travelling, however, is a
totally different story.
You are sitting in a
small, crowded bus (five people per row, not including babies, chickens,
packages, or the unlucky people who either stand in the back out the door or
sit on top of the bus with the luggage.) You weren’t lucky enough to secure a
spot next to the driver in the cabin where it’s more spacious/less hot/less
dusty, you are missing that
all-important Y-chromosome, after all. You’ve hit the first checkpoint of two
on your three and a half hour voyage, the gendarme beelines straight towards
you: “Carte d’identité, madame.” You pass it over, he gives it back after
inspecting it and glaring at how dirty it is, and then he waves off the bus and
lets it go on its merry way. Nobody else’s card is checked: you are the only
one, again. How convenient, because
you are also the only white person on the bus.
Example Two:
You’re marching in the
Youth Day Parade with your host organization, and they asked you to come in to
get sized up by the tailor for your super awesome, matching parade garb that,
eventually, comes out looking a little like a bad prom dress. After the tailor
finishes measuring you up, you glance at the paper of measurements. Everybody’s
measurements have a name corresponding to them, but not yours. Yours only says
“Blanche.” She’s never even bothered to ask you for your name.
Example Three:
You’re at a “meeting”
with your counterpart at bar, because what better possible location could there
be? You’ve been stuck there about three and a half hours, and you need to run
because you have another meeting to go to. You let your group know, and receive
the following response: “You white people, you always have meetings. You white people always have to run on some kind of a schedule. Why can’t you all
act more like us?”
Turns out, Cameroonians
think white people all look the same. I’ve also been asked if I’m Italian. I’ve
had children taunt me because they thought I was Asian—bowing and elongating
their R’s the same way you see kids doing it in the US. And, just like I am the
worst at estimating Cameroonian ages, they struggle to guess our ages, too.
We don’t talk race or
color or really even about physical differences in America, nobody wants to
come off as being on the wrong side of politically correct, and for good
reason: being “othered” sucks. But, I can imagine that being in a situation
where everybody refuses to talk about the elephant in the room sucks even more.
We’ve been raised to believe that these conversations are impolite, and
therefore anytime we get near talking about them, everyone gets uncomfortable.
This situation isn’t working for us in the States whether we want to admit it
or not: race remains a problem. Schools largely remain segregated. Poverty,
unemployment, early pregnancy, and under-education continue to unduly hit the
black community hard.
We were told during
training that Cameroonians don’t do direct conversation, and in some aspects
that’s true. Everyone talks around
conflict and money here, which, as Americans, are two things we’re good at: get
that awkwardness over, and as soon as possible. At the same time, however,
Cameroonians don’t hesitate to tell you how you’re looking that day (to use
specific terms I’ve received: fat, sexy, thick, like a child,) to talk about
health problems like HIV/AIDS, or to address race. The constant comments about
my skin color drive me nuts. Cameroonians are masters of something I hear
volunteers frequently call the present obvious form of language, used in
questions like “White girl, you’re walking?” “White girl, you’re there?” “White
girl, you eat piment?” These questions always
seem to state my skin color, thus accentuating the obvious nature of whatever I
happen to be doing at that moment that they’re finding so fascinating. Anyway,
despite the fact that I find this irritating, it’s given me the opportunity to
have the kind of conversations about race and color that are physically
impossible in the States.
Race doesn’t need to be
so taboo, and until we start addressing it, we’re never going to be the best we
can be as a society. Cameroon, of course, doesn’t have an ideal system either.
The ideal is bound to be somewhere between the two of us. I don’t claim to have
any amazing, innovative solution to racial profiling or teen pregnancy or
segregation or even to know the least uncomfortable way to talk about race.
That’s all well beyond my knowledge. But, what I do know is that if there’s one
thing I’ve learned about being an outsider from all the harassment I receive,
it’s that if we take the opportunity to talk about our differences and ask
questions, the discomfort of the situation tends to dissipate.
So, this has been what’s
been on my mind recently. It’s been interesting to think about Cameroonian
versus American culture under this lens, and I’m sure it’s going to be
something that I continue to grapple with over the next two years of my service
and beyond. It’s not been easy to be in the situation of being the one that so
clearly stands out. My new, thick skin is coming in nicely, clearly.
With Love,
Steph
