The Minority

I have been on camp for much of the day today again working on my research paper, but Claire, Abby, and I got out for a little while and had a little picnic with Chris on the lawn at the edge of an expansive green valley of agricultural land this afternoon. It was peaceful and relaxing and Chris taught us how to strip a certain plant to make it into string for the rope used to restrain cattle here. It was nice to have a change of scenery in the midst of a day full of staring at the computer. The research paper is coming along now that I have finished entering data, but it’s hard to concentrate on it for days so it’s nice to break it up a little.

I thought since I didn’t have too much exciting news for today that I would write about something I’ve been thinking about recently:

I am a minority here in a big way. Every time I go into town, every person on the street looks at me. No matter how much I try to dress like them or to fit in with the culture, this will never change. Even if I lived here forever, I would never be able to pass on the streets without feeling everyone’s attention turn to me. It is not a bad attention per say; there is no ill intention as far as I know, especially since SFS students are well recognized as a good presence in the community, but it is extremely noticeable and I have only recently realized that I am experiencing what minorities might experience in places like my very white NH home. I started out feeling fine about the situation here, but when I realized that even when people know I am not a tourist it does not change, I started to think about how frustrating it was. People walking past me and other SFS students as we walk with Chris and Theo ask them “why are you walking with these white people?” Or “where did you find them?” Some people ask them which of us they are going to marry, or which they themselves might be able to marry. (I never knew what they said in response to this until I asked yesterday and they told me they had just replied "What are you talking about? We're all men here!") Some people ask them whether they can ask us if we will give them money. Others just laugh to see us all hanging out together. When we pass people’s homes, children yell “Mzungu!” (white person!) and when we walk into bigger towns, we are always swarmed by street vendors who are convinced that we have an unlimited supply of money. Once I told a street vendor that I had no money that day for a necklace he kept trying to sell to me, and he said “What? But your skin is white! You all have money!” Chris told us that people see mzungus as a big dollar sign sometimes, since the tourism industry is such a big source of income here and the area we are in is on the tourist route on the way to Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Conservation Area. It makes sense; people have been trained that white people are a source of income, and the truth is that even students from the US generally have more money than the average family here. And who am I to complain? Even I stare at white people when I see them here because it is such a rare sight! Still, it frustrates me when I just want to be here and instead I am labeled or stared at or my presence is announced by children who are only saying what their parents are thinking. Sometimes children try to rub the white off of my skin. Sometimes I wish they could.

I’m working on the tan but will have to do quite a bit more before I can ever expect to fit in here.