War of Attrition

Fall semester of my last year in college I did something pretty dumb; I "took" two classes, on top of five I was already taking, for a roommate, whom I'd just moved in with and was a random. By "took" two classes I mean I sat in the classes, raised my hand when his name was called for attendance, did the homework, and took all the exams. The classes were supposed to be easy and one of my scholarships had run out so I thought it was a great idea. Fast forward to end of that semester and I've got a B in one of the classes and a D in the other. Understandably the dude was pissed and I felt quite sheepish. Anyway I refunded the money he paid me for taking the class and even the money that he paid for the credits. Net profit for a whole semester of 2 classes worth of work: $100. Lessons learned all around and the end.

At least so I thought. The next semester the same roommate decided he wanted to develop a coke habit. To that end he eventually also decided to extort, from me, the money for the class I passed with a B. It was, in my opinion, very poor form on his part considering that, in good faith, I'd even paid him back for the credits of the failed class. So I decided I would adopt the policy of Les Grossman (of Tropic Thunder fame) and not negotiate. He was smaller than me, unintimidating, and, I thought, blustering. I believed I could easily ignore him for the next three months and then be on my merry way. 

So began a war of attrition.

He started out simply enough; he sent text messages, left notes, and made passive-aggressive comments. He then graduated to throwing my food away and hiding my things that were in the common area. Eventually he started making overt threats (on my life) and even went as far as injecting glue into the lock in my door. Still, really, this was pretty petty stuff and the rational part of me was steadfast; I believed that since I was no worse for the wear (the death threats were impotent) I should grit my teeth, concentrate on my work, and continue living there instead of incurring further expense in finding another apartment on such short notice. That was the rational part of me. My limbic system on the other hand was going nuts. I was developing a serious anxiety disorder because I would constantly check my phone for text messages from him. I was becoming agoraphobic because I would come home, lock myself in my room, and listen to music through headphones so I couldn't hear anything he was doing in the apartment. It was even making me anti-social because I was always unnerved around friends.

All this "warring" precipitated something I'm not only ashamed of but truly concerned about, because of what it implies about me and my ability to control myself: I assaulted him. On some night as I was settling into my room he was huffing and puffing at my door and I had had enough. I opened the door, tackled him, and we wrestled/fought/scuffled. I eventually pinned him and made him concede to stop harassing me. Nothing was seriously hurt except for his pride and I felt like I had reclaimed something (not sure what). Of course immediately afterward I was deathly afraid that he was going to call the police and I was going to be put in jail, kicked out of school in my last semester, etc. Nothing like that happened; he just became more belligerent. Shortly thereafter I moved out, slept in my friend's laundry room, and lost the large deposit on the room. Lessons learned all around and the end. Really.

The salient feature is that he slowly wore and wore on me and did concrete (thankfully short-term) damage to my psyche because I couldn't escape him (until I decided to move). Whether how I reacted is tenable or not is something I'm, obviously, not objective enough to comment on but it's something you should consider for a second; was I pushed beyond reason?

Alright wtf does this have to do with Uganda (why else would it be on this blog and not in my my-little-pony diary) ?

In my cohort of Peace Corps volunteers there are two black girls who at the beginning of our training expressed disappointment that they weren't receiving the welcome from Uganda that they had expected, that they were invisible. Then, when I was still reveling in being a celebrity, I pitied them. All the smiles I was getting from little kids, all the curiosity about who I was and why I was here, and even people staring was incredibly charming. 5 months later I envy them to no end.

I live 6-8km from a paved road in what I would consider the deep village (i.e. surrounding community is mostly mud huts with straw roofs). Riding my bike along that short featureless road I get easily over 100 cat-calls; I get called mzungu (moo-zoo-n-goo, meaning white person {don't worry it's not derogatory}) by children from literally miles away (I live in a plain and my bike makes lots of noise on the bumpy unpaved road). Once I get to a town I get taxi drivers constantly propositioning me. Often I'll meet someone asking for money and occasionally even demanding.  And of course absolutely everyone absolutely always stares. Most of the time it's a blank stare, sometimes it's a look of bewilderment or suspicion, but occasionally it's a smile. I appreciate the smiles. Don't misunderstand me: all of this is innocuous. Just as in the beginning with my roommate I feel like rationally it shouldn't perturb me in the least.

But it's slowly wearing on me and luckily, in having senior volunteers around, I can envisage where it leads. One volunteer likes to tease and bait the taxi drivers; he'll respond when they proposition and then not board the taxi. That's pretty harmless but I don't, yet, understand why he wouldn't just ignore them. When the jabs are sharper the responses from the worn out volunteers are commensurately sharper (at least in the forthcoming instance). I was walking with a volunteer when we were cat-called to and then asked for money by a teenager carrying a board. The volunteer charged at the boy in an effort to frighten him, caused him to drop his board, picked up that piece of wood, and then marched off with it. The kid gave chase and was made to apologize for yelling "mzungu", by the volunteer, but got his board back. I was aghast. More than anything I questioned why anyone would waste so much time and so much effort trying to evoke an apology. His position was that he had taught that boy a lesson about objectifying white people. Doubtful. Most likely he was gratified by having won a small battle in the grander war for privacy. I don't fault him for expressing his frustration with being constantly pricked at. The sentiment that informs this behavior is one I've been warned about; they all came here bleary eyed and naive and now one year later they are hardened development workers because foreign aid creates a dependency culture. But I digress. Suffice it to say they don't give money to beggars and they brook no heckling.

But alright no one in the Peace Corps is that distraught over this and nothing so terrible comes of any of it. In the end if it becomes so onerous we can always terminate our term of service early and I could never imagine a volunteer reacting more severely than mentioned (and that kid was only embarrassed). So what's really the meaning of all of this?

Around the same time as it became apparent to my two black friends that they were invisible I got the bright idea that I now knew what it was like to be black in America. I was wholly wrong and preposterous; black people in America are treated with suspicion and covert hostility much more oft than occasionally. If you'll permit me here I'm Santa Claus and in the US black people are pariahs. If that's becoming less so the case I'm infinitely gladdened but regardless it was certainly case for most the history of the US.

Being white here in an African country and conversations with black friends about being black inspiring a revelation about race relations in the US strikes me as quite ironic.

Recall my slow transformation into someone who was capable of assaulting another person and jeopardizing my future. Recall the senior volunteers' transformation from optimistics to cynics. And we’re not even truly oppressed! My roommate was harmless and so are Ugandans. Now imagine you're black in America in the 19^th century. You have to deal with Jim Crow laws and you're jabbed not with well-wishes or even supplication but the vilest rancor (e.g. "nigger" and other lovely racial epithets). I'm sure I'd lose my shit right quickly. I know that says a lot about me but, I claim, less than it says about being under terrible duress for long periods of time. So consider again whether outbursts would be tenable. A lot of people decry the Watts and King riots but fuck sometimes you decide you’ve been patient enough, with no result, and you want to make an explicit statement. So you start and win a small battle.

Let me be very very clear: I have no real sense of what it was/is like to be black¹ in America. I do allow myself the conceit that I can now empathize a little better.

1. This same line of reasoning enables one to empathize with the Roma in France, the Jews in the Weimar Republic, the Palestinians in Israel today, etc. just as well.