A Rubber Ball Bouncing About Cultural Walls.

The difficulty of living within another culture is that I can't challenge the cultural norms the way I do back home. I can't poke at the culture, teasing it, bending it, warping it and testing out its limits. I can't throw myself against it like a rubber ball, just to test its elasticity and see how far it bounces me back. If I critique it, this must be done carefully so as not to offend. When those tale tell homophobic slang phrases ("¡Que maricón!") affront my basic principles, I must be careful in correcting them and pointing out their injustice. Said directly and sincerely, in the way I would call out these remarks in the states, I am liable to come across to a Chilean of Senegalese person as believing myself to be culturally superior, or –what is less offensive to the native but perhaps more frustrating for me- written off as an ignorant foreigner commenting on phenomenon that I just don’t understand. “That slang in the states might be homophobic, but our use of “maricón” is purely innocent; the fact that is means “stupid” really has nothing to do with gay people!” And who am I to say; I’m just an outsider.

My body may be working within this culture, but my mind is unavoidably working from without; given this distance, I must work to respect the culture, learn from it, learn of it, and come to understand it as best as I can. At the same time, I must be moldable within it, adjusting my behaviors and expectations in order to get along, but without compromising my integrity and values. And that is my constant journey: cultural adaptation. But it makes me relish that pushy, punchy relationship I have with my own beloved, imperfect culture. In Norcal, I can disregard a few formalities, shrugging them off as superfluous or rejecting them as unjust or discriminatory. I can learn of the expectations my society has for my appearance and then grin and enjoy my shaven head –because I know exactly how these atypical experiences are nurturing my own growth. But it is exactly that: take the time to learn and then consciously step away from norms and towards freedom.

Here, in a way I’m a perpetual child –albeit a very rational, independent one- who has to relearn how to use the toilet and the best way to navigate social situations. I’m constantly on the brink between social faux pas and smooth interactions. I don’t know how to light a Spanish stove or flush a Senegalese toilet (or at least I didn’t at one point), but I can bring great insight before a Chilean dinner table and effectively describe my lessons learned. But within all of this back and forth –child to adult, and back to toddlerhood again- I present the interesting perspective of one who doesn’t quite belong but simultaneously fits perfectly into the puzzle; I have my role as the foreigner, the adoptive daughter, the climbing friend, and the Chinese student, y cabo aquí. I fit here, although I may have not in Senegal, and I contribute in lovely ways, perhaps giving back in infinitesimal part of the infinite generosity that I receive. But, as I say, I’m always “handling with care” and making euphemisms of my hearty critiques, whereas I can dive straight to the heart of matters in the states. But therein may lie another cultural difference in itself; we Americans are quite blunt and don’t often soften our words with so many flourishing formalities as the Senegalese or tiptoeing hesitancies as the Chileans.

It is wonderful to know and love a host of cultures, but after all is said and done, it is quite delightful to go back to breaking the mold in that good-old comfy culture back home, knowing exactly what you are commenting on and loving the choices that come of truly knowing your own culture. In order for this little rubber ball to appreciate bouncing about our American cultural walls, it had to learn to become still and observant within other cultural spaces, wriggling into new positions that might have proved awkward but usually provided interesting insights into the many ways that we of this world communicate -and the assumptions that underlie those utterances and gestures.

A Day In the Life \\ CULTURE SHOCK

The watch beeps at 7am to tell me its time for Jocelyn’s private yoga, crunches, pushups, and dancing extravaganza, soon to be followed by a short shower that would be more appropriate to call a short drizzle. The washing of underwear occurs at this time since each person is responsible for her own socks, bras, and underwear. After my brief but refreshing rendez vous with the cold water and detergent, I dress myself and head down to a breakfast of baguette, with butter or chocolate spread, and milk. I could have hot chocolate or nescafé, but I prefer the powderized, boiled milk that, if served to me hot, leaves me drenched in sweat before I even leave the house. I could do without that sweat.

The walk to school is 20 minutes along dusty, exhaust ridden roads lined by locals who I make sure to greet kindly. Greetings are incredibly important here, although I’m still trying to negotiate who exactly I aught to be taking the time to exchange the customary, lengthy, Wolof greeting with. It’s good and fine to make friends and be culturally sensitive, but being a tubab (foreigner), I attract a lot of (unwanted) attention. We all do. The number of times that I have been offered or requested a phone number is countless and one marriage proposal is already in the bank. Oh, that romantic day in front of the gass station when that tall, dark, and …I didn’t get a good enough look at him to know whether he was handsome… man called from beside the gas pump, “Hey, tubab! You beautiful! Will you marry me?” To this mix of English and French I deftly repied, “Oh, I’m already married! Buh’bye!” …Good times.

Having passed the fruit stands and multiple vendors, I arrive at Suffolk University Campus where I have a class or two in the morning taught by Senegalese professors before I head back home for lunch at 1:30pm. My host brother, Lou-Lou, comes home from work at the bank on his spiffy motorcycle and joins the rest of us in eating the largest meal of the day. It is heavy, oil-laden food that is absolutely delicious. Rice and fish is the norm but French fries are a popular rice-replacement and vegetables are usually provided. If everyone else is having meat then they still provide me with fish, pescatarian that I am. We eat in the living room alongside the active TV, either eating around a communal bowl with the use of forks and fingers or on plates over our laps. I’m incredibly grateful for the allowance of right-hand usage in the fish-eating business because picking out all those little bones with a fork is nigh impossible. Oh, and the fish comes whole –head and tail included.

Back to school I go, taking advantage of the wireless to post blog entries and the like, and I finish up my classes for the day. I’m taking Wolof, Advanced French II, Senegalese Culture and Society, The History of Islam, and a community internship course. For my internship, I’m co-leading a student-founded ONG working to provide tutoring and various activities to local girls as a means of furthering women’s education. Classes accomplished, I hang out with other American students, do homework on campus, or return home to hang with my family in the living room. The Wolof flies right over my head so I sit and listen, wishing I knew what was going on and keeping a lookout for the few words I do know. When they occasionally revert to French, my ears perk up. Dinner is at 8:30pm and it is followed by fruit for dessert –usually mangoes from heaven or watermelon. I usually go to bed right after dinner, but everyone else stays up a bit.

By this time, several planes on their way to the nearby airport will have coasted over the house so close that I almost want to plug my ears and the power will have been down for more than fifty percent of the day –on and off. Apparently this is a new phenomenon over the last three years that is a politically hot topic; the Dakar people are enraged at their President, Abdoulaye Wade, because the power outages are indicative of his failure to maintain a stable country. He was the opposition in the 2001 election, the Obama of Senegal, lighting up national hope that politicians would actually work for the good of the people instead of maintaining a façade of democracy in order to rule for twenty-year swaths of time without doing a thing, like the previous two presidents. Unfortunately, Wade did not live up to his promises, and since his election the price of food has skyrocketed and the quality of education has plummeted. People are angry, but he was reelected anyhow. You might compare this to Bush being reelected; we’re not really sure how it happened, but what can ya do? (I send out my apology to all American Republicans at this point in my post! :-D I come in peace!)

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CULTURE SHOCK

Being in a new culture is not always a breeze. Granted, I let my blog present my positive mental incline, laughing at myself and focusing on the good stuff, but sometimes I loose that ability to laugh at myself –and I cry. See, it is so critical to keep perspective and recognize the cultural differences constantly because, if you loose sight of that and try to copy/paste your own cultural presumptions onto a situation then you are doomed to conflict and misunderstanding. Easier said than done. This means that every time my host mother speaks to me, I must keep in mind that what might sounds like yelling and chastising in the US is actually suggesting and encouraging here. So, when a family friend compares me to previous American students here and says that they assimilated far better than I because they actually went out and partied like the Senegalese as opposed to being quiet in living room conversations like me, I need to keep in mind that he’s only trying to encourage me to “do as the Senegalese do.” Even as I recognize intellectually what is going on, my gut reaction is one of distress. Even if I know they mean well, I tense up. It’s a constant learning process: making mistakes, not understanding, letting go, correcting, forgetting, remembering, asking, listening, and watching. I have to navigate carefully through the busy market place in Marché Sandaga, guarding my belongings, fielding people left and right who are trying to sell me their wares or be my guide or both. Knowing who has good intentions and who just wants to earn a few francs is nearly impossible and staying on the cautious side inevitably leads to slightly offending some well-meaning people. A few off encounters in the market combined with a few misunderstandings or assumptions at home is plenty of stress for one day. This, my friends, is culture shock.