We live in a small town.
Larger than a tiny village, but small enough that the residents don't
see many white people, up close. There
are several Americans who teach at a school a few kilometers outside of town,
and then there are me and Mark. So,
white people are objects of attention, curiosity, and sometimes
misconception. Mark and I try to take it
with good humor.
I teach math to Form I students, who average about 14
years old. A few days ago, I gave a set
of problems to one of my classes, and went around the room giving advice and
encouragement. I stopped at a girl's
desk and was pointing to her work with one hand while resting the other on the
paper. Then, hesitantly, she and two of
the neighboring students started touching my fingers and fingernails. I said, "My skin is just like yours,
only a different color." Then,
"My nails are just like yours, only longer." The reply was, "They're so white!" I've
also had my hair stroked a few times. I
don't generally mind. They are learning
about the world.
Another incident happened a few weeks ago. Mark and I decided to take the long dala-dala
trip into Arusha. We met another teacher
as we walked to the bus stop, and sat with her in the rear of the bus as we
rode. She is a lovely, educated woman in
her 30s who speaks excellent English. On
one of the many stops along the way, 3 young Caucasian men with short brown
hair boarded the bus and sat near the front.
They were speaking English, and from what I could hear of their
conversation, they sounded Australian.
Our friend considered them for a few moments, then turned to me and
said, "I think they're Chinese."
"Um, nooo...," I replied gently. "Chinese people have black hair."
In our peaceful small
town, a difference in skin or hair color is a source of curiosity and a good
conversation topic.
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