|
Here Come the Youos |
||||
|
We ride through the dusty street of this place where we live some weird breed of bird flying foreign skies. We ride as if we were kings and queens mounted on bright green mountain bikes that cost more than anyone around here makes in a month or more. Small children line the sides of the streets with delight and sing out as we pass. They are excited to see our bikes, as they have certainly never seen such beautiful new bikes, but even more excited to see us. For we are the Youos and are a novelty indeed. The color of our skin sets most of us apart for the first time in our lives and the young and old alike are at the very least amused by our presence. As we pass we are not attacked or disturbed as we might be were we of another color and in certain parts of our own land. Instead of spitting on us or screaming obscenities we are greeted each day by almost each child we pass with a chant of "Youos, Youos, Bon Soir." Translated as harshly as possible, it would come to no worse than, "Whitey, Whitey, good day." Translated as gently as possible it would come to no better than "Wow, it sure is unusual to see a white guy on a $400 bike in the middle of third world Africa." Sometimes I ignore the children I pass in the streets but generally not. It gives me far greater pleasure to respond with a "Bon Soir" of my own. I watch with joy as each child I've passed takes it as a personal salutation to him alone and breaks into a smile that seems to swallow his face. They are excited to know that the Youos do live and even seem to speak a little French. Sometimes I turn the trick back in their direction and begin their chant before they have a chance to commence. This confuses them greatly as once the words are out in the air there's really not much more to say. Occasionally I reach my hand out to them as I go by. This pleases them more than anything and the ones that I touch react as if blessed. It wouldn't surprise me at all if each hand I touched was not washed for a week, not that I consider myself special but I understand that I am, at least while I am here. There are others here who don't feel the same way. There are others here who may never understand. They feel it is racist and rude, impolite and crude to be called "Whitey" in an all-Black land. They argue that they are here to help people and should be respected for such as if we were invited or eve as much. I've heard it said that it's such an atrocity, that if someone were to do the same in the United States they would be ostracized, again we're here to help not to be criticized. I've tried to explain to these thickheaded few that the daily impact of a history entrenched in racist superiority and domination extends far beyond simple taunts and jibes. It is my experience that the kind of racism we have in America and indeed racism throughout the world seems to develop in degrees. A brief summation of the degrees as I see them would run a course somewhat like the following: curiosity, favoritism, inadequate distribution of resources, injustice, physical abuse and murder. Curiosity could be positive although I doubt most people have ever thought of racism as positive. It is, however, important to remember that racism would include anything positive or negative that holds race as the deciding factor. Favoritism while not holistically detrimental often sets a tone of inferiority for one reason or another and inclines the disadvantaged as inherently disadvantaged for reasons beyond their control. The third degree of racism is a serious one and one that has implications beyond the initial act -- implications that carry over into all aspects of life and make realistic cultural harmony all but impossible. The inadequate distribution of resources in the American system is exemplified by the US system of funding public education. In general, public education is funded through the collection of property tax. Hence public schools in more prosperous areas are able to afford a higher quality of education while schools in lower income areas produce disadvantaged students. This maldistribution of public resources is by no means confined to any one racial group but anyone who is familiar with inner-city America should be able to see the implications of this aspect of American racial turmoil. In explanation of injustice as a degree of racism I doubt I need to say any more than the name Rodney King to illustrate my point. As far as the final two categories in my delineation are concerned, physical abuse and murder are probably the only degrees of racist acts on my list that would be universally acknowledged. They, therefore, need no address as the number of instances is countless in the history of mankind. The brief news of one such act, which took place since my departure in early June 1998 and even managed to reach my ears here in Africa, so great is the travesty. I've been a minority before and now I am one again. I revel in the experience and have tried to encourage others to do the same. After all, we chose this path and we have not yet traveled far enough to complain. The hands of these people built our nation. Indeed, the village we live in was one of the largest ports in the history of the slave trade. And now here we are several hundred years later still expecting more of children who are less than 10 years old. Children who, given the conditions of their country, will be lucky to live to see 30. So when I ride through these streets and hear these cries it's not with disgust. I hear them with pride. I can't concern myself with the others in my group who don't seem to understand why they are the Youos in an all-Black land. I only hope they can return to the United States with the same sense of pain and reconsider their position when they are the majority again. END | ||||