In high school, during classes of a certain teacher I won't name, Morgen and I took to like-lists (usually starting with "bubbles..." we're all allowed to have our strange obsessions, ok?) and loathing lists. The latter usually began something like this:
Things I Loathe
1. repetition
2. hypocrasy
3. repetition
We were very funny in high school.
Also on that list would be things like "fakeness," "insincere greetings," and "small-talk." I used to actively resist these things refusing for a while to even say, "I'm fine." It's boring and fake, I reasoned. I'd rather hear, "BAD!" (haha, Erin) and at least talk about something real.
Then I came to Senegal. In Senegal, varieties of "how are you/ how is your family" take many minutes. The answer must always be the same, no matter how anyone really is (unless dead). If you're sitting, people will say, "You're sitting!" If you're writing, "you're writing!" All the obvious, all the robotic unoriginality I'd resisted in the States, times 100 here.
My counterpart had her operation. (If you don't remember, she had a lump in her breast at least 4 years old, the size of a softball.) It's taken a ridiculous number of months for this operation to take place. Since June, Mariama and her baby have been waiting in Dakar, which, remember, at 25+ hours away, might as well be America. I wanted to run away from everyone in her family whenever I saw them in this timespan. I felt so guilty for causing her absence, especially when I wasn't sure she'd live to return.
Months ago, I took Mariama's husband up the mountain in the dark, with a flashlight and no real path, and only two bars of service, at best, at the top.
"Hi!"
"No evil there?"
"Peace only."
"No evil with the host family? "
"No evil with the baby?"
"No evil the the people of Dakar?"
"Peace only."
"Peace only."
"Peace only."
"You're body is a little better?" (Same line whenever anyone is sick or hurt with anything)
That's all he had time to say. I watched this caring husband's worried old face. I was incredulous that even now, in the moonlight on top of a mountain, many miles away, and possibly facing death, in a place where phones are still exciting, they still stuck to the script.
Now, Pellel has reseau! (phone service) There are some volunteers or ex-pats who resent such developments. They conclude things like, "But if my village gets a TV, they'll just watch it all the time and we'll lose our amazing conversations... If we get lights, we won't see the stars... If everyone has phones, it won't be the same..." To these people, I say STUFF IT. If you want a quaint cut-off place, join the Amish. I see the merits of billions of stars and the beeper-less you-tube-less life too, but not so much that I wouldn't support my villagers joining up with the rest of the world. If annoying rind-tones and unearthly electronic lights are what it takes to bring someone one step closer to a life in which he/she doesn't have to pick cotton, I'll take it. (Not to mention my own perks-- vent-texting and conversing with AMERICA in my HUT (restraints to find electricity to charge phone notwithstanding.))
Anyway, this means that without climbing a tricky mountain, I could have Mariama's family talk with their estranged mother/ wife/ sister/ co-wife/ friend. They buzzed with anticipation. I listened.
"No evil? No evil with the baby? No evil with your host-family? Your body is a little better?" Seven times. When her smallest kids faltered, with eyes welling up, the others prompted them. "No evil!" they'd whisper. "Now ask if her body is better!"
I couldn't believe it. No, "Oh my god/Allah, I miss you!" or "This thing happened and made me think of you.." or anything like that. I dislike this overextension of the script.
At the same time, in almost every other case, I take comfort in it. It takes time to go through it all, but that way, you're saying more than the words you're saying. You're telling a person they're worth your time, they have value, you recognize their importance. And the words. Peace only, peace only, peace only, you answer. It's like a yoga mantra of zen. Way better than "fine, thanks." And when my head starts to whine, "but it's NOT peace only!," but my voice keeps saying it, I'm forced to recognize that it doesn't have to be a lie. Not to get guru on you, but peace IS a state of mind. It can't always be achieved, say, in a bloody mine-field. But if you're in a place where you have the capacity to say "peace only" over and over, it's probably possible. It's good to remember that.
The "you're writing! You're washing clothes!" stating-the-obvious thing isn't as poignant. But at least it makes life that much easier for the vocab-impaired among us. It makes it easier to start conversations. And, I suppose, it gives worth (worth your voice, thought, time to discuss-- the mundane chores and unvaried activities that rule life here.
It's still hard for me to overcome this odd reservation from childhood which always made me rather say nothing than say something trite. I don't think I'll ever completely chance in this way. But at least I'm learnign how to reexamine all I had dismissed as "trite" before.
Now, how are you?
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