A Critical Insight...

The last Saturday that I spent with my host family we decided to go into Mukono town to buy some ingredients for the tasty meal of peanut butter and jelly I was planning on preparing. I had been to Mukono several times before and I did not think this time would be any different. As we were leaving, one of my brothers (we’ll call him X) said he would catch up with us in town, so the rest of us set off on our journey. The whole trip was filled with stares, eyes questioning: “Who is that mzungu and why is she with that family?” When we reached the market, peoples’ heads were turning, comments were flying at me left and right, some of which my other little brother (we’ll call him Y) wouldn’t even translate. Right in between annoyance and anger, I saw X standing at a distance. He was looking right at us, but still not joining us. I was slightly confused at first but then it dawned on me. Could it be that X knows how much of a spectacle I am? And why would he want to be a part of the freak show? I asked Y if that was the reason X wouldn’t even look me in the eye. He hesitated and then said, “Yea, he doesn’t want to be seen with a white person. He doesn’t want his friends to laugh at him at school.” I had no idea how deeply that could hurt. My own little brother didn’t want to be seen with me. The only thing that kept me from crying in the middle of the market was the tight grasp of my little sister’s hand.

I had noticed the stares before this experience, but this was the first time I FELT them. My indifference regarding this attention was replaced with incredible discomfort. I was a piece of foreign material. I know that on a scale of all the heinous prejudices in the world, this doesn’t even rank, but it was the first time I felt a tiny bit of that sting. I had no idea how ugly it could make me feel. When walking through a city in the States no one even looks at you, let alone stares. I like that. I’m used to it. But it is different here, I should have known that. The color of my skin is my insecurity and there’s absolutely nothing to be done about it. I am a minority for the first time in my life.

This insight did more than bring tears to my eyes, it got me thinking. I have never considered myself racist or prejudiced, but I’m realizing that it takes more than the simple absence of prejudice to make things right. I need to fight prejudice, no matter how small, in everything I do. Personally, I know I have been insensitive to people without meaning the slightest offense. And I understand that the curious Ugandans I saw that day in the market were not trying to make me cry. But I think so much of our prejudice is born out of our ignorance of who we are and who others might be. We don’t think that far beyond ourselves.

It’s becoming evident that according to some people here I have all the flaws of Western society embedded in the pastiness of my skin. If I ever want to disprove that, I have a long process to go through that requires selfless patience. Shame on me for not realizing that it might be painful. Shame on me for pointing fingers and getting so frustrated. Shame on my selfish need for comfort. In his book, Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller speaks eloquently on how easy it is to think that we are good when we might actually be the problem! Although he is speaking on a different topic, his words rang true after my little market incident: “I wondered what it would be like not to live in a house of mirrors, everywhere I go being reminded of myself” (Miller, 22). There’s no need for my extreme feelings of discomfort. I’m the one who has chosen to come here. I AM different. I DO stand out in crowds. After being surrounded by so much black, even I do a double take when I see some white in the mix! This is my home for the next 2 months. I became a minority by my own choice, unlike so many others who have no options.

This realization has brought new insight into my life and into my own character. Stretching like this is part of the growing process that I hope continues all my life because I can never change anyone else if I can’t let change affect my life. John Taylor, in The Primal Vision, speaks to this truth by saying, “For you do not ‘understand’ until you have been touched (affected) yourself, until you get a new insight into who you are yourself” (Taylor, 16). I have never had to break through so many presuppositions for someone to see who I am. My first reaction to this was frustration until I realized that I still don’t even know who I am. Perhaps I can see this occurrence as a learning experience. It is in these small lessons that I begin to find myself. Along the road to finding myself it is my hope that I might realize “how beautiful it might be to think of others as more important than myself” (Miller, 22).