Walk with me down a Ugandan street for just a minute, will
you? Take a look at the green palm fronds and red dirt roads and thousands of
motorcycles. Notice the giant hawks circling overhead and the rivers of ants at
your feet. And the people. There are people everywhere. Life here happens
outside. You cook outside and bathe outside and visit outside. You shop at
outdoor markets and buy pineapple and tomatoes and bags of fresh milk on the
side of the road. There are people everywhere. And then there’s me.
But there’s something really lovely about being an amoeba, albeit an examined one. Have you seen them move? They are slow. Really slow. Like a centimeter an hour slow. And here, in this beautiful, foreign place, I’m slow too. I’ve always been fast at everything. But not here. Here, I am languid. I saunter. My life is moving at an easy pace. And it feels both good and good for me. The things that need to happen will happen eventually. Or not. Either way.
And so, on the days when the heat from the microscope is a little too intense, I put on my headphones and drown out the world with Sufjan Stevens’ “Casimir Pulaski Day,” or Al Green’s “Tired of Being Alone,” and walk down the street. I wave my Miss America wave to the children standing on piles of garbage and the children running with bicycle tires and the children playing in giant piles of cassava flour, and I love my slow, slow life again.
Unlike traveling in Europe, where the Germans thought I was
French and the French thought I was Italian and the Italians thought I was German,
I stand out here. A lot. Like a glowing beacon. “Look at me,” cries my skin, “notice
me!” Because of that one characteristic, the color of my skin, I live my life
under a microscope.
Do you remember amoebas? You know, that ever-shifting blob
with a vacuole to digest the food the pseudopods encircle? That’s me. And all I
want to do is swim, invisibly, through my life. But alas, I’ve been plucked out
of the pond and dropped onto a slide and everything I do with my false feet is
witnessed. Children notice me and excitedly cry, “Muzungu, bye!” Adults notice
me and make kissy noises or politely say, “Good morning,” or excitedly cry, “Muzungu!”
Boda boda (motorcycle) drivers see me and say, “We go?” or “Yeeesssss,” or “You
first come,” to try to get me to ride. The man selling kilos of potatoes from
Kenya hisses at me to get my attention. And, my personal favorite (as of late),
men hand me notes, at an internet café or while sitting at church, that say
things like, “Can I get your contacts?” or, “I want to be your friend,” and
then stand there, eagerly waiting for my reaction as I read.
But there’s something really lovely about being an amoeba, albeit an examined one. Have you seen them move? They are slow. Really slow. Like a centimeter an hour slow. And here, in this beautiful, foreign place, I’m slow too. I’ve always been fast at everything. But not here. Here, I am languid. I saunter. My life is moving at an easy pace. And it feels both good and good for me. The things that need to happen will happen eventually. Or not. Either way.
And so, on the days when the heat from the microscope is a little too intense, I put on my headphones and drown out the world with Sufjan Stevens’ “Casimir Pulaski Day,” or Al Green’s “Tired of Being Alone,” and walk down the street. I wave my Miss America wave to the children standing on piles of garbage and the children running with bicycle tires and the children playing in giant piles of cassava flour, and I love my slow, slow life again.
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| Getting wooed junior high school style |
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