Church Basket; Americana; Amanda’s Size 13’s

CHURCH BASKET

Church today was a little weird. Yes, Mom, I've been trying to go and, in fact, have only missed two Sundays since coming to Africa (and went an extra Friday for Adoration, but that's another story). It took a good two hours just to get through the Communion part. Afterwards came the second basket collection. Yes, I said second, and normally there are three! Now, this just isn't the normal type of basket collection either – oh no, true to Beninese queueing style everyone gets up at the same time and stands in a motionless line through the center of church where they can parade themselves down to the collection basket. If you even hesitate to let, say, an elderly person into the fray you risk losing your entire slot and being relegated to the back of the stampede. As the choir goes nuts with off-key singing and weird "accompaniment" people make big displays of dropping their change into the baskets ("flinging" it is a more appropriate word, really). And this takes place not once, but three times during the course of a normal mass. This, however, was not a normal mass today. In fact, ten golden dragoons to whomever can tell me what was the holiday for this specific Sunday because I had to pay an extra 50F get some maroon and yellow ribbons pinned to me in celebration of the "fete." This particular fete meant that we did not have three collection baskets but only one large one then a second, more particular one in which two ladies with fantastically large hats on stood at the front of the church dancing and swaying and sort of clapping as one by one, the richer people in the community came up to "testify" to the church and give money which was then counted in front of the congregation. I saw the first one and that was enough – I was outta there. It wasn't enough that more than half the mass was in Adja, or Yoruba, or something other than English or French and that the parts that were in English were incomprehensible Nigerian English – it was easier to understand the French. Unfortunately, I knew I was only getting the "small, small" mass because the English and French parts were about 1/6 of the length of the parts in Adja and with a lot less enthusiasm (like reading from notecards) and it took three different priests to give the entire sermon and two other idiots with microphones (I think I previously explained the Beninese technological incompetence) to get money from people in the crowd. It was disheartening to realize that I would be attending church in a place where spirit really is not the richest currency, but where money is more important than even out on the streets. A show of wealth and status in church was the last place I thought I would see it; but, there it was, right beneath the off-center crucifix and diorama of Jesus and God having a conversation in a cave.

AMERICANA
Walking back from church is a painful, but sometimes, happier time. I can tell what kind of Sunday it will be based upon whether or not the constant "yovos" and ignorant name-calling can pierce through that "goodwill towards all brothers and sisters" feeling I created in church. Today was almost an even draw. It was almost pushed over the edge, however, when I got my first "white woman" call. That's right, it wasn't even a didn't-know-any-better "yovo" but a straight up, "White Woman, How Are You?" I title it in that manner with capital letters because that was very much how it felt. I never really acknowledged, but it's nice how in America you really can be from almost anywhere and no one would ever know the difference and, arguably more importantly, even if it were noticeable, people would not be so inclined to point it out to you on the street in such a blatant manner. You can walk by, unnoticed and not bothered by the people in the street. You are safe in your anonymity. Here, however, I am "White Woman, How Are You?" and it stung. I know it's probably not easy to imagine something so trivial hurting, but I definitely flinched at this seemingly archaic address and if, perhaps, I were a sociologist I might say the reaction was a cause of the blatant prejudice that accompanies being address ed in such a manner that pinpoints the difference in your skin from those that surround you. I would argue this is the case if someone should call out, "Rich Man, How is the Day Going?" to someone that is obviously affluent to all who surround him but in a neighborhood where perhaps being so different in that manner is not considered an asset. That is what being white means in Africa – that you are inherently considered to be more wealthy than those you pass on the street and it is told by the color of your skin; not how you behave, or what you buy, or how you eat or what you wear, but the color of your skin alone. When your whiteness is acknowledged it becomes an open address for the flood of groundless questions that follow,"how do I get to America with no money;" "Will you take me to America with you when you go back;" "Can I have money;" "Give me a gift; give me your clothes;" "I love you, will you marry me? At least give me your phone number." The list of pointless, painful interrogation goes on. Therefore, being called, "White Woman," carries with it all the prejudices and presumptions the Beninese have of what being "white" means to them. So I yelled back, "It is all going well, Black Man." I think by the time I reached my door the day was declared a draw.

AMANDA'S SIZE 13's
When "Chocolate" showed up at my house to do my grocery shopping in exchange for eating the food she brought and I paid for and then prepared I thought I was going to scream. She was the third or fourth visitor in a week that felt it necessary to come to my house, wait for my return by the door, or knock incessantly during the repose to ask me to be Amanda all over again. "But Amanda and I were friends and I would come over and we would amuse ourselves," she explained, sitting on my couch ready and waiting for me to commence with the amusement. At the time I didn't really have the strength or the cultural wherewithal to explain that I am not here for her amusement, I am not Amanda and, even worse, I didn't know her and quite possibly might never become the same friend to her that Amanda had been. So I caved and had a girl I didn't know promising to return with her sister in the morning to take down a grocery list, my money, and go to the marché with the full intent of returning to have me make her dinner and eat it all together – the three strangers sitting in my house with my belongings and my deep-seeded fear that everyone from the streets of Azovè is out to take full advantage. I am feeling, more and more succinctly, a pressure built upon the foundation of Amanda's work that I am expected to behave and continue in the same, exact manner as Amanda had. Again, another way in which we are all considered to be white and the same. I am a white girl, Amanda was a white girl. We're both Peace Corps volunteers. Therefore, in their reasoning and logical conclusions I will, naturally, want to have the same friends coming over to eat my food and the same weird kids coming by asking for my used Possotome water bottles and magazines; that I will want to have the same creepy man on the corner shake my hand for an unendurably long two minutes while he smiles and asks me questions about my house, my work, my husband and my kids (that he knows I don't have, but asks daily all the same). Once my Peace Corps-issued backbone comes in through the shuttle system (it goes once a month now from Cotonou) I can, calmly, explain that while we are both girls and both white we did not, in fact, come from the same factory in Detroit and therefore things will be a little different with this volunteer and, heck, she might not even do the same projects as the last one because them's the terms – two years and then "time's up!" Sorry, but I'm here to do my job to the best of my ability; not Amanda's (amazing volunteer!!).