Admittedly, still the new girl

I don't mean to be so personal. But I had a doozy of a day.

*****

What does it say about me that after a crummy day made crummy in large part because of unsettling confrontations with personal privilege that I’m sitting in the garden of a nice hotel on a nice afternoon eating chocolate crepes so I can access the internet?

She’s a white girl listenin’ to hip-hop driving on a Tuesday in her daddy’s SUV.

My feet are dirty by the time I get to work. I wore my little red ballet shoes one day and realized that for their sake I oughtn’t attempt it again. It would mean risking the soft red material to the clanging paws of dustbowls a foot off the ground.

Did I mention there’s a splendid view of the mountains from this garden?

*****

“Good afternoon,” he says to me right after I leave the house. As he says it I’m typing in my phone to tell Matt we’ll go for drinks later.

“Good afternoon,” and a curt smile. That’ll do.

A few steps and I think maybe we’ll make it, silence, silence, duck, duck, and then… ah, broken. Goose. Here it is.

“My name is Joseph.” A nice smile though. We shake hands. I smile too. But he… “works with orphans in this area. And we look for help from people around here. We have some letters of support from the administration,” opening the folder in his hand, “if you’ll just take a look.” He pulls out something official-ish and crowds me on the dirt sidewalk.

I used to think I didn’t want to give to people who asked for it because I felt more sympathy for someone with the humility not to ask. But what good does that do if your only strategy left is asking. When you actually need to ask. When you actually need. The thing about the soup kitchen that always bothered me was that most of the people who ate there were overweight. And that’s part of why I’m in sub-Saharan Africa.

It’s hard to tell which I hate more: having a lot or not having enough. Cause if I had mountains of cash then I wouldn’t care about giving away. Yeah, we all pull that line. What does this look like to other people? Through what lens do you see this and does it look like what an H2 looks like to me? That is, completely unnecessary and wasteful and an insult to most any other person and every single tree in the world.

“What do you want me to do?” To the point.

“If you could make a contribution…” he tries.

Yeah? What are you going to say this time, Taylor? You’re not going to just let him get away with that are you. We’re in the middle of the road man, why do you have to come up like we’re in an office or something and show me your papers and pretend it’s normal instead of harassment. You should know that there are boundaries here and you’ve not respected them and you’re just going to get anything done that way. No problems allowed in the no-complaining zone. A zone cordoned off by iPods, cell phones, and nasty American looks.

But how are you going to justify it? Especially since you and he both know you are lying, you’ve got to make it sound good. Make yourself the victim.

“Just right now, I can’t.” Make sure to use poor French, so when you fumble to explain it’s not because you’re unsure of yourself. Just your language.

Possessions. Somewhere a family who considered giving away all their worldly possessions did just that. Somewhere someone just became a nun. Fundamentalism is the only real religion, Alex said the other night. Reformists and compromisers are hypocrites. Unless you’re telling Anna that she can go out to nice dinners with Creighton because she’s so selfless otherwise and to feel guilty about something so standard in our culture would be debilitating. Indulgence allows good deeds.

I’m going to do my good deeds by my own design though. You’re not going to ask me for them while I’m walking back to work on a hot day. If there are times when you do good and there are times when you indulge then what are those times called when you tell a guy running an orphanage that you don’t have the $20 you have in your purse. And who should feel worse for creating that situation, him or you?

I would never donate to an organization that I don’t trust because I want to know that they’re really going to create something valuable with what I give them. We Americans like returns, they make us who we are. Show me that of all the parentless, shirtless kid-centers you’re the one that I should donate to. You need to earn this. For more reason than that you happened to walk beside me. I don’t know you man.

And I’m going to buy drinks later.

“Oh, you can’t…now. Maybe we could set up a meeting?” He’s on to me.

I’ve asked people for things too. But I never did so actually expecting to receive. Okay time out, not okay to put my UNC fundraisers on par with feeding orphans. I fed international NGOs and college students. Nuns probably walk around with small bills so they can give to someone whenever anyone asks. My mom probably does too. But it’s not worth doing if you’re going to feel bad about it, I told Anna. A bitter humanitarian is no good to anyone. Of course I’m not giving anything and I’m still bitter.

The real cinch is that I want to give and you want to take but why can’t you just want to take what I want to give?

Jeffrey Sachs, will you make me a formula please? Would you just design some algorithm or logarithm or some-kinda-rithm that can decide for me when and how much I can give away so that I don’t have to grapple with the decision each time and I won’t be unfair or inefficient but mostly so I won’t feel guilty. I don’t know what it is exactly I feel guilty about: either not giving or not caring enough to give or maybe just having enough so that I’m the one who gets to make the decision. And following guilt is shame at the fact that I stress about not giving money and they have to stress about not getting it. In all scenarios, I have the better end of the stick. It’s unavoidable and I remember my grandma telling me stories about how I was a brat when I was little and never did have patience for other people messing with me, telling me I’m cute.

And I don’t know who actually bothers me more, the men who ask for my money or the men who ask for my number. Both of you are presuming entitlement to something that is not yours and to which in fact, no, you are not entitled.

“Why aren’t you married?” he asks when after 2 minutes of conversation he can hardly pronounce my name.

Because pops, as hard as it might be for you who views me almost singularly as a chromosome-based identity to believe, I’m good for more than that. And for all the students of Mona Lisa Smile of course I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with marriage. All I’m saying is that if I was married or dating, their first question to me would not be “Why don’t you have a job?” or “Why aren’t you in school?” with the standard accusatory tone not very well hidden behind otherwise harmless words.

At home I feel no qualms about blowing people off but I’m treading carefully here, not always sure if the extra respect is merited. Of course I don’t want to disrespect your culture but I don’t want you to disrespect mine either, so don’t assume that I want to go for a drink with you in spite of our 20 years of age difference and having absolutely nothing in common.

“I just think you’re nice and I enjoy your company.”

No. There are prerequisites to having my number. One is a reason to believe that I would either want your number or would want to hear from you. Two is you actually having anything interesting to say to me upon a second meeting. Three is not being sketchy, and though subjective, it’s for me to decide and I won’t pretend that my perception is always perfect but it does affect my level of comfort so you deal with it.

“Why don’t you want to give me your number?”

And here’s where I try not to hurt your feelings.

“Do you have any money you can spare?”

And here’s where I lie in your face. But all I mean is:

Because it’s mine and some parts of me I don’t want to share. Because I would rather offer something than be asked for it. Because I’m short and smile frequently and it’s easy for just anyone to take advantage of that. Because I don’t like to be judged based on my skin color or gender or clothes. Because I think indulgences are important sometimes and because sometimes I delight in overdoing it. Because you need to give me time to think and because I don’t want to feel like I’m being sold something. Because I know how to sell things. Because I’m unsettled by the inequality between us. Because we have different perceptions of what’s important and of what’s appropriate. Because my sense of propriety might be somewhat old-fashioned. Because I don’t know you, I don’t know you, I don’t know you.

But the thing is each time I turn the corner those kids are there and each time I turn another corner Joseph is there with his pile of orphans and what am I supposed to do when the dogs at my house eat more than they do. I just wish they weren’t there every single time and I wish they were wearing shoes that fit them. I’m a fan of charity for people that deserve it and I don’t know what to say when I realize I’m not a fundamentalist charity-giver. It depends on my mood. It depends on how much you upset me. And ironically the less upset I am, the less I’m thinking anything through, and the less I’m prone to give. It’s not religious. It’s unfair, my choices, you being there, you asking me, me refusing, my caprice, our closeness, our being so far apart, all of it.

*****

There are good furrows and there are angry ones and angrily furrowed I also squint out the midday sun and walk back through a road that is too hot to a work that is too slow past people that make me feel bad about having slow work and I don’t want to give you this so please just don’t be nice and that way I’m not making a comparison between you and panhandlers on Franklin St. I know all too well there is a difference and it means something to me that you need what you’re asking for and it means something else that all I can do is spout the easiest fake excuse that comes to mind and when I go back to the States I won’t feel bad about turning down someone on the sidewalk outside a restaurant with access to hundreds of passersby with spare change because I turned down someone who hasn’t fed 20 orphans in 2 days. It’s all bullshit anyway I’m sure and I still wish I had a car to drive so I wouldn’t get my feet so dirty on these roads on dusty days. I don’t want to have to wash my sandals when I get home and I don’t want to sweat. I came to Burundi to see what its like somewhere with real poverty but just don’t show me that much please. We’re all hypocrites for our Club du Lac lifestyle and for swimming with crocodiles but maybe I’d rather just keep doing that and not furrowing my brow like this. And when I get to work give me someone I can talk to, hand me a politician please, a man not even a little bit of the people. We can get along because he is important and I am white but not to the extent that he gets to call me because I am not that important, I am just that white and that, my friend, does not count. And by the way, how am I supposed to act around stick-thin men who do my laundry, clean my dishes, and open the door for me? When I get home and don’t want to talk to anyone can I still blow them off or is that just being a colonialist?

Sometimes it seems the shock of having the comforts of home has somehow entrenched me even more in them and I don’t much feel like not being a hypocrite anymore and I wouldn’t mind going to Paris or New York. Businessman are honest souls because they admit that they’re completely selfish but NGOs are crazy political and selfish even though they claim to be doing everything for the good of humanity. It must be easy to make decisions when your own self-interest is the main concern. I have always been madly indecisive and always equally envious of people who can make quick decisions.

And oh how perfect if those quick decisions were also the right decisions, and if all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops.