I walked tonight with Gracia. They call her 'Grace'. Or as it would probably be spelled in the French they're speaking: "Grâce". For short. But I don't know if I would call her gait graceful... she's five. The height of an eight year old, and she gobbles it all up. Life. Food. The street.
So we walk. It's our evening ritual by now. and by now the neighbors have grown accustomed to my dissimilar presence, and smile and greet me. And by now Grâce has taken up my habit – in word if not in fashion – of correcting all the neighborhood street kids who call after me: "Yovo, yovo!". "C'est pas yovo! C'est Rachelle!". Tonight was the first night she mimicked my incessant correction. Yelling back over our shoulders as we proceeded, in the dusk and in the dark. "Pas yovo!!!" I smiled. It almost blew my ear drums out with the strength of voice emerging from those little lungs, but I loved it. Little Grâce was taking up the call of duty to inform all the little kids not to call me the name Togolese give to all white foreigners. But to give them my name. There was certainly some some strong scent of déjà vu in all this from my peace corps days long ago.
To me, it was, with every interaction, a fight against the human urge to classify people into easy stereotypes. So it was a mission. A lesson. And I thought, god, how many of their relatives in the States or Europe want to shout back at their neighbors. I'm not just a black "African". I have a name. I have a story. It's not everybody's story. It's my story.
And now the angles were reversed. I was the one who didn't look like everyone else. On Saturday, running around a highschool dirt field track with dozens of Togolese (all in, soccer games and fitness groups included, maybe a couple hundred persons), for a second I forgot I was the only white face around. And then I remembered. And then I smiled. Because no one was paying attention to me. Just letting me run. Us, humanity together sweating. Letting our bodies feel their potential, our white blood cell count building with every round of the track. It felt so good not to be cooped up.
This was certainly not the first irony of living here. Working in that office. I was the white foreigner who was grossly underdressed for such a professional environment. Trying to conjure up outfits and scuffy white slip-on shoes that gave some semblance of the respect and professionalism the office demanded. (And not least were its padded leather doors on every floor, and other doors with security codes that blocked access to most.)
In a way it was exhilarating to have those angles reversed. So home we walked, hand-in-hand, Grâce and Rachelle-who-was-more-than-a-yovo. and I left her with her mama downstairs, and walked upstairs to my own apartment and settled in with my laptop to read Benin's fiscal code.
