Some Americans have never met Michael Jackson

A couple of nights ago, I left school after my last class at around 7:00. As I walked out the gate, I paused to say hello to two guys who work at the school and were stopped talking with the guard. Justino works in the library; he’s a big guy, quiet and a little gruff, but chatty once you get to know him. That night he was wearing a t-shirt with, “Remember the Alamo. San Antonio, Texas” emblazoned across the front. He has told me before that he dreams of going to America some day. In fact, he is the first Mozambican I remember saying he wanted to move to America and never come back. Interestingly, most people I meet here who say they want to live abroad explain they want to learn how to make their country better, then come back and put their new knowledge to use. Seriously. The other was Bulha, a small, pleasantly plump man who is about as friendly as they get. He always has questions for me about the US, about my life, about anything and everything. He works evenings and I always love ending the day chatting with him because I can’t help but walk home smiling.

I don’t even remember what we were first talking about, but somehow the conversation led to Justino once again declaring that one day he would move to the US, although this time he got a little more specific, “California! Onde vive Arnold Schwarzenegger!” We all laughed and I told him that I had actually lived in California for a few years. As a matter of fact, I had gone to a state university there when he was governor and so he had signed my diploma! They were appropriately impressed. Then Justino asked, “Is he that big in real life?” I had to admit I had never actually met him. They both looked disappointed, but Justino turned to Bulha and explained that in the US, regular people didn’t always get to meet celebrities. “No?!” Bulha seemed shocked. “No! There are people there who have never met Michael Jackson!”

Now, when we arrived here for training, a lot of PCVs laughed at the fact that we would get asked at least once a week if we knew Justin Bieber. “People here seem to think we are all neighbors with him!” We all giggled about it. Coming from the US, where famous people seem to inhabit a world of their own, it seems a little ridiculous that everyone would know Michael Jackson. And, sure enough, the first day I was at my house in Chimoio, when I introduced myself to the kids next door, the first thing they asked upon learning I was American? “Conhece Justin Bieber??”

But as the conversation with Justino and Bulha continued, it started making more sense. I told them that actually, most people had never met Michael Jackson. In a country as huge as the US, most people never even got near celebrities. Justino, who has had a number of American and other foreign friends, had clearly had these conversations before. He and I explained to Bulha that Mozambique was the size of California, which is only one out of fifty states. This led to a detour into the difference between a state and a province, always a fun one to try to tackle: yes, there are different laws about driving and marriage and any number of different things, depending on where you live. It actually starts to seem pretty crazy after explaining it a few times.

But then we got back to celebrities. I mentioned how in the US, famous people actually had to hide from cameras because people were so interested in everything they do. Justino said he had seen this before on TV. Actors ducking away from photographers following them into restaurants! “It’s not like here!” he said. “Here, you can go to the bar and see all the famous singers, just out having a beer with people.” Of course, if that’s how things work in your experience, why wouldn’t you think it’s likely that many Americans have met Justin Bieber? Why would you assume that famous people travel in exclusive circles, rarely crossing paths with regular folks, if from what you know, popular musicians like a beer at the bar down the street?

This was just another example of the constant “a-ha” moments that come from living in a different culture. Especially when you take the time to talk about differences. When my neighbor asked if I knew Justin Bieber and all I said was, “No,” I walked away thinking it was funny to think I would, and she probably walked away thinking I must not get out much. But having a longer conversation with Justino and Bulha led to us all having a better understanding of each other’s cultures. This is kind of a silly example, but I have had similar experiences about much more significant topics, particularly race.

A couple of months ago, I was at the central market, buying apples. This market is nestled comfortably into the main paragem (bus stop) so it is always noisy and full of kids trying to sell drinks and snacks through the chapa windows and cobradors trying to get you onto their buses. I usually just try to get through the crowds and to the vendors without engaging with all the people yelling, “Hello, sistah! How are you?” This day, as I rounded the corner to my apple guy, a cobrador jumped down from a neighboring chapa and followed me until I stopped to buy my fruit.

He started with the usual aggressively friendly flirting; most of the guys around there lay it on pretty thick: asking for your number before your name, or just renaming you, “Beautiful!” But as I was talking to the apple vendor and laughing off my new admirer’s advances, his manner started to change. He had approached with a somewhat provocative tone, trying to get a reaction out of me. As I rolled with it and laughed instead of getting angry, his tone became friendlier. He eventually asked if I wouldn’t mind buying him an apple, too. He was way too skinny and looked in need of some vitamins, so I did. He started asking me where I was from, what I was doing in Mozambique. As I left the market, he continued to walk with me, chatting.

I explained to him that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer and what that meant. He asked me about my education and where I came from. We talked about how Mozambique still had a lot to do in terms of development. He turned out to be an interesting guy who was really upset about the fact that he hadn’t been able to finish school because he didn’t have the money and had to go to work. He said he had always wanted to learn more and that he liked talking about ideas. Throughout the conversation, he threw in comments about habits of black people and white people. I can’t even remember the specifics, but they were all in the matter-of-fact way that many people here state: black people are this way and white people are this way. My friend Nelo swears that black people can go longer without eating comfortably, it’s just genetic. Or white people don’t like having many kids.

But sometimes it’s much sadder. Things like, white people don’t like marrying black people. Or, I want to marry a white woman because it would bring pride to my family. Black people don’t like to work. These are all things that Mozambicans have told me at various times.

Eventually, my new friend from the apple stand asked me for my number. He had said he wanted to be friends, to talk more often so that he could keep learning. He wanted to learn English. When he asked for my number, I told him I would be happy to give it to him, but I wanted to be clear that it was just to talk, that I had a boyfriend and I would stay faithful to him. He laughed some and gave me a kind of pained look. “It’s because I’m black.” “No!” I assured him. “You could be black, white, brown, orange, it doesn’t matter. It’s just because I have a boyfriend.” He kind of shook his head. “Anyways, what would I do with you?” He explained that he was so broke that, even though he was asking for my number, he didn’t have the money to fix his broken phone. “What would I even do with you? I would have nowhere to bring you.” He gestured at me helplessly, hands open wide and palms facing up. And again he told me it was because he was black.

The thing that broke my heart was that he didn’t seem angry. He was convinced that I didn’t want to be with him because white women don’t like black men like him, but he just seemed resigned about it. He kept telling me that I had been so nice to him. I had given him an apple even though I didn’t know him. When he had first approached me, he seemed to think I would just dismiss him and came on trying to push my buttons. When I was friendly, that quickly disappeared into (over)eagerness to get to know me. By the end of our walk, he seemed nearly in love with me.

It seemed like, in the beginning, he had a clear idea of who I was as the White Woman, which included being dismissive of black men like him. As we kept talking, and I treated him like a regular person, he did the same to me. By the end of our walk, I started getting the feeling that he may never have had an actual conversation with a white woman. He seemed so genuinely surprised that I would be friendly to him. Here in Chimoio, it isn’t unusual to see other white people, but they don’t tend to do a whole lot of mingling with the general population. Most have their own cars, so you rarely see them on a chapa or even walking down the street. They shop mostly at specific stores and even when they are at the market, they frequently drive up and ask someone working there to run and get them things. For a poor guy working odd jobs to get by, he might not have had much cause to come in direct contact with white people, especially if he usually takes the approach he took with me.

His final conclusion that I didn’t want to date him because he was black was heartbreaking, but when I have seen him at the paragem other times, he still runs up to talk to me. I don’t know how to convince him that it isn’t a matter of race, but I am happy that at least some of his apparent feelings that white women will all dismiss him seem to have changed. The whole interaction was a good reminder to me that as a white person in a country that spent years under a repressive colonial regime, every interaction can be loaded with extra meaning. I need to be extra careful about how my actions are interpreted. If I had gotten annoyed with him because I was tired of being hit on while doing my shopping, it would have reinforced all his ideas about how white people feel about him. By taking the time to talk, he walked away with a slightly different idea about white people and I got a reminder about what my presence here represents to some people.

Last Sunday, six of us piled into a chapa at 7:00 am, heading back to Chimoio after a goodbye campout. The bus that stopped to pick us up was nearly full, but someone got into the front seat, two more crammed into a spot facing backwards, nearly on top of the first row of passengers, Alexandra got into the first row, and as I was stepping up, the cobrador gestured to an empty seat in the second row. “Yes, sit by my side, beautiful girl!” said the man next to the open spot, in English. It was early on a Sunday morning. I had spent the night in a tent after an exhausting Saturday and I was too tired to spend 45 minutes nearly in the lap of someone who was already hitting on me. The chapas are packed to the brim and I would have been nestled into this guy’s armpit. I just wasn’t up for it. I quickly crammed into the seat next to Alexandra, our last friend took the perch facing me, our knees intertwined, and the cobrador slammed the door shut.  

As we made our way down the road, I slowly started to tune into the conversation going on in the chapa behind me. The man who had invited me to sit next to him was talking animatedly with the man next to him and the woman behind him. They were switching between Portuguese and Chiute, so I couldn’t catch everything, but the theme quickly became clear: I had negared the seat next to him because he was black and white people didn’t like sitting next to black people. I listened for a little bit, trying to catch the specifics of what they were saying, trying to be sure I was understanding it correctly. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t just leave the situation as it was. Probably, most of the people in the chapa didn’t speak English and didn’t realize what the guy had said to me. Even if they did, they might not have made the connection that his unwelcome attention is what led me to say no to the seat. The guy had annoyed me, but my reaction was just supporting the very ideas I am here trying to combat as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

I turned around, touched his elbow. “Excuse me. I said no to that seat because you said, ‘Come sit next to me, beautiful girl!’ This kind of talk is tiresome and it is too early on a Sunday morning to deal with it,” I explained to him in Portuguese, making sure the rest of the people in the car could understand. There was a short silence, and then the woman behind him spoke up. “Ela tem razão!” – She is right! I smiled and so did he. “I thought it was because I was black!” he replied, holding up his forearm and pinching its skin to demonstrate. “No!” I assured him. “That’s why I wanted to explain. I didn’t want to leave the misunderstanding. It wasn’t this; it was just because of how you were talking to me. That’s not what I want to hear so early on a Sunday morning!” He explained it had just been a joke, and I told him there were no hard feelings. I turned back to the front and listened as they discussed this turn of events.

Later, the chapa was stopped by the transit police and we were quizzed about who we were and what we were doing. We explained we were Peace Corps Volunteers, mostly teachers, chatted with the cop a little and he let us on our way. When we reached our stop in Chimoio, I made sure to say goodbye to the gentleman behind me. “Have a good day, teacher!” he hollered as the bus pulled away.

As a foreigner living within a different culture, I am never anonymous. Preparing for Peace Corps, we are warned that for two years, our lives will be lived in public. That even when we aren’t doing our specific jobs, we are still on duty as representatives of the US. Even though I am in a city, it’s true. As a white American, I stand out. People take notice of what I do. And they may have preconceptions, often based on real evidence gleaned from years of negative interactions between Mozambique and rich westerners. It goes both ways, too. When someone tries to overcharge me, I am quick to assume it is because I am white, while in reality it may just be because I am well dressed. Every conversation I have is loaded with potential for misunderstanding. Some of these misunderstandings are small, like the habits of celebrities in my country, but others are weighty.  But each interaction is also an opportunity for greater understanding, if it is approached with an open mind and a will to learn.