Question of the month: How do I stay true to myself, maintaining boundaries so that I don’t crack under the pressure of hiding myself behind a shell? How do I do this while also holding the responsibilities that I have here, that inevitably come with some loss of freedom? I don’t expect absolute freedom here – it’s a culture that values community more than I’m used to, and if I want to experience and be a part of this, I must also put some of my individualism aside and be responsible to my community. When we arrived here Neil and I consciously chose to become as involved as possible, to connect in every way we were welcomed to. We could have rented our own apartment instead of living with a family; we could have made a habit of cooking for ourselves each night instead of having meals together with Florence and cooking together with Rose; we could have maintained our American independence and not made a habit of calling Florence to let her know when we’re out. We might have decided not to affectionately call her “Mama,” and we could have maintained a cordial (American) distance from our neighbors around us. We could spend most of our time in our house or in town, minimizing our interactions and not checking in to see if our movements and programs are ok with Florence.
However, we are very deliberately engaging because that is why we’re here. We did this almost automatically, without questioning. We chose to come to Uganda, and like all of our previous travels, we do this because we love immersing ourselves into new cultures. We dive in, head first at times, allowing ourselves to be integrated and feeling lucky when this is met with welcoming and inclusion from the community around us. We haven’t come to Gulu, to Uganda, to our internship and life here to stay on the outskirts, to maintain our independence and be the “other” watching life around us. We want to integrate. There is a word in Luo for people who remain separate from community – lwake are seen as selfish, thinking only of themselves and not considering the needs of others. Western foreigners are often perceived this way, because of our differing cultural values. One of the best compliments I have gotten was when Florence was discussing this term, and she affirmed that Neil and I were most definitely not lwake – in fact many people in Gulu had told her how much they appreciate our involvement and eagerness to connect.
I value this connection. It feels good to be adopted by a family in this way, and being so far from home it feels good to have earned a sense of belonging.
The problem arises, then, when I realize that this person I am being – this person that is so connected to her community, so engaged and involved, perceived as part of the family – this person that I am acting, is not me.
Of course it is me to a great extent. I tend to be a kind and friendly person, I laugh a lot and listen and ask questions and get tired after long days and anxious when plans change suddenly and I haven’t slept. I am authentic here a great deal of the time. With those that I’ve established strong relationships with I even let my feisty side out more; I joke around, give people shit, get into debates and play devil’s advocate to mutually challenge each other. These are the relationships I appreciate most.
And, there is a substantial part of me missing. I knew coming to Uganda that I would not be able to share much (if any) of this self with people here, and it’s hitting me over time just how much this can wear on a person. My comrades who have had to hide aspects of themselves throughout their lives know this far truer than I do. My liberal values and beliefs about gender, sexuality, relationships, etc. have little air to breathe here in Gulu, and while I maintain strong roots with family and friends at home and regularly use my brother Neil as an oxygen mask to keep these values alive, I go through phases when I feel so stifled I might suffocate.
Nothing drastic or horrible is happening, merely a lot of little, subtle dings that add up over time. I’ll give one example recently of a situation that’s left me wondering how exactly to navigate perhaps my most important relationship here: my host mother, Florence.
There is a girl who I have befriended here in Gulu town, named Prossy. She is from Soroti – not ethnically Luo – and has been living in Gulu for some few months working at a restaurant/bar in town. She is friendly and kind, and perhaps I’ve embraced her friendship because she seems authentic in not wanting anything other than friendship from me. Never once has she asked me for money or alluded to anything of the sort. Understandably, many people want to befriend me here for more monetary reasons, and I can’t say I blame them – I might do the same thing if the situation were reversed. Unfortunately I get a bit disillusioned by this dynamic and unsure of people’s intentions, so I warmly welcome the authentic connections that I’m able to form. I often visit Prossy at her workplace, and we go dancing together in order to fend off the guys that otherwise (and sometimes still) physically attach themselves to us like moths to a flame.
I’ve recently gotten into the habit of going to Prossy’s humble abode to cook dinners on Tuesday evenings, as this is her one day off from work. (Note: employees at her place of work must work 7 days per week for 6 months before getting a single day off. She makes the equivalent of $90-100 per month.) This past Tuesday it rained heavily while I was there; by the time we’d finished eating she offered for me to stay for the night rather than (A) trying to navigate the mud back home, and (B) taking a boda (motorcycle taxi) by myself, which can be a bit sketchy late at night. I felt good with this program, but wanted to call Florence just to make sure she knew and was okay with it. Did I need to ask permission? Perhaps not, but I wanted to respect our relationship.
What I didn’t expect was Florence’s reaction. Apparently she had her suspicions already about Prossy’s strength of character, based on the little she knew of her. During our short phone conversation she shared her concern about me staying there. “Those girls who work in those places, they’re no good! They come from out of town, they get jobs in bars and live in that neighborhood, they stay alone and they cause trouble, they’re no good.” She wanted me home.
“Florence, I’m confused, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I don’t like this. Let me call you back.”
I look at Prossy, unsure how to navigate the situation, and I share that Florence wants me home. Prossy then responds quietly, “Maybe she thinks I’m a bad influence.”
“How could you be a bad influence?” (Prossy is one of the sweetest people I’ve met, so this is a strange concept for me to embrace.)
Prossy just smiles gently and says she’ll walk with me to get a boda.
While Florence’s reaction surprised me, I had a feeling I knew where she was going, and it pissed me off. Many girls and women here, just as in the U.S., are sex workers, and this is of course considered very taboo. In a patriarchal society that economically disempowers women while emphasizing the male sex drive and his right to satisfaction, it is one avenue to survival that can be highly effective, albeit with its fair share of consequences when it’s simultaneously condemned and unsupported by the same society that promotes it. Now, I have no idea if Prossy engages in sex work or not, and I certainly don’t consider it a deciding factor (or any factor) in our friendship. There are things she’s said that over time have made me wonder, but she hasn’t offered to tell me and I don’t pry.
Unfortunately it’s a deciding factor and a reason for exclusion and segregation for many, who tend to view sex work as sinful, dirty, and blame the woman for her “lack of character.” (The same “lack of character” does not apply to men who frequent sex workers, however.) It’s apparently very important to Florence, who calls me back within 5 minutes to say she’s on her way – driving over muddy slippery roads – to pick me up. What?? Prossy walks me to the road and waits in the cold with me, and when Florence pulls up she is angry and upset. She subjects the poor girl to an interrogation of angry questioning – “Where do you work? What is it that you do? I don’t like you, I’m always straight with people and answer their questions. I don’t like this at all.” Prossy handles the situation gracefully while I attempt (failingly) to calm Florence down, mouthing a horrified apology to Prossy and finally getting into the car so Florence can drive us away.
Sorry, Mom says I can’t spend the night because you’re a prostitute.
Trying to stay diplomatic, I ask Florence, who is on a bit of a rant, to elaborate her thoughts and fears. She seems worried about something happening to me, but for the most part just expresses her anger at prostitutes coming from other areas and moving into Gulu. She comes back several times to the idea that “Europeans are not like Africans, you don’t know how things are here.” (I wonder if she knows we also have patriarchy and sex work in the U.S.?) For whatever it’s worth I share my perceptions about Prossy and defend her character. I managed in general to smooth things over and it hasn’t come up since; I simply don’t tell her when I’m going to visit Prossy now and instead make up another story. (Hmm, I am now 27 and feel like a teenager sneaking out of the house again. Something is wrong with this picture.)
I can respect that Florence is responsible for me here, and would have to answer to Smith College, the U.S. Embassy and my family if anything were to happen to me. I don’t blame her for being protective, even what I would consider “overprotective.” I think I really am like a child to her here – she’s said as much many times while calling me her daughter, and I don’t think it’s mere lip-service. And I do appreciate her looking out for me. What’s challenging is her judgmental outlook, her “sizing up” of others with tests of character that are all too easy to fail. Interestingly and I guess not surprisingly, these tests and expectations of “acceptable” behavior are much stricter for females than they are for males.
The truth is (which I have to laugh at while imagining how the introductions would go), most of my dearest friends from around the world would fail her character tests immediately, simply on appearance alone. Those that passed initially – that appeared on the outside to be “good girls” or “respectable men,” would then fail once she knew their values and morals to be different from hers. If she really knew me, I would absolutely fail.
So, this can make life a bit challenging here. It’s hard when the types of people you choose for friends are considered “bad characters” by others that you live and work with, and thereby you’re left balancing and negotiating friendships that matter to you with other relationships that are essential to your current existence. All the while you’re reminded that if you let down your shell you’ll be judged as a bad person as well, and so you maintain this shell for diplomacy’s sake, because after all, you’re there as a ambassador to your school. I am here as a student, to learn and maybe be helpful in some small way – not to make waves, even when my inner wave-maker craves to. So this brings me back to my current grapplings: how to stay true to myself while keeping parts of myself hidden by necessity, and how to maintain things that are important to me personally (and keeping some level of independence), while also maintaining my responsibility to my family and community here – which I also value – and not being lwake. This dialectic may take me a while to learn to embrace.
