"Mjungu"

An excerpt from yesterday morning's journal...

This morning, for the first time in Uganda, I'm wearing my khaki linen skirt. Already it has a few traces of dirt, but mostly it stands out in stark contrast to the brown dirt and my tan skin. And I am certain the contrast would be even greater against the beautiful dark brown of my Maama's skin. Perhaps this skirt will not stay so white as I continue to live in the dusty dirt of Bukoto village (soon to become mud if the rains after begin in earnest), but then again, the way my sisters wash clothes, it has a decently good chance!

The contrast of this skirt and my skin makes me feel a little less white - and paired with my black cotton tank top with a collar, I feel a sort of professional confidence in this outfit. It will be good for teaching, simply for how it makes me feel. How strange it feels to admit that a simple outfit can boost my sense of confidence and self-esteem, but I think, more than I would normally like to admit, that this is often the case.

Anyhow, part of my reason for writing about the skirt was to process some of the contemplations I've been having lately about my whiteness. I have heard or read somewhere (more than once) that it is the great privilege of the white person in North American and European societies to not have to think about the color of their skin. We whites have the advantage - we are the majority and often the wealthier race (by far). We don't have to contemplate our advantage and the racial power differential unless we choose to. And that ability to choose - and to remain ignorant if we desire - is itself a great privilege and advantage.

Here in Uganda, though, especially immersed in the life of a rural village, I find myself the stranger and the racial minority (by far!). And I discover that the choice has been taken away from me. Children stare and yell "bye-ee mzungu" (mzungu = white person). Michael, my youngest brother, continues to call me "mjungu" rather than any of my names. People thank me for doing the simplest tasks, for coming to Uganda, for learning their language. Again and again, I am reminded that I am different. First impressions are always formed on the basis of my skin pigmentation. I do not appreciate all the assumptions - that I am weak, that I am rich, that I am an expert on all things American - but I am beginning to expect them. I do not like - or feel that I deserve - the sense of celebrity status that my skin seems to have afforded me, but I am learning to laugh and wave anyway. It is not fair or right that people treat me as if I am better than them.

I often wish my whiteness was something I could hide, something that did not so quickly label me as a stranger, an outsider. It is strange, this dynamic. I have been stripped of the anonymity my white skin grants me in America. But the privilege and advantage of that same whiteness has not only become more obvious, it has also increased in tangible ways.

A month, a year from now, how will I feel about this? How will it affect my life and relationships when I return to America? Only time will tell, though already it tires me to always be so aware of my racial identity. Some days, I wish for another mzungu in town. I wish to be treated as simply another family member, another villager - and that is slowly beginning to happen. But mostly, I wish to be known first as a person, rather than as a mzungu.