Take my hands..

I grew up in a small village, on the outskirts of a small town, of the fourth largest Island in the world, and one of poorest countries in the world.  We were the only white family in our neighborhood, the only American at my French school.  Our house was furnished with running water and electricity, I say furnished, because while it had the capacity, they did not always work, and life went on, the day went on.  We lived in a four bedroom duplex, with our land lords living upstairs.  A western style kitchen with stove, oven, microwave and fridge.  A western style bathroom with flushing toilet, sink, bathtub, and later on even a washing machine.  We had a house keeper and a guard.  We never wanted for food (if you didn’t count the occasional or constant craving for certain American goodies, like Oreos, of which we were rationed two a piece, by my mother, to make our stash last longer).  We had a stash of goodies. 

Our neighbors, our friends, lived in shacks of varying sizes and material; tin, wood, mud, cement.  Families of eight in a two room (not two bedroom) unit with an outhouse and outside kitchen consisting of a fire pit and water basin.  Very few had electricity and almost none had running water (yet somehow they managed to have TVs, I’m still not sure how that worked).   They had two outfits; a going out one, home-made cotton dress or top and trousers and a cheap pair of shoes or flip flops, and a stay at home outfit, bare feet, and an old ‘going out’ outfit that had fallen apart.  Their meals were modest, manioc, rice, greens, beans, and maybe chicken on Sundays. 

As a little girl, I struggled with my haves.  I remember standing on our veranda thinking, if something dangerous happened and we had to leave today, we could.  And my friends that I have known since the age of 2, would have to stay and live through it.  I knew my advantages and I resented and rejected them.  I bought the same flip flops and hair clips as my friends.  I asked my mom to have the same dresses made as them.  I refused to go to restaurants, rejected any lessons my parents offered (piano, swimming, ballet, tennis etc).  I didn’t want anything my friend did not have.   One reason was I genuinely did not want to put myself above them by accepting anything they did not have, but the other reason was, I was just a little girl, wanting to fit in with her friends.  If I rejected my privileges, maybe I would feel like I belonged (despite the raging blonde hair and pale skin).

I spoke the language like a local.  I knew their songs, their humor, food, markets, roads, short cuts, hair braiding, cuss words, and games.  They knew me.  Edera, they called me, because they couldn’t say Heather.  But at the end of the day I was a Vasaha, a foreigner.  I could leave.

I spent everyday working to be like them, to fit in, because I knew, even though we had a ‘fancy’ home and plenty of food, they had community and that made them rich! 

In later years, I came to peace with my haves.  I see my ‘privileges’ not as an advantage but as a responsibility.  I was born in a country that allows me to have a lot of resources, what I do with them will determine my richness.