So, after a month at site, I must have a lot of great stories right? Yes… and no. Yes in the sense that my day to day has achieved a level of ridiculous that can’t even be put in words. Example:
My Homologue (French term for work partner): “What did you buy in market today?”
Me: “A machete… for my bike.”
My Homologue: “Why?”
Me: “Well, lots of Malians do it, and yesterday when I was riding back home on my bike a dog chased me and wanted to bite me. I bought it to stop dogs.”
My Homologue: “Of course, good idea.”
I could go on, and tell you about living in a 3 room mud hut with no electricity or running water, but I don’t feel as though I have any one story that encapsulates the day to day crazy that is living here. Instead, for this installment I’m going to dive into one of my favorite topics: Race.
Now, before I start this post let me say that what I’m delving into is, and will forever be an extremely touchy subject: The infamous “N word.” But, the parallels I wish to draw are not so much a philosophical critique of society, but a very visceral personal experience with a word that I think will provide insight, and allow people to gain an understanding of a culture surrounding a word in a way very few ever get to.
I speak of course, of the parallels between the N word and the word “Toubab,” a Bambara word that translates roughly into “white” or “French person.”
Now, in order to dispel the obvious holes you can poke in this parallel, let me qualify this argument. These words and their historical contexts and meanings are entirely separate. No Toubab has ever been oppressed in Mali, and probably never will. Every person experiences the word differently, and depending on the context its use can range from innocuous to a pretty heavy handed insult. For instance “Toubab Goyo” refers to imported eggplant, but it is also not uncommon for a group of children to chant the word in unison to get your attention. In this way the words themselves are only loosely similar, but the experiences that accompany them can hold similar emotions.
For example, you can’t go a full conversation with pcvs here without someone saying Toubab in just random conversation. Example: “I’m the only Toubab within a 3km radius of my site.” Or “Can we talk? I’m a little stressed at site and need a little Toubab time.” We use the word because it’s versatile, but I also personally feel as though I use the word because it allows me to take some form of ownership over it. If I use it in my conversation, it serves to lessen the blow when it’s used by others. Also, and I think more importantly, it acts as a bond between myself and my fellow pcv’s. We’re all here, living in similar situations and dealing with Toubab chants on a regular basis, so being able to use the word in a joking manner amongst ourselves helps lessen the sting of previous moments when the word was used in a much more jeering fashion. Quite simply: The word never bothers me when a volunteer says it, but if a Malian says it, it very often can rub me the wrong way.
This dichotomy is a point of frequent contest in the states: “You say it, why can’t I say it? Why can you say “cracker?”
But, coming from a white guy in Mali, I can safely say that all those arguments stand about as strongly as a cardboard cut-out of a straw man. I can be on top of the world at site, thinking that everything is going perfectly with my life, but a correctly placed “Toubab! Toubab! Ça va?” can let the wind out of even my biggest sails, and drive me back to questioning why I sacrificed what I had to come here in the first place. It makes you feel alienated. It makes you feel like an outsider. It makes you feel like no matter what you do, your skin will always be a barrier to acceptance amongst your community. None of these are positive emotions, and it does a number on your psyche, but using amongst your friends brings you closer due to the shared experience of… I guess what you could call “adversity.”
I will be the first to admit I do not handle the word as well as many other people in country, but it has driven me to come to a level of understanding of my home that I didn’t think it was possible to come to. I will never be able to fully understand the true depth of how much worse the N word is than Toubab, but I am extremely grateful for that. But, from here on in I will always have a somewhat stronger understanding of how a word can take on a dual personality.
A heavy handed insult can also be claimed as a bond of brotherhood. This may be a struggle that I face, but I face it hand in hand with my fellow volunteers, and though a Malian uttering it may come as a slap in the face, I will continue to use it conversation to make all those slaps sting a little less.
So, if you ever want to make one of those arguments about how the N word exists in English vernacular, I ask only that you think back on my fellow volunteers and my own experience with the word Toubab here, and realize what a colossally insensitive and bigoted mistake you are making. Never apply broad-based assumptions to the way sub-cultures identify themselves and operate, because at best you can only “get” that you “will never get it.” And only once you cross that bridge… will you actually come to true understanding.
Ala k’i segin iyere ma
(A blessing for sickness, but translated directly to “may god return you to yourself”)