Cultural Assimilation: the Good, the Bad and the Ugly

As every study abroad student knows, cultural integration is seen is the ultimate goal. It separates the winners from the losers, the lazy from the dedicated. If one person bonds with their host family, then the rest of us feel a strange need to have something "as cool" to say. To prove that we might belong in this foreign country, to be able to go home and think that we might have multiple homes, or maybe to have bragging rights to your special fruit vendor. Whatever reason, integration is essential.

When we first arrived with our host families, we were assaulted with the "other one." The "other one" is here defined as "Katie," "Jacob," "Ally," or "Kevin." The "other one" was the student(s) that were here before you. To say that your family mentions them is an understatement, because to your new, sensitive, ears, you never hear the end of them. The "other one" was fluent in both Wolof and French. The "other one" probably juggled a full class schedule, tackled multiple internships that miraculously shaped the the Dakarquoise education system, and still had time to bake the family cookies every weekend. No matter how long you stay with your host family, the "other one" is still mentioned.


I cannot honestly put my finger on what inspired the idea in my following story. My first inclination was to undergo this...event...for the sake of convenience. (I'm heading out to live with a peace corps volunteer/back-pack with friends for 2 weeks.) But a part of me wanted to be entered in the Host Student Hall of Fame that my family constantly references. (As if every other bonding moment has been insufficient.) Aaaand it was also because I wanted to understand the lengths some Senegalese women go in the name of beauty. (So I at least have a cultural aspect, here, too.)


I decided...to braid my hair. Cornrow braids, actually. In Senegal, if women don't have braided hair, twisted hair, or treated hair, they are not even real women. Braids are associated with beauty, neatness, and is a general display of elegance. The braids can either be done with one's own hair, or meshe can be added, making the braids longer and smoother. Here is a fabulous example of a lovely girl with mesh and braids: (of course this is my girl Nadia, so I always think she looks awesome)

Look how great Nadia's hair looks!!! (and.. Joké. lol) [This also serves as the "before" picture]

My host sister, Awa Balla, told me of a coiffure in our neighborhood that did the braids. She was very specific on which one, because there is another one close to our house that braids "trop sévère!" I'm thanking several higher powers that I took her advice, because I can't imagine the braiding being anymore severe than it ended up being. I also discussed with some friends of the logistics. I knew that it would take at least 4 hours, hurt a little, but that the pain would go away pretty soon. I knew that once it was done, it could stay in for up to a month and all I had to do was run water over it to clean it. Perfect! I thought, this is going to be great! I can't look any different than if I was wearing a ponytail, right?!?



Feeling pretty good about my plan, I walked over to the coiffure run from a neighbors home. The shop opened up into their courtyard, so it felt more like i was sitting in someone's living room for the whole day. Family came in and out, assessing progress and loudly chatting in Wolof. I announced my presence with a cheery "Salamalekum!!" went through the normal morning greetings, and explained what I wanted. The bemused women took in this wolof-speaking, chipper, tubaab and said, ah, yaangi dekk ak Madame Sourang. -You live with Madame Sourang. Well, at least I didn't have to introduce myself. Haha. They invited me to sit, brought a bottle of water, and continued with their conversations.

Here is an emotional map of the following 5 hours:

11:30 AM: High: The first braid is done, it hurt but nothing unbearable. Everyone is happy and I am happy, too-looking forward to a new "do." They keep asking me if it hurts, and I bravely say tuuti rekk. Only a little. How nice they are for asking!



12:30 PM: Starting the downward slide: Not even a quarter of the way done. Right side of scalp feeling like it was burned. Sad realization: whenever my hair tangles as they part it for a new row of braids, no effort is made to not damage my hair. With a spine-shivering rrrriiiippppp the offending knot is yanked out, usually taking extra hair with it. I found that Wolof vocabulary I didn't know I knew presented itself readily. Though my weak "yaangi yáqu sama coro"-you're destroying my hair- was waved aside.



1:30 PM: Panic builds: 1/3 of the way done, and it looks like I'm a cancer patient. Bald on one side-hair in a tangle on the left. The amount of ripped hair is surrounding my chair is increasing. They're asking me if it hurts and I'm starting to wonder if they are mocking me. I grit my teeth. Tuuti rekk.

2:30 PM: 20 minute Lunch break. They invite me to eat. I've lost track of the conversation for the last hour because I was too busy watching wholesale destruction of my self-confidence take place. Half my head is braided, the right side up to the top, along with a little on the left side by my ear. I find myself unable to appreciate the design that's forming. Normally when I am a guest, and invited for a meal, I try and not be a pig. But right now I honestly couldn't care less. Conversation picks up again and now I can participate.



3:30 PM: Hope rising: Almost finished, but the pain has done nothing but increase. I'm wondering how best I can injure the woman doing this to me and make it look like an accident. I paid for this? Who would ever do this voluntarily? And I don't care who you are or what kind of scalp you have-this shit hurts and beauty has never meant less to me.



4:30 PM: Soul is leeched from body: I'm finished. And the last thing to be braided was the sensitive baby hairs at the back of my neck. The women gathered around me when I was finished, clapping their hands and telling me how beautiful I was. One woman threw her arm around me and proclaimed "yow! Sama tubaab nga!!"-You're my white person! Now that the stabbing pain of braiding was over, an insistent ache was creeping over my scalp and down my neck. In my eagerness to leave the coiffure, now irrevocably sealed in my brain as the House of Horrors, I even danced a little with them, exchanged some besous, and promised my new sadistic friends I would come back "beeneen yoon." Little did they know that the "next time" I would go through that was again if someone was pointing a gun at the back of my head.

The walk back home was done in a daze. The bright sun pricked my eyes after sitting inside for 5 hours, and my legs and back felt like they were being born again. By now I know the people in our neighborhood--and door-guards, random people, and some friends loudly approved my new, raw, hair style. All the feedback has been positive except for one person--my 11 year old host brother. In the spirit of true sibling love, nothing but the truth escapes his lips. He looked me straight in the eye, and informed me, c'est pas jolie. (I leave it to you to guess what that means, for all those non-french speakers.)



My mom, sister, grandmother, and the friend I had over all maintained that it looked great. However, hearing that I had not taken Advil/Tylenol at all throughout the whole process, they insisted that I go take some. Léegi-léegi. Their responses soothed my wounded sense of pride, and I gladly took the medication. Now we could all fully relate to each other in terms of pain, the need for beauty, and the desire for convenience. I'm glad I did it, even if whenever someone touches my head I yell, dafa metti, waay! -it hurts! I am completely aware that I look like a pointy-eared, culture confused, tubaab. But hey, now I have 5 new friends at the *flinch* coiffure, and my sister can give me advice on how to wear my head scarves. Cultural assimilation at its best--the good, the bad, and in some cases, the ugly.

Ok. Ok. Now it's over, the design is pretty cool.

[Sunscreen in my future..]

Happiness that comes with painkillers!!

We All Seek Change

 Two days ago, Senegal's fourth president was elected in a peaceful transfer of power. As if nature agreed with the political movement, Dakar had its first thunderstorm in almost 7 months this morning. The rain pulled the dust from the air and sent it down the gutters. For once, my 20 minute walk to school did not end with slightly aching lungs from all the pollution and poussière. I found myself taking deep breaths of fresh air which smelled of newly damp, warm pavement. But my relief in the change of weather can be only be topped by how the Senegalese feel about their new President. All the dust and pollution from the last administration has been washed away with the tide of change-a tide driven by a man some of my Senegalese friends are calling "Senegal's Obama."

In back: Out with the old...In front: In with the new...
Photo from: StLouisSenegal

Son Excellence Macky Sall was elected, as I wrote in my blog post titled "Y'en a Marre," in a storm of violence, change, and insecurity. Here is an article highlighting the Run-off. Citizens feared that Wade would steer elections in his favor to remain in power. That event would have invariably led to increased violence, and some were whispering, civil war. However, the second tour reached voting day with minimal violence. Meanwhile, the defeated candidates from the first tour rallied behind Sall, along with the M23 movement and Y'en a Marre. I watched the campaigns, feeling better as each day passed with no violence. Throughout this whole election I've known how to keep safe. But I've also known that no matter how bad it got, I could leave, thanks to the US security policy. But then I would tear my eyes away from yet another news broadcast and look at my family. They would not. This was not "an interesting case study in Senegalese politics" for them. They did not have my position or my resources. If I was removed from Senegal due to political instability, my family would face whatever I was running from. Though I am not silly enough to think I am responsible for them, I was still forced to see how likely the worst outcome was. I was also forced to see how much my family meant to me, when I was forced to consider a premature separation from them. Watching the 2nd Tour campaigns were less violent than the first, but characterized by increased tension as likelihood of Wade's interference loomed. Alongside national tension, my personal fear of the results consumed my thoughts.

From a national perspective, debates were intense concerning health care, education, and unemployment. Both sides frequently lost tempers mid-debate and the representatives did nothing except yell at each other. Despite the tension evident in the populace, the candidates campaigned peacefully. I saw only one incident of violence on the news, when Wade supporters infiltrated a rally for Macky Sall. However, compared to the last round of campaigns, these were smooth and without a problem.

Pretty much says it all

My beautiful host mom on the evening of our first neighborhood rally

From a personal perspective, I somehow got roped into the Macky Sall movement. My host mom, who is part of a well-known and influential family of Senegal, took it upon herself to practice the purest form of democracy I can think of. She led and supported the mouvement des citoyens de Sacre Coeur. The citizen movement of Sacre Coeur. For the week before the elections, she and a group of young Senegalese students held rallies for Macky Sall in our neighborhood. If it wasn't a rally, it was door-to-door campaigning to talk directly with people, and get them to vote for change.

My uncle-in tradition with our politically active family-opens the presentation

Sometimes the rallies coincided with a party hosted by my family, which invariably led to lots of dancing and singing. I spent the week discussing politics with the youth leaders of my mom's movement. It was impossible to resist their optimism and passion for a new era for Senegal. As they were always in our house, I ended up taking part in their movement, going to rallies, and becoming their unofficial photographer. (I might or might not have stolen a Sall campaign poster..) They took "power of the people" to a word, and watching their hard work result in success is one of the most rewarding experiences I've had in my 9 months abroad. To read a little about the "new era" of Senegal, click HERE.

Sacre Coeur III

 

 

My mom, aunt and cousin showing their support

Youssou, one of the leaders of the youth movement led by my mom

My mom giving her presentation at the rally

The sister of Macky Sall is on the far right, supporting one of our rallies

My mom! At another rally!

Greeting the "important ladies" (my mom in the yellow dress)

Campaign Leaders

Banner of their rally

What's a political rally without a little celebratory dancing??

The night of the elections, Sall's victory was easy to determine from the beginning of the polling. His 66% majority was clear early on, and thus, the parties started early. Voting began in the morning and by 7 PM that evening, I was out in the streets with my family. Little did I know that the celebrations would last all night. Musicians came to our house, the leaders of my mom's movement were lively and exchanged hugs and laughter. Starting with our house and a group of roughly 20 people, we set  off down our street. Banging on doors, singing, and dancing, the celebrating crowd grew until we were sometimes nearly a hundred people. It was total chaos, and I honestly cannot remember seeing a group of people so happy. Their release of tension and fear yielded a nuit blanche celebration. At 12:30 AM, when the next round of dancing was supposed to begin, I called it a night. I begged dinner from the maid, seeing as the rest of the family was too excited to eat. When I finally attempted to get to sleep at 1 AM, I could still hear the constant blare of car horns on the main road.

And the crowds grow...

My mom calling to our neighbors

Sing and Dance

My cousin and brother!!

Cheering from all sides

Our musicians!

We even jumped on a few cars...

Happy faces!

Holding up traffic

Defacing posters of Wade

And hanging outside of cars...(safety regulations?? this is Senegal..)

The atmosphere of Dakar has changed. Not just literally, thanks to that purifying rain, but the change is almost as clear. My family no longer watches the news in the evening, hoping to not hear of more deaths in demonstrations. We're not waiting to hear more declarations by Wade, presumptuously assuming his victory. The tension leading up the elections transformed the Senegalese into angry and fed up masses. Once again, it is easy to see their ease and sense of humor, unmarked by hidden reservations of the future of their country. It's true, Sall will have to combat the same issues as Wade. The problems with the educations system, the energy system, and unemployment are not going to magically vanish. But Senegal has set the example for democracy to the rest of the continent, as one of the few West African countries to have never undergone a coup d'etat. Instead, we have a rainstorm to wash away the old political era to make way for Senegal's younger future.

(I celebrated by making scones for my family. Haha)