Wayward Travels: 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.