Minority Experience

Part 1

Last Monday, January 18th, I checked with the music teacher at the school to see if he could take the children for music at 4pm. He was packing up to go home already, so I needed to come up with a music and theatre combo for the group.

A few minutes later, as children started coming in for the After School Programme, Zoya came up and showed me that she finished a half-page I asked the kids to write about what it means to be a good leader. She wrote about Dr. Martin Luther King, and had even done a little more research about him. I looked it over, then told her that today was in fact MLK day in the US. Her smile got bigger and her eyes lit up. "Really?" I'm sure my eyes lit up at the same time, because I saw an immediate solution.

I asked her if she would like to read it for the group when it was time for the theatre session, since we had to change plans a little. She agreed, and I made a mental note to come up with some songs we could sing.

When 4pm (the scheduled time for creative activities) rolled around, I introduced the topic. Many of them had heard of Dr. King, and a few even knew what he did. Zoya read her piece, followed by applause. I then talked a little more about what Dr. King meant for people in America. It was difficult and improvised, but I did my best to connect the story back to their understanding of their own history.

The US and St. Lucia both experienced slavery. I talked about how Lincoln set the slaves free with the Emancipation Proclamation. Here they celebrate Emancipation Day on August 1, when the UK freed its slaves. I talked about the struggle of blacks and animosity between races, and how Dr. King and other civil rights leaders used peaceful protests to demand their rights.

One boy said that the white people shot Dr. King. At this point it was extremely important to me to clarify the extent and limitations of racism in the US. I told them that there were white abolitionists before slavery was over, and that there were many white people supporting and working for civil rights for all races in the 20th century. I knew it would be a touchy topic, but it worked and the kids saw how strongly I felt about it. We ended by singing "This Little Light of Mine."

Goal 2 achieved.



Part 2

I've mentioned this before on the blog, but serving as a PCV has given me the kind of perspectives I was seeking. One that I hadn't given much thought to before leaving but that hit me in the face as soon as I arrived was a real minority perspective.

Some of you reading know that I identify as Hispanic, but I'm such a guera that practically nobody would describe me as such. Even my claim to it is tenuous, especially when I'm not in the Southwest. My mom was not from Mexico as it is known today, but rather from south Texas. She is also a guera, meaning she has fair skin and her hair is not pitch black like the typical image of the ethnicity. When I say my mom is Mexican, I suppose I mean Chicana--a word not used in Texas. She and her siblings grew up speaking English because her father wanted them to have that advantage, but that fair skin and no Spanish accent didn't mean she was (or is) never discriminated against. While I haven't had to overcome racial inequalities myself, I embrace my family's history and culture.

In that sense and that sense only I am a minority in the United States. In St. Lucia I am absolutely a minority. I live here, and endure assumptions about me from all sides. People who don't know me or haven't seen me often enough assume I'm a tourist. If I'm lucky they think I'm a medical student. They assume I don't know prices for things, that I don't know their Kweyol language (which is mostly true), that I don't know how to get around, and worst of all that I have a lot of money.

I'm also met with a lot of interest from people who wouldn't naturally ask questions of a Lucian they didn't know. Yesterday Berney and I went to Sandy Beach. As we were packing up to go, a girl of about 16 (I guess) came over and asked us our names. Well, she asked Berney his name, and then me mine. We each hesitated but told her. She wandered back to her friends who continued walking along. No reason, it seemed, just curiosity.

By the time we got to into VF, it was after 6, so we stood out by the beginning of the Vieux Fort-Laborie highway instead of the bus stand. About ten minutes went by before an Augier bus came by for us to get on, and as sometimes happens on weekends, the back of the bus was filled with rowdy young men on their way home after a day of drinks.

The gason (dude) sitting next to Berney had let rum get the better of him, and he loudly harassed us. Nothing really aggressive, and nothing to the extent that I expected bodily or property harm, but it was pretty irritating. His friends tried to get him off the topic, but he would have none of it. One gason behind us tried to apologize to us by saying "I love tourists" a few times. By the time we were by the mall, the soule (drunkard) next to us was lightly knocking (in the American sense of the word) Berney on the shoulder as he got madder.

At the mall two girls got on the bus, and one of the young men told Soule to knock it off while the girls were on the bus. That didn't last long. He continued to threaten us and tap (again, American meaning) Berney on the arm and head, speaking in Kweyol with the key words I was waiting for: fanm, blan, etc. I leaned over and told him "Eh gason, ki te nou bat mi se nou!"

"What?" He leaned over to hear me better.

I told him very firmly and angrily, "Ki te nou, bat mi se nou!"

That shut him up for a bit, muttering under his breath sexual threats against me and violent threats against Berney. At least he stopped tapping Berney. His friends were freaked out, one of them saying "Dey undastand ah language, gason!"

Soule turned his attention to the girl in front of him. I'm not sure exactly what precipitated, but he started a small fight between them and the girls shouted for the bus driver to pull over. They declared they would not pay, they must get off. The driver, caring more about his pay than the safety or comfort of his passengers, got out and demanded that they or the fellows on the bus pay for them, but the girls were already walking up the road.

While the door was still open, Soule's friends tried to get him out of the van. He resisted strongly, and one of the guys with him took a 4 foot long two-by-four from a pile nearby. Not even a real scuffle, and the drunk man was finally pulled out and a couple of his friends stayed with him. The driver got back to his seat, picked up the girls, and continued on.

Not too far down, the leader of the young men, called Blacks, said "Stopping at de gap, driva," and the remaining group went down from the bus. Blacks apologized to us as he got out, but I told him "Thank you." We were safely at my house not much longer.

Talking about it afterward, Berney said he was glad he was the one sitting next to Soule, but I felt awful that he had to go through it. There had been two other seats on the bus we could have taken, not next to each other; we decided it was better that we were seated together even though we were closer to the rowdy bunch.

We know, though, that the aggression wasn't because it was us, but because he was drunk and we were different. Had two Lucian girls been sitting in our seats, I expect something similar would happen. I'm very thankful that nothing further precipitated, but I also know that there's not really a way to avoid the same situation in the future.

I wish I could blend in anywhere I go, but I'm not a chameleon. Here I will continue to stick out like a big pasty sore thumb.