If you know me at all it should come as no surprise that I have no intentions of converting to Islam—another faith has already stolen my heart, that said… I do often tend to cover my hair. Why? I usually wrap it up when I’m having a bad hair day, or if the scarf matches my outfit especially well, or when I am too lazy to do something with my hair.
In America, I would have liked to wrap my hair sometimes but decided not against it. Mostly for fear of appearing ‘too ethnic’… whatever that means. But here, I can cover in the exact same manner I wished to have done in America, and it is not at all ethnic. If anything, it may be more ‘city’ since I make no attempts to cover my neck and have little reservations about exposing a modest v-necks worth of chest. Okay, okay, yes It is probably interpreted as religious. Maybe. But never in a community have I said that I am Muslim ((or outside of one) but yes, if all people stopped to ask questions about their assumptions there would never be a moment’s peace). Actually, I don’t think I have outright admitted to any religion here. Lots of sidestepping in speech and intentionally potentially misleading facts (à la “my entire family is Christian”).
the 'i'm out of site' usual do
at camp, but more on that in entries to come…
The vast majority of days my hair is uncovered, sometimes doing something unanticipated like being braided or standing up in some “crazy” attention catching way (not that I want attention, I just don’t like flat hair) but when I am in my site, it’s usually pretty boring. And that doesn’t suit me well. I am thinking of cutting my hair again in the vein of spring 2008. I would be more excited about it if I were in Evanston and could dash over to Art + Science for a fun chop and a splash of color…
hi Leah!
Anyway, this past weekend I visited Fauve in her site for a birthday pool party for the Leos of the area [there were about six of us in attendance and some others that couldn’t make it] and while in her site I had curious interactions with people based on my perceived identity.
The pool where we swam at was about 2km out of the town. I left early to meet a friend who just arrived set for the walk all by my lonesome when, while proceeding down the long lane to the main road I was stopped by a car.
“Why do you wear you hair like that?”
I actively control my face and voice and wait to see what these guys are getting at before I get my offensive on. They are two men who are in their 40s or 50s and I see what looks to be the legs of a sleeping child sprawled across the backseat.
“Because I like it.”
This conversation occurred in English. From the start. Which was interesting because I wasn’t dressed particularly like an American. I was wearing a bright orange and purple mumu from Côte d’Ivoire and flip flops with a tote. Idk who I was dressed like, but English as a jumping off point? Curious indeed. I lingered to listen.
We have a conversation that lasts much too long, I really do have to go meet my friend but they ask me if I need help and I accept a ride into town. They had a child and asked me to join them for a drink [which I declined], how much harm could they do me? [LOL] In all, they saved me a lot of time. The driver turned out to be a university professor specializing in geography in a town in the middle of the country. He showed off to me his knowledge of American geography, and English, despite thinking it to be bad. (it was actually quite good).
The men were very hospitable and showed me from the car where they lived, and we continually surprised that I was not Moroccan. They insisted I had a very Moroccan face, but my hair[!!] that is not Moroccan at all! I wasn’t insulted. I took it more like… stating the obvious. But yea for confusion resulting in incident-free free rides!
Yesterday, when I was on a bus returning home, I encountered other assertions about my identity. Yesterday was the day after the pool, and as I did not have time or tools to do anything about my hair, I decided to wrap it up for the ride home. I had one of the most humorously annoying rides ever. And it would not have been humorous if I were alone, it would have only been annoying, but I made a friend.
Halfway to my transfer spot I was awoken from a nap to let the people beside me off the bus and the guy who was sitting in front of me saw me, and thus began the shenanigans. He talked to me in Berber [which I don’t know]. He talked to me in French [which I denied knowing]. He talked to me in Arabic [which I pretended to understand less than I do]. And finally I had to speak in English, because, by golly, I had run out of languages to not know and I, unfortunately, had to be from somewhere.
The guy was… drunk. Or, had been drinking, definitely smelled of some alcohol. And he was loud. And obnoxious. And was apparently an actor. He showed me his passes for the sets of some movies he had worked on (kingdom of heaven was among them). He most often resorted to French, which is really how I made the friend. The guy sitting next to him was Italian and spoke French and since I denied speaking French he kind of took up that lacking spot for me. Anyway, this guy’s deal was he was just trying to be friendly, show me the city, invite me to his house, a real berber house!, marry him [hahahha], and I, according to him, innumerable times, had a VERY Berber face. Which, if I was to believe him, was the impetus of all the conversation.
And, well, I do believe it. BUT… Moroccan men don’t typically harass Moroccan women on buses that I have seen. So even if I did/do/whatever look really Berber, something about my appearance also said I was welcome for annoyance. Boo! However, his interest in me led to me meeting his seat mate who was one a three week vacation in Morocco and works for an NGO in Turin who kept me company for the two hours in town I had to pass before my bus arrived. Not a bad trade off for 40km of stupidity.
In general, I have way less complaints about guys here than fellow female volunteers. And some of that has to do with my ability to effectively not hear things when walking down a street, some of it has to do with when hearing some things thinking of it as a compliment rather than ‘harassment’, but I think a very large part of it is that, without effort, I rather blend in. If my hair isn’t crazy whacked out when I’m in the country, I’m just dressed a little funny, when I am in large cities, I know I am usually taken for Moroccan or, if not French or from some African country not too far away [often times hearing suggestions of Mauritania, Senegal and sometimes even Ghana]. Really, I think those other countries come from dressing a bit differently too. Once I got a massage and the masseuse thought I was Egyptian, but that was more to do with speaking than appearance, which I thought to be a bizarre guess.
It is interesting to think that when people see me they usually think I am something other than who or what I am but I guess for one, or many, reasons or another I’ve grown accustomed to being misidentified in some variation over my brief twenty-three years. Perhaps it is a good skill to take it as it comes, stress free and be complimented by the error when fitting. I only hope that someone’s misidentification never gets me in a situation I don’t know how to deal with. I’m not trying to ‘pass,’ I’m just a walking, talking bundle of eclectic tastes and confusing images.
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