I Wish My Skin Would Just Shut Up

Haiti is far beneath me. Like ten thousand feet beneath me. I imagine her undulating mountains waving goodbye to me, or maybe good riddance. After two months, my ego and my heart are bruised. I have collided over and over again with the limits of my assumptions, and the limits of the assumptions of others. I opened up Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man in the airport. The first paragraph reads: "I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me... When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination--indeed, everything and anything except me." What perfect timing. Ellison is writing about being black in America, and the story he weaves is very specific to that experience. But the essence of the problem, the reduction of people into the complex of ideas we have about the color of their skin, I think can help me reflect about this small epoch of my life that is rapidly ceding into the distance. Of course, the difference between racial ideas about white people in Haiti and black people on America is that the ideas about white people are somewhat based in reality. I think for me the more fitting metaphor is language and speech. Being white in Haiti speaks certain things much louder than my voice. It makes my voice mute (or my person invisible). It speaks of disposable income, a life without hunger, the possibility of leaving that place. Of course this is not true for all people with white skin, it happens to be true for me, but those subtleties don't matter. They hear my skin speak of recent history of dependence of foreign aid, a longer (but related) history of slavery, colonization, and imperialism. It talks to them about a history of racism and resentment. My skin says all those things while I waiting for a tap-tap bus or buying an avocado. When I open my mouth to speak, I might say other things, like "I like salad" or "Tell me about the earthquake" but really what I am saying is: "I have the money to travel to another country and if you fuck with me my functioning government will come and get you so play nice." It is also saying things like "I am here to give you money and rice and tarps" which is particularly frustrating because before I came to Haiti I deliberately shed the presumption that I could 'help'. Many Haitians get confused, sometimes even upset, when what my skin says and what I say contradict. I can say whatever I want and most of the time it won't matter, people won't hear me because they are deafened by the noise of "my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination."

I am not upset if people don't want to be my friend. It would be one thing to be ignored and if people didn't care about me. Why should they? They have much bigger things to worry about that the random American chick who wanders around asking questions about things most would rather forget. But the thing is, they do care. They care a great deal. Just not about me. Strangers ask for my phone number, and if I give it to them, they will call me. Frequently. To ask for money, sex, a visa. Maybe just to say nothing, to remind me that they are out there. Often they call me to listen to what my skin says, the sweet promises they hear it whisper. Maybe if they befriend me I'll give them money, or my Ipod? Maybe I'll call up Obama on his cell phone and tell him to intervene on their behalf to try to arrange a scholarship for their son. But what I say with my voice doesn't resonate nearly so much, if at all.

Part of this is the consequence of poverty, and its overlap with race. Money matters so much in Haiti. Money is more important than blood. The reality is that money matters that much everywhere, but in places where most people have at least some of it, like America, we don't have to talk about it quite as much.

For example, in Haiti, many girls are looking for a man to spend money on her. "Does he have a job?" is more important than "Is he hot?". When I went out with K and her friends, they would not want us to talk to guys if they were too cheap to buy us drinks. At first I thought this was crass. But then I realized I have the luxury of being able to buy my own drinks, so I can look for other qualities in the guys I want to talk to. The guys being able to spend the bucks on me is not going to make or break the deal, since I can cover my own bases. But if I couldn't, I'm sure I would be looking for the same thing. K has no income and comes from a poor family. What she is looking for on a Friday night is a way out. Someone said to me here that it's next to impossible to fall in love when you have no idea how you are going to feed your family tomorrow. I believe that. As long as people's most basic material needs are not being met, why would they take the time to develop and intellectual or emotional connection, particularly to someone who doesn't share the same situation?. These two elements aren't even mutually exclusive, and they can both characterize an interaction or a relationship from one moment to the next. I'm not saying it's impossible, and I have had the honor of some serious connections with people who live in refugee camps (and outside the camps) with people who never asked me for anything. But it's rare. For the most part, everyone is trying to move along in the world, make it to the next day, and to many people I met in Haiti, I am the suggestion or promise of a means to an end.

I am flying towards America at hundreds of miles an hour. Haiti is far behind me, and for now it is the ocean and the clouds. I am flying towards building codes, towards laws against corruption, towards English. Most importantly, I am flying towards a cultural language I know more or less how to control. Obviously America too is an incredibly complicated and often fucked up place, and I still make social gaffs and get people pissed at me. There are plenty of places where I speak volumes without words, plenty of places I don't understand. Nevertheless, I will breath a deep sigh of relief when I get off the plane and feel the ratio between things said and things heard even out, at least a little bit.