A long time ago, on an island very long and very far away, I was privy to a decree of the highest order.
My aunt looked at me over our meal of complex carbohydrates and said, “you know, you really do look like Pocahontas,” and thus, a dream was born.
I’ve been telling people that my dream is to be Pocahontas in a Disney parade for years. I’ve developed an unfailing bit with my parents, wherein prompted by a “show them the wave” from my mom, I demonstrate a lovely flick-of-wrist rehearsal. Crowd, crowd. Individual, individual. Delicate fingers, strong elbow, flimsy + unattainable goal.
Now, in Haiti, we drive through the streets every day, atop our very own float (read: overcrowded truckbed). Children stream out of l’ecole buildings, stretching their lungs and flailing their arms, to get our attention.
They yell, “bonswa!” and “ahhhhhh!” and any semblance of English they may know. Kids greet us from the schoolyard, from the street, from their family’s table of snacks for sale, where they wrap themselves around the 2×4 roof supports and cease to be helpful in facilitating purchases.
We look different. We look rich. We are.
These children chase after us like royalty, hoping so direly for that perfectly rehearsed parade wave, or even a nod of our heads in acknowledgment. And I grit my teeth and wonder if a realized dream ever tasted so bitter. God tells me they usually do.
Crowd, crowd. Individual, individual.
To be adored without warrant is a dreadful feeling. It makes my muscles tense up, and a war ensues somewhere behind my ribcage. A huge part of me doesn’t want to respond. It doesn’t want to propagate this idea that we’re worth fawning over. I’ve spent so much time on the offensive against the white savior complex that seems to come pre-stamped into our U.S. passports. I’ve picked it apart, piece by piece, explaining to friends and family the implications of that photo, or the destructive nature of that rhetoric. I’ve fought the good fight, and I hold myself to a higher (albeit not always reached) standard for it.
But when those beautiful eyes and glistening cheeks are staring up at you, being threatened by the disappointment of feeling unseen, how can you not do the one thing that you know will preserve their sweet little smiles? If I board a truck bed and it’s seen as a pedestal, at what point is it my responsibility to step down?
Crowd, crowd. Individual, individual.
What good does it really do for me to abstain from waving to a child? They won’t telepathically glean from that interaction the incredibly complex and countercultural realization that I am not their savior nor should they expect me to be. It’s more likely that they’ll keep waving until the dust settles. They might notice that I didn’t wave back. They might not. They might take it as the latest in a series of lifelong discardments. They might be eight years old and perfectly content finding an excuse to scream during their scheduled arithmetic lesson.
I don’t have an answer. I wrestle with these questions everyday. I know heartbreakingly well that it’s not my duty nor my liberty to jump off the truck and explain to each of these children that they’re worth more than adoring a truck full of sweat-stained backpackers; that they’re beautiful individuals with stories as valuable as ours. I know that sometimes a wave is just a wave, and I’m just imagining the strings attached. So for now I’ve adjusted my routine. I seek smiles as prompting and I scarf down my social conscientiousness. All I can do is try my best; to see every individual, individual.
