The past few months, I feel like I have been inhaling books left and right. I was (re-)introduced to Trevor Noah’s autobiography by one of the British missionaries that we met when we were in South Africa. One of the times that we visited her, she had it on her counter and couldn’t recommend it enough, so I had to read it.
After finally reading this book, I felt less alone in my own version of Noah’s childhood & young-adult reality. It was like reading about someone who had similar enough experiences and telling me their stories solely to me, on my own time. Especially being in Africa the past three months, most everyone there saw me and immediately assumed that I was one of them and had the most difficult time piecing together that I could possibly be from the same country as the white people that I was traveling with and that, in fact, I was not actually one of them (an African).
“Wait, wait,” your mind says, “The racism code says if he doesn’t look like me he isn’t like me, but the language code says if he speaks like me he…is like me? Something is off here. I can’t figure this out.” (Intro to Chp. 4, Chameleon)
I had been living in places where everyone assumed that since I looked like them and unlike those that I was living with, I had to be African, I had to speak whatever local language. But, unfortunately for the people that tried to force me into the ethnic/racial schemas that they placed me in before talking to me, I was offensive or wrong (somehow). It was these things that made it hard to live in Africa for three months, especially the last two because I had no way to communicate to the locals for and by myself. So, as a rule of thumb, I did my best to hide in plain sight: I rarely spoke, I almost never stood or walked in the front of our groups, and frequently acted like I wasn’t paying attention so that I wouldn’t be forced into translating (even though I was incapable).
That, and so many other smaller incidents in my life, made me realize that language, even more than color, defines who you are to people. (Chp. 4, Chameleon)
Ultimately, reading this book in Africa, made me reflect on my experiences in Africa, good, bad, and other. I reflected on my behaviour in public settings, like when my team would travel to and from Gabarone in Botswana via kombi (mini-bus) and a taxi. I was forced to check my behaviour in those circumstances so that I wouldn’t let two very negative experiences with taxi drivers permanently taint my opinion of Botswana. In Zambia, I felt like I was almost expected to learn one of the local languages because I was the only African-American in the two teams that i lived with last month. I learned the basic phrases but not much more. I told myself that I was pursuing learning Nyanja, but I wasn’t really. And, that is something that I will always regret, because I know how much I loved learning a minuscule amount of Creole when we were in Haiti, and how even that small amount allowed me to talk to several people, on very shallow levels mind you. During last month, we spent a lot of time getting to know and pouring into a family in smaller teams. And, on this side of that month, what it would have looked like to been able to ask the mom how she was doing or what she has been reading in her Bible; what it would have been like to ask the two daughters what their favourite sweets are or what they like to do; or to ask the father what type of work he is now pursuing. These questions will now forever go unanswered because I didn’t care enough in the moment to figure out how to ask the questions or to have them translated. And, going forward, I’m going to pursue language, culture, and the people we are ministering to over myself, to a healthy limit.
We spend so much time being afraid of failure, afraid of rejection. But regret is the thing we should fear most. Failre is an answer. Rejection is an answer. Regret is an eternal question you will never have the answer to. “What if…” “If only…” “I wonder what would have…” You will never, need know, and it will haunt you for the rest of your days. (Intro to Chp. 12, A Young Main’s Long, Awkward Occasionally Tragic, and Frequently Humiliating Education in Affairs of the Heart, Part II: The Crush)
I know I didn’t talk about the book, almost at all, but you should read it and just think about your life in relation to Noah’s words.
Angie the Storyteller, Worshipper, and Gift
