I can clearly remember back in 1988 when I was 17 and knew that I knew EVERYTHING. I’d skated through high school without having to study, had filled out my college applications by myself and was accepted to all three choices by October of my senior year because, after all, those colleges could see from my transcript, recommendations, and essays that I knew it all.
Even when I graced the campus of The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with my presence and struggled with calculus and history, those experiences didn’t shake my firmly held belief that I knew EVERYTHING. Those were just two things that were boring anyway; so not really worth knowing. I had a less than stellar GPA, but I knew I could better if I’d wanted to. I was too preoccupied with newfound freedom away from my strict parents.
As a senior at the start of my spring semester, I finally acknowledged that this sweet college life was about to end. I’d have to make a decision: either go to grad school or get a job. Instead, I became a Peace Corps Volunteer. One of my older sisters had the bright idea to organize a going away party and advertise the things that I needed on my packing list. I focused solely on those material items without once reading more about Tanzania or Swahili beyond the information that was given to me in my orientation packet.
I figured, with two months of training, I’d be all set with the language and besides, I was smart, adventurous and well-educated. I hit Tanzania like a typical wide-eyed tourist from a developed country. I was initially enthralled by the beauty of the country and the friendliness of the people. Even the exotic infrastructure of contaminated tap water, intermittent electricity, quasi-toilets and crater-sized potholes amused me.
And the ignorant questions Tanzanians asked me because I happened to be black: Did you come to Tanzania because of that Eddie Murphy movie, “Coming to America”? Do you know Michael Jackson? Which one of your parents is white?
Now that last question, I thought was the strangest of all, since although I’m light skinned, both of my parents are black. I firmly told any Tanzanian who cared to ask, but it seemed to be a national concern since among the things delighted Tanzanian children would yell at me when they saw me walking by was “half-casti” or “half-caste.” Just how many half-caste people had there been in Tanzania for young kids to know that English-derived taunt? (Nearly twenty years later, I finally asked my mother who was the white person in our family tree and it turned out to be my great-great grandfather. Since that was during slavery times, we don’t know if the encounter was a result of sanctioned rape or forbidden romance. So in conclusion, I’m 1/16th white, which means that I’m STILL 100% black.)
Just as I was entering stage two of culture shock where the mental walls started to cave in and everything foreign to me became frustrating, the first crack in my arrogant shield appeared. As Tanzanian after Tanzanian tried to engage me into a political conversation about the United States, I was at a loss for words. This was more than me not taking a general interest in politics. I couldn’t even talk much about American history. The average educated Tanzanian knew far more about American history and geography than I ever cared to know. For the first time in my life, I was embarrassed about how little I knew about EVERYTHING.
I’d grown up in the land of plenty, but it was mostly material things and pop culture with very little substance. I’d received the perfect Cold War education: heavy on math, science, and literacy. Those fluffy subjects such as PE, art, foreign language and history were just there to make me more well-rounded.
Tanzania was my first experience with working abroad. Since then, I’ve worked and traveled in several different countries and I’ve read as much as I could to prepare myself before living/traveling in each prospective country. Now I’m painfully aware that there’s more information about more things than I can possibly read about or experience during my lifetime.
For all my research, travel and varied experiences, I look back and laugh at that arrogant 17-year old I used to be. Every day, I’m reminded of something I don’t know, but can quickly look up on some reputable websites. And I’m humbled everytime I attend trivia night at a local bar. I proudly boast to my team in advance that my best contribution will be giving the team a name. The best team name I’ve come up with so far is “The Cocaine Spiders,” which describes how my best effort to braid a capoeira belt looked like a spider on cocaine trying to spin a web. The team name was a hit and another teammate came up with a little move to go with it. Just put your hands beside your ears and wiggle your fingers.
No trivia team I’ve ever been a part of has won first place. My 17-year-old self would scoff in contempt within the safe confines of her big happy, ignorant bubble.