Confounded by Racial Otherness

 At the risk of self-indulgent overdramatization, I spend time every day thinking about what I've come to categorize as "racialized otherness." Any non-black person (and for all I know, even non-African blacks) living in Ouidah will be confronted with this dynamic.

That is, every day when going about their business, non-blacks  in Ouidah are the recipients of the statement, "yovo" ("whitey"). In my lived experience, this term is applied equally to Asians, Europeans, Latin Americans, Anglos, mestizos, and mulattos (amusing sidenote: the term "Chinois"--"Chinese"--is also similarly used).

The term is usually delivered in a schoolyard, sing-song by bouncy children, such as those pictured:

"Yovo, yovo.

Bon soir.

Ça va bién.

Merci."

The chant is ubiquitous and sung even by toddlers barely able to speak or walk. Occasionally, an adult will yell "yovo," from across the road. It's usually accompanied by waving hello and smiling, and if answered with a greeting, the interaction is typically a friendly one.

What to make of this experience? People react differently. 

Some people find it offensive, annoying, rude, and something to be actively discouraged. Others claim it is an innocent greeting that is merely descriptive; nothing to provoke an angry reaction.

I can't say I'm angered by the yovo chant, but neither am I sanguine about its implications. At minimum, it serves to demarcate "us" and "them," which I suppose happens in every social context, though with varying levels of clarity and intensity. It reinscribes a gap day after day that makes living here a little less satisfying. My preferred form of travel is, as the ethnographers say, "going native." That is simply an impossibility.

It has been a useful exercise to try to imagine this scenario from the sender's point of view. Ouidah, population 60,000, is surprisingly isolated and homogeneous, despite its comparative prosperity and proximity to densely populated Cotonou. It has no cinema or newspapers. There is very little advertising or marketing (a breath of fresh air to be honest). There are two local radio stations, though media use seems scant. Seeing a non-black person is simply a break in the monotony of everyday life. 

From the sender's point of view, breaking up daily monotony is a positive. The child chanting "yovo" seems to derive pleasure from both the chant and the returned salutation. It doesn't take much to provoke a dance, smiles, and conversations from the children and adults who call out "yovo." The racialized gap is easy to bridge. And who can remain angry at such adorable taunting?

While I wish I could move about Ouidah in an invisible fashion, I don't despair at standing out. I put myself in the shoes of Brad Pitt, Madonna, and Kobe and try to treat my public with the affection and warmth that I usually feel coming from them.

My Weekly Conversation Partners

 

Well, it's Sunday again, time to head to Ouidah's basilique for mass. I started going to mass with my roommate Julia who is a serious Catholic. I always told her that I was going to church to network and meet people ("Isn't that what it's all about?"). But church is always productive in so many other ways.

I usually wake up on Sundays and browse the "Vivre la Parole de Dieu au Quotidien" book that the church hierarchy authorizes for popular use. The book contains the readings for the daily masses held 'round the world. I dutifully circle the new vocabulary and phrases with the intention of using them on my friends later in the day, e.g. "vous ne devez plus vous conduire comme les païens" (thou shall no longer act like pagans!). This makes for amusing admonishments and observations, but also contributes to language learning--both comprehension and pronunciation.

Ouidah's basilique is located at an interesting intersection. It is fronted by the plaza of the Python Temple, a touristy but working site for followers of vodun (see the short, PT report produced by youth video students at CIAMO, where I've been teaching as a volunteer) . It also rests kitty corner to "Le Vatican" restaurant and bar. This presents an interesting scenario of imaginary conversations among these three structures. One can imagine a perturbed église catholique shaking her finger at the Python Temple's topless, serpent-clad, and scarified female statue who stares defiantly at the basilique. The statue luxuriates in this context and needles the church by winking at the beer swilling clients seated at le Vatican. The gravity of the situation has reached the highest ranks: Pope Benedict jumped into the symbolic fray last year during a Ouidah stop. By all accounts, a disappointingly small crowd turned out for the visit. Score one for vodun and beer!

Aside from being an amusing location, Ouidah's most profane intersection offers an interesting perspective on the reality of west Africa. The dominating structure continues to be Benin's colonial legacy; it marks government, school, and all other institutions of global interaction. It's characterized by ineffectual implementation and palpable elitism. Ouidah's Basilica houses virtually no traces of l'Africaine: Jesus on the cross is ivory white, as is the virgin rising above the altar (she looks pretty similar to Bolivia's virgen de Copacabana). The only vestiges of native culture are on the backs of about half of the parishioners, who display colorful African fabrics in their Sunday best.

When churchgoers spill out of the mass, they literally face the defiant, vital, and sensual traditions and practices that infuse everyday life in Africa. The stultifying edifice of "civilization" is tempered by the food, language, music, and dance that emerge constantly on my daily walks about town. Nevertheless, Sunday mornings at the basilique provide an illuminating weekly reminder of the challenges, pleasures, and amusements associated with living in Africa.