Resentment, Retribution, Respect

I was put in a delicate situation last weekend. I don't usually tell other people's stories here, but this one affected me greatly, so I feel compelled to speak/write.

My friend S. had been talking all month about this cute guy from her work who she had a crush on. According to S's nightly swoons, he was intelligent, politically conscious, motivated and, not least of all, they had amazing chemistry.

The object of S's desires was a young Mozambican who dreamt of being an actor and continuing his education outside the country. His current position was as the driver for the international NGO where S. was doing a short-term public health internship. It was the best-paying job he could get, though it capitalized on little of his past experience in theater and as an activist.

S. is a student finishing her Master's degree at a prominent Ivy League school in the US. She is originally from California, but has traveled extensively and called places as diverse as New York, Santiago and Rio de Janeiro home. She speaks 3 languages and wants to pursue an international career.

The first time S. and her crush finally went on a date it went spectacularly well. He even took her to his home province of Gaza, 300km north of Maputo, so that she could meet his family. S. had quite the experience in the campo, where the family spoke primarily Shangaan and initiated her into traditional women's work. During that visit, S. pulled the hard roots of a mandioca plant out of the family's machamba (vegetable plot), learned how to have a bucket shower, and cooked rice over an open flame - all "tests" of whether or not she would make an adequate wife for her man.

They had a wonderful time together on this first date, and S. came back to Maputo gushing about what a connection she felt with this guy from her work.

I felt excited by the idea of S. and her friend getting along so well. What a message they were sending, breaking down cultural and social barriers right and left by pursuing their attraction!

Not everyone shared this feeling, however; S. received multiple comments about how it would never work between them. There were also many wagging tongues behind her back, commenting about how scandalous it was that S., the "rich", educated, white American would fall for the driver, of all people. If she'd perhaps become enamored of the Mozambican financial officer at the organization, that would be fine, but to stoop to the level of a motorista? Unthinkable. She must be out of her mind!

Last weekend, I had invited a few girls over for dinner. I was making tacos and other traditional New Mexican fare, and S. asked if she might invite her crush over to share the meal. I said there was no problem whatsoever, and we buzzed about the kitchen getting the food ready, S. excited by the idea of being able to give him a taste of her world as he'd done for her during the trip to Gaza.

J. and F. came over with some wine, and helped us finish up the final preparations for dinner.

Finally there came a knock on the door, and S. squealed and ran to receive her man. He'd brought along his cousin, a sweet teenage girl, and the two of them stood a bit awkwardly outside the door to the flat. S. unlocked the door, and I stood behind her in the hallway and welcomed our visitors. "Come it! I'm so glad you were able to come. Please make yourselves at home."

We all sat in the living room - me, S., our 2 girlfriends, the crush and his cousin. I started making smalltalk, pulling out all the stops as a hostess. I told the crush and the cousin a bit about the food I'd prepared, then chit-chatted about all of the delicious Mozambican food I've tried to date. We were having a nice time, and the conversation was beginning to flow naturally.

Then S.'s man made a comment that was so off-color it stopped me mid-sentence. Basically, he turned to us and said, "I bet you're all thinking 'Get this [n-word] out of here. Right? Hahahah!! Kick the [n-word] out the door.'"

I was shocked, and honestly thought I'd grossly misunderstood his Portuguese because I couldn't fathom someone making such a remark, especially given the context that he was a guest for dinner in my home.

"O que??" What on earth do you mean by that?

The guy repeated the comment, stared pointedly at all of us as if waiting for some sort of reaction, then started laughing hysterically.

"Hahaha! I'm just kidding," he said, "I like to make jokes."

Yeah, fucking hilarious.

I tried to brush off that remark and not take it personally. S. had mentioned before that this guy was quite dramatic, loved to do theater, and had a way of provoking people. Perhaps this was the way his personality manifested itself when he was a bit nervous. After all, as he said, it was his first time being invited to a white person's house for a meal.

Truthfully, though, I was extraordinarily offended. Whatever the motivations for that comment, it was something that I found very inappropriate. I understand the idea of using humor to deal with complex issues, but the self-depreciating (and obviously racially charged) way this guy chose to express himself was like a blow to the gut for me.

The rest of the dinner, unfortuately, went along similar lines. S.'s man outright refused to eat my food (though his cousin happily had seconds and seemed to be enjoying herself, if not a bit mortified by her primo's behavior). I didn't take that personally either, though it's the first time I've ever had someone over to dinner who has turned down my hospitality. What would have happened, I wondered, if S. had refused to eat his mother's cooking on the trip to Gaza? I'm certain it would have caused some serious offense, but whatever.

What happened next was almost as surreal and offensive as the guy's inital race "joke". He proceeded to personally attack each of us foreigners at the table (with the exception of S., who was drinking her wine and trying to be oblivious to the situation at hand). I played the supreme role of diplomat and gracious hostess for the rest of the evening, trying to defuse an increasingly unpleasant interaction. My girlfriends took his provocations as well as possible, with F. choosing to be practically silent at the dinner table, and J. making a visible effort to hold her tongue.

He told J. that she - along with all other citizens of the UK - was chata, a bore and too serious.

He told F. that she - along with all other Italians - was aloof and uncommunicative.

I got nailed for traveling too much, and for being in a relationship with a Brazilian (not sure what that one was about).

All of these comments, of course, then brushed off as "jokes".

His insults made me tempted to blame it on ignorance, as sweeping generalizations about race and nationality are often made by individuals with no multi-cultural experience or sensitivity whatsoever. However, this guy works in an international office, and obviously was having a pleasant time hanging out with S. up to this point, so it wasn't as if he were incapable of being respectful toward foreigners. I got the distinct feeling - as did J. - that is remarks were quite calculated and intended to offend.

It seemed as if he was taking the opportunity to avenge the discrimination and lack of respect he'd felt at the hand of white foreigners in the past; or perhaps, if he'd not directly experienced such oppression, he was taking out long-harbored grievances on behalf of his brothers and sisters who did suffer at the hand of people that look and talk like "us". One certainly got the impression that his actions were representative of something much larger, much more seeped in resentment and bitterness, than could have possibly transpired in the space of a 3-hour dinner to which he had been invited and was being treated, along with his cousin, as a guest of honor.

After the meal was over, we all went out for some live music and dancing. By this point, J. and I had snuck a quick chat in the bathroom and agreed that this guy was not a positive person, that we had exhausted ourselves trying to be polite and diplomatic, and that at this point he was simply sucking our energy. So we went off and danced with F. and some other nice girls we met at the club in a little group. Interestingly, the crush's younger cousin decided to join us, and we had a fabulous time shimmying and twirling to the music.

S. and her man ended up getting in a colossal fight that evening. Unfortunately, she doesn't remember much of it thanks to the amnesia-inducing properties of alcohol.

The next day, S. and her guy made up. They came over to the flat and announced their grand plans: the crush was going to take S. to the beach for the remainder of the weekend - her last in Mozambique - and treat her to a nice hotel and lots of good times for her to take away as sweet memories. He said he needed to get a few things ready for the trip, and told S. to pack her bags, that he would be back to pick her up in 40 minutes.

S. excitedly got together a bikini, a cute outfit for a romantic dinner, her guidebook, insect repellant and all the other necessities for a weekend getaway. An hour passed, and there was no sign of her man. Two hours passed. Keeping in mind cultural differences regarding the perception of time, S. patiently waited. Three hous passed. She called her man and got no response. Four hours. She texted him, with no answer. Five hours. She started crying and decided to join me an F. for a meal at the Thai restaurant. Six hours. Seven. No sign of the guy whatsoever. It was becoming apparent that either something horrible had happened, or he had flat-out stood S. up for their date.

When he didn't show by that evening, S. and I decided to have a girl's night and stayed home watching movies and drinking wine. She was so upset by what had happened. I tried to offer comfort, but there is little to be done in such times. When the hurt is that deep, and completely unexplainable, sometimes the only thing to do is cry and cry.

The next afternoon, a full 36 hours after telling S. to pack her bags for the beach trip, the guy finally sent a text message. He said that he'd been tending to his dying uncle, that there were family obligations that he needed to respect. S. and I both understood the gravity of a sick relative; but was it not possible to share this information sooner rather than later, thus avoiding a night of tears?

S. left Mozambique yesterday. Before her flight, she allowed her man to come over one last time. Apparently he apologized sufficiently for her taste, because she gave him a "second chance". They will see what happens over the next few months, as S. has plans to return here next year at some point to do research for her thesis.

The events of the weekend left me with several thoughts:

1) I believe there is a pressure among expats in the developing world - at least a pressure that I feel as an expat in this situation - to befriend "locals" that represent the most humble levels of the socio-economic spectrum. It's as if an experience in another country is only "authentic" when one can say the've been to the shantytown, established friendships with the humble farmer, stayed in a home with no electricity or running water, had a consult with the local healer, etc.

My willingness (and sense of obligation) to be kind and patient with S.'s crush made me realize how much of that was due to the fact that he represented the elusive "authentic local person" that I've so desired to bond with here in Mozambique. Were this man an American, I'd be respectful towards him because that's the way I want to behave in general, and because he's someone that my friend obviously has feelings for. However, I'd have had much less tolerance for his insults and offensive jokes were he one of my peers, and would likely have kicked him out of my house after the infamous dinner. In the US, for me, an asshole is an asshole regardless of race or social standing. As an expat, I am much more tolerant, especially if the person is of humble origins. I don't know that this is a posture I am proud of.

2) There is significant pressure on expats to always be the representative of their home country. I want to set a good example no matter where I travel, because I don't want to become the justification for someone I encounter on my travles to develop an "ugly American" stereotype. I want to show that Americans can be cultured, aware of world events, pacifists, intelligent, tolerant, etc. I want to exemplify the best possible face of my country.

Given this desire, it makes it hard to put up limits sometimes. If I'd kicked this guy out of my house for being offensive, for example, certainly he'd add a list of expletives to his current stereotypes about Americans. I think all expats want to set a good example, but for Americans I feel, at this point in history, it is even a more critical concern. It is difficult to strike a balance between wanting to be a cultural ambassador and needing to respect your personal limits.

3) I am glad that I have my relationship with Ricardo. For multiple reasons, on infinite levels.

4) I continue to try and embody the lesson of being non-judgmental. I'm not entirely there yet, but at least I'm aware of this fact.

5) I am grateful to know the true meaning of forgiveness, that it is a decision one arrives at for one's own good, and for no other reason. To harbor hate and resentment is a recipe for wearing away at one's soul. Forgiving - whatever may be the transgression - is an act of self-love. It does not condone the actions of another, nor does it send the message that those actions did not have the capacity to hurt and poison. I am thankful to have forgiven many hurtful, hateful acts against me to this point. I feel genuine pity for those unable to let go and heal, for resentment and hate of that nature are destined to be passed on from generation to generation.

6) This is my first truly unpleasant interaction with a Mozambican. I hope it is my last, but if not, I hope to be able to deal with the next one with a better balance of self-respect and sensitivity for my position as a guest in a third-country. If that means throwing the guy out the front door, so be it. I hope to stand proud behind my decision.