in the Majority

I was going to write an inspiring, thoughtful post about weeds and grass and encouragement. I spent Tuesday at Kibby's Family Farm again, and that is always an inspiring thoughtful time of weeds and grass and encouragement.

Then Tuesday happened... and I haven't quite figured out what I feel about it.

Every Tuesday night I take a Zumba class at our church. It is usually taught by a very fit, very tan, very energetic woman, and there are usually a least a hundred not so fit, not so tan but just as energetic women taking the class. Ladies only, please! This Tuesday when I got to class, only about thirty women were crowded into the "sanctuar-nasium" even though it was already past our 6:30 start time. A woman next to me commented on the low attendance: "I hope this doesn't mean we have a sub tonight... and if we do, I hope it's not that one guy." When it turned out that we did have a sub and it was, in fact, "that one guy," she had a few more things to say before she, and a few other women, left.

I was taken aback.

Why were they so upset? Why did they leave? and why, above all, did that one woman feel like she had to share all of that information with me?

Then I realized... she thinks we're the same and he's different. I'm a white woman taking a Zumba class at a suburban church. I'm in the majority. Hmmm.

In Tanzania, I was a minority. I felt akin to the disillusioned, the voiceless, the despairing. I'm white and I'm a woman... not a position that demanded a lot of respect in an East African country. I was always different, I never fit in. Even when I developed a good group of friends and we used the same words to order "chips maya" at a local restaurant, I was still white and I was still different. I was still a "mzungu" (a term that originally translated "person who turns around because they are lost." Now it just means "white person.") And after three years, I was comfortable with it.

Now I have to get comfortable with not being a minority... as I sit in this coffee shop close to campus and type this blog on my mac with my hair done up in a messy bun... me and at least 3 other women in this place. I don't think I like people assuming that I will feel the way they feel simply because we're the "same."I actually liked Zumba on Tuesday... I think "that guy" did a great job! and because of the women who left, I wanted to run up to him, give him a hug, and let him know I thought he was great and that I'm not like those "other women." [I didn't because I couldn't figure out if this made me the same or different from "them"... plus, there was already a group of women crowding around him complimenting the class.]

In Tanzania, I had to fight hard to learn and adapt to the culture. Here, I'm starting to feel like I need to fight hard to not adapt to the culture. and I'm trying to figure out if that's true and how I feel about it.


on Friday I'll write about weeds and grass and encouragement.
I promise. :)