in the box

Jasper Johns, Flag,  1954-55 (image)

My 9^th grade English teacher (who then became my 12^th grade AP English teacher…lucky him J) said all the time “Think outside the box.” He would give us essay assignments and there would be a doodle—a box with an arrow to the exterior and he would mark it “You are here.” We were outside the box. We thought outside the box. If you didn’t, well then, that was kind of stinky for you.

In the years since then, I like to think of living life outside the box. You think you can impose stereotypes upon me?! Well, you may think you know, but really, you have no idea (anyone get the reference to the old show “Diary” on MTV?). People are a series of contradictions, of deep crevices, of secrets, and stories. No one is the same, and often, even if we don’t want to embrace it, we can never be rid of it.

Well, unless people put you in a box with walls to high to climb out of and you figure instead of fighting to get out, might as well decorate the interior and get comfortable.

Insert me. I’m an American living in Mali. That’s the basic statement. I know there is more to it, you lovely readers know there is more to it, but that a true statement. I’m the sole PCV in my town, which is pretty big and at one point had up to four PCVs, and at school I get the “Well she’s American” looks, thoughts, and gestures a lot.

Before coming to Mali I often thought about how the cosmos decided I would be born an American baby. I often say I have never won anything in my life, but really, being born in Newport, Rhode Island was the biggest and most important lottery win ever (sure my father could be Bill Gates, but let’s not get too particular here).  Besides feeling just grateful for, well, life as an American, I never gave much thought to being considered “American.”

Does that make sense? I appreciated what I had, everything from being able to wear pants to school, to going to college, to walking down the street without my citizenship being questioned, but when asked in all those school projects, “Who are you?” my first thought wasn’t: “I am an American.”

That’s starting to shift.  Here at school, my life is one of a goldfish. I’m constantly being looked at and inspected, and if I had a glass bowl I’m sure my host family would be tapping on it often.  I have an American backpack. I speak American English. I have short hair (obviously American). I have buttons that are written in English. I have an American name.

I was asked earlier this week to speak in the 9^th grade history class about American Independence and the American Revolution. I was introduced as being “an American” and therefore, an expert on the topic. I sat in the class, and when the teacher asked me what I thought about the US flag one of the students drew I said it was wrong. The kid looked at me like I just told him Santa Claus doesn’t exist. The teacher paused, staring at me. I said that the flag doesn’t have blue stars, it has white stars with a blue background. The teacher totally takes my side (because I mean, it’s true) and says that the kid is getting a zero on his flag because it is not the American flag. I sat down.

I was a little surprised at my blunt response. I wouldn’t want kids to think the flag looked the way it was portrayed, but slowly, it seems this deep sense of American patriotism is itching its way into daily conversation. I just finished a conversation with the another coworker about Obama and his rise to political history during the last election, about what a sight it was to behold when it was happening, what it meant to his supporters when he got the nomination, and then when he won. The crowds really did go wild.

I’ve been put into this box of representing all that is American. And sure, most of the people and the kids here do know that I’m not every American, but right now I am their American. To some of the kindergarteners I see everyday, I’m the first white person they see whom smiles and waves to them. It’s a challenge, and a blessing.

I was asked by one of my favorite students one day on the way home from work, which place I like better, Mali or America. I said that is a hard question because everyone has a soft spot for their home no matter where they are.

So, I’ve officially started to embrace this Americana box I’ve been put in. I’m happy to talk about life in the States, about why we fought for independence and why that is important today. I’ll help explain the American education system, and the election process as it comes. I’ll continue to be weird because I like pasta over rice, and think a 9pm bedtime without tea is totally legitimate.

I’m an American. I’m a lot of other important things too. But right now, I’m in the American box, working on arranging all my flags just so…