Now, I'd like to believe I'm open-minded when it comes to cross cultural issues. (As I've learned in this class it's wrong of me to say that I'm not prejudiced because we all are, and admitting it is the first step to moving past it.) My best friend in elementary school was a Muslim, and she took me to her mosque and taught me about her culture. Later on, at my first college, I befriended a group of Chinese girls and drove them to the airport over fall break and learned about their culture, also. I make it a point to be friendly to international students. If I'm homesick, I can't imagine how they feel. This is all to explain why when a young man from the Congo (whom I later found out to be 26 - not quite so young in comparison) asked if he could take the seat next to mine at the piano bar last night, I welcomed him to our table warmly.
I don't know my African culture too well. Maybe I smiled too much or held eye contact for an inappropriate amount of time, or did something American that led him to believe I was interested. (Keep in mind, please, that this was after an earlier conversation with my friend about if I should respond when a random guy at a Chinese restaurant says hi to me. I argued that if I answered, I opened myself up to more conversation. She reminded me to be polite.) Anyway, I've always been very interested in the Congo, so when the conversation steered towards things like, "You're very beautiful. I'm going to request a song for you," I tried to steer it back to things like, "How long have you lived in the US? What's the Congo like?" With my essay freshly penned, I forced myself to keep an open mind and continuously reminded myself that because his English wasn't so hot, he wasn't communicating exactly what it was he meant to say. So I smiled and nodded along and even felt slightly flattered when he took off his hat and said that it was a sign that he respected me, like his father or mother. But then things got a little weird. I believe the actual quote was, "I wish you could have my children."
Say what!?!?!?! If any other guy had said that to me, I would have slapped him across the face. But STILL I tried to be understanding and bridge the gap. Surely that was not really what he meant to say. I shot back with, "What are you studying?" (Smooth, I know.) His answer: to be a gynecologist. I might have vomited in my mouth a little bit. But still, I told myself, gynecology is a valid profession, even though I will never understand why any man chooses it. He went for a new tactic at this point, writing on a slip of a paper and passing it to me. It read, "Eli, I need a white girlfriend. Can you help me with this?" I tried to ignore my friends who were laughing hysterically on my other side (thanks for having my back, guys), and explained to him innocently and non-commitally that I was too young. To this he asked if I had a sister. Charming. He started complaining then that he had been here for four years (four!? I was less forgiving of the cultural gap at this news), and still he could not find a white girlfriend. I tried excusing us all with the fact that we're focusing on school right now. "But if you find a man with enough money," he says, "you wouldn't need school." Ha. I laughed at the thought of what my mother or former women's studies professor would have to say about that, and did my best to convince him that I would still want a degree no matter what. (Which he did not believe, and maybe subconsciously I don't believe either. A life of travel rather than studying? Gee. Tough call.)
Despite my best efforts to rein in the situation, he began to lean over me and introduce himself to my friend, setting his hand dangerously close to places where he will spend a majority of his time if he in fact becomes a gynecologist. At this point I excused myself to the bathroom.
I convinced my friends to finish their drinks and escape the bar shortly after, assuring Dr. Congo that I would be back next Thursday. (Which of course isn't true in the slightest; I can never return to the piano bar on a Thursday night again.)
After much karaoke, a long stroll to the diner in the slush and snow, a parking lot dance-off and sprinkle-covered chocolate chip pancakes, I managed to shake off the odd encounter. I'm still not sure where I went wrong and how to avoid a repeat scenario in the future...maybe my cross cultural professor can teach me a thing or two. For now, I can only hope not to run into Dr. Congo again. Especially at a future gynecology appointment.
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