A fellow former Peace Corps volunteer sent me a link to this story.
It's not quite the same experience I had. The country I lived in was next door to South Africa, but had a long history of North American and European volunteers helping them out. So they were used to white people living among them.
But it's similiar enough for me to want to put it here. - OlderMusicGeekI pulled up to my new home and felt terror in the pit of my stomach. But, I knew I had to go through with this. I saw the same fear in Dad’s eyes. “Are you sure you really want to do this?” he asked. I nodded and got out of the car. Next door, two people sat on empty beer crates, drinking beer, on the otherwise deserted street. I wanted to move into my new home quietly, with time to adjust to my new surroundings. But it was too late. The beer drinkers came over to find out why Dad and I were unloading boxes from my truck.
Another local arrived to watch, and within minutes, twenty-five staring people surrounded us, faces as black as night. One of them, a woman, came forward, “Umlungu (‘white man,’ in the Xhosa tongue), what you doing?”
“I’m moving in,” I told her warily as I pointed toward the dilapidated “shantytown” house that was my home for the next thirty days. I sensed her confusion as she turned to the others and translated what I’d said into Xhosa, their native language. As if in slow motion, the looks upon their faces turned from curiosity to disbelief. The crowd murmured in unison as they grappled with the concept of a white man moving into their black community in the township of Guguletu, the African equivalent of a ghetto or shantytown. Unsure of my real motives, the woman introduced herself to me as Maureen, my new neighbor. “What do you mean you are moving in?” Maureen asked.
I decided to tell the truth, as difficult as it was for me to admit. “I recently discovered that I’m a racist,” I told her boldly, not wanting her to know how terrified I was, “and I’m moving into Guguletu to learn about your culture and conquer my fear of black people.” A look of shock crossed their faces....
Maureen looked visibly shocked to hear my admission of being a racist. She translated to the now-baffled and suspicious locals who, after a few seconds of silence, proceeded to laugh as if this was the funniest joke they had ever heard. I later found out that some of them suspected I was a part of a secret police operation sent to infiltrate and spy on them....
The next morning, I woke up with a familiar feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. The reality of my circumstance sunk in, and I wanted to hide away in bed all day. I forced myself to go outside and eat my breakfast sitting on the front steps of my house. As I watched the locals scurry off to work, a small child, dressed in a school uniform, walked past me. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me, obviously shocked to see a white face eating breakfast in his township. “Do you live here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
He looked away, paused for a second, then turned to me and said with wisdom beyond his years “Welcome home.” He turned away and continued his walk to school. Tears rolled down my cheeks as thirty years of racial prejudice evaporated in that instant. I was home...
A link to the complete piece
