Small town life
I have lived most of my life in South Carolina [other states include North Carolina, Virginia, and Tennessee] — a state with roughly 5 million people in it, and just prior to departure, I moved back to the area I grew up in. The town I currently reside in has approximately 800 people in it, and yet I still have my anonymity.
I blend in mostly due to my race [it’s all either black or white] or my speech [I do have quite the southern accent when I let my guard down]. I’ve been putting purple streaks in my hair for a few years, but it’s so subtle that no one hardly notices until I am in the sun or under a light. I enjoy my peace and quiet–I have three sets of neighbors within a mile radius and a hay field across the street. It’s a quiet, somewhat predictable life.
Even with brightly colored hair, I blend in whilst in London.
Living in a small town creates lots of privacy, but little anonymity. If you’re not careful, everyone will know your business. You can’t cry in public or curse at anyone because chances are, you’ll see these people again. Even if you don’t want to.
There’s no clubs for dancing or bars for drinking in my little town, and only two of what we call restaurants. Being seen at one of these becomes fodder for gossip especially if anything untoward happens.
Despite all that, I blended in. Mostly.
I blend in at work–even whilst wearing my pediatric-centric tops.
Village Life
I’ve spent the past year [plus] living in a village even smaller than my town, speaking a language that I’ll never speak again once I leave the country. Despite knowing all about small town life, in this village, I am the other. I’m different because of my skin tone, much, much lighter than anyone else’s. I’m different because of my accent–my tendency to speak Spanish not French when I can’t think of a word in Kinyarwanda. Traveling to other countries also makes me different. My American passport makes me different. I’m different because I’m unmarried and childless. Most of my village peers are both married and are mothers. I’m different because I have no real desire ever have kids. My short, but fast growing, soft hair makes me different.
Even among my fellow Peace Corps volunteers, I’m different because I’m older than most, but not yet at that “I’m retired; I think I’ll go join the Peace Corps stage.” I’m at an age where friends are having babies left and right. Some are getting divorced and some are getting married. Again.
Any of these would have set me apart. In combination, they ensured I would never be completely able to blend in… never enjoy the anonymity I love. It’s not the first time I’ve been a visible minority, but it was the first time I’d been one for such an extended period [and it gave me newfound respect for people who are “The Other” for their entire lives].
Even before I landed in Rwanda, I suspected that would have to change something, but I don’t think I fully anticipated the degree to which it would. I went from a mostly anonymous local to instant celebrity in a matter of days. It was strange, and I hated it. I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to blend in with the crowd, and here I was–on display for everyone to see. I felt eyes on me all of the time. I carefully considered every word that dropped from my mouth. Actions required thoughts before I did them.
Escaping to Huye was a welcome respite from village life
Rwanda village life
I learned that in Rwanda people will frankly comment on your physical appearance as a matter of course, and for me, that was a constant reminder of my paleness, my size, the strangeness of my straight, short [mostly] brown hair, my lack of makeup, my choice of dress.
To integrate into my community, I had to eschew anonymity. I hid certain parts of myself. I hid the me that sometimes liked to dye my hair strange colors. The IDGAF vibe I sometime give off–put away–for now. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was always myself, just a different version of myself from before. In my village, I will always be Mishel. Mishel never wore anything cut higher than her knees. More often Mishel wore pants. Every woman wears skirts in the village. Mishel never, not once, drank alcohol, despite its availability. She always waved, smiled, and greeted people appropriately according to the time of day. Mishel never flirted with men. Rejected those who flirted with her, never cursed, and never went out after dark.
I might be making this sound like play-acting, and it was and it wasn’t. We all play roles over the course of our lives. Mine was true to myself and consciously chosen. I realized that one of the deepest impacts I could make in my community was to be a role model to young people who needed one desperately. At times it felt exhausting and overwhelming, a weight of watchfulness and potential gossip I shouldered daily.
I am back in the USA for now, most likely for good. I am back to blending in when I want to, and being noticed when I want as well. It’s one of the odd parts of service that people do not talk about too much–the readjustment period. To be honest, it hasn’t been that difficult. I have adjusted well to flushing toilets, comfortable beds, and running, potable water. Driving myself around to wherever I need to be is a lot easier than waiting for a Moto. I’ve adjusted well to having indoor kitty cats again. I’ve adjusted well to not haggling over every little thing I want to buy. The grocery store is still a bit intimidating. But in all fairness, it was intimidating before I moved to rural Rwanda.
Musical accompaniment provided by Frankel’s Anonymity is the New Fame