Race Matters

Last Sunday while I was playing pick-up basketball in Paynesville Park, there was a few minutes during one of the arguments that typically interrupt the games when I took the ball to the other end of the court to shoot around.  The argument was funny and ridiculous and I knew that, as they say in Liberia, it would take some time.  

Taps, who was refereeing the game, had abruptly stopped play because he noticed that Danni the point guard was wearing a chain around his neck that posed a potential safety hazard to the players around him, “Man can get his hand caught in there and get some hurt,” Taps declared, “Danni needs to remove his chain.”  Taps is six foot four, at least 240 pounds and member of the old neighborhood, so people tend to listen to him.  The game stopped. 

 “Man, this chain don’t move,” Danni protested.  This chain doesn’t come off.   And at this challenge, at least four players on the court encircled Danni trying to find a clasp on his chain to detach it.  They did this with amazing care, running the chain along sweaty fingers many long and then sifting through medium sized links one by one with thumb and forefinger not unlike the movement of nuns on rosary beads.   Not finding a clasp, at least two other players joined the group and tried to lift the chain over Danni's head which they could not do.  Danni first offered to tilt down his chin to aid the process.  When this didn’t work he went the other way, looking towards the sky.  This did not help either. The players debated through the process while Danni continued to look upwards as if he were communicating with a higher being.  His monologue was simply, “I told them so.  They do not listen.”   

“The chain don’t move!” 

“Man, the chain MUST move.  Danni not born with no chain on his neck.”

“Well the chain ain’t moving!”

“Man, let Danni play.  He’s been playing with this chain too long and now you want to move the man’s chain?”

“Man’s chain is not the point,” Taps said, “Rules are rules.” 

Taps words gave pause then validation to a new round of debate.  All players on the court were now involved including additional players who had stepped onto the court, who had been waiting patiently for the next game, but not now.  Side-bar conversations were born—political satellites-- as not everyone could fit around small Danni.   Included on the periphery were the various towns people, who customarily sat to watch the games on the concrete short wall bordering the courts but who had now been sucked into the action as they had rarely been.  Some actively watched how large grown men had difficultly resolving small problems.  Some laughed having just grasped the puzzle.  Some discussed the situation with logic and reason with fingers pointing and palms outstretched.  The interruption appeared to be good for the egg, hard biscuit and beverage business as children wove through the array of players selling their products casually and without much emotion, their inventory perched initially in plastic containers on their heads.  Serious egg, biscuit and beverage vendors they were.  Some players resolved that this debate might never resolve, so out came the Club, Liberia’s local beer, and two individual cigarettes, Paynsville’s Lucy’s?  Sans the beer, water, eggs, biscuits and cigarettes, I was at one with this particular cohort.  This argument was not going to end soon.

At the other basket overlooking a small hard dirt courtyard separating two small tin roofed huts, I thus proceeded with the drills I have been doing for over 10 years, every once in a while looking at the other side of the court at the prospect of peace and the resumption of play.  Not seeing any progress, I worked on  short alternating right and left bank shots at the rim—50 of those, then 100 hook shots alternating hands in the key-- going away from the basket, going towards the basket, and over an imaginary defender.  Moving to the foul line, I made the first free throw, swished the second, third too easy, fourth I just won the lottery, fifth you can’t touch this, sixth stop thinking, seventh 15 in a row and I will live happily ever after…

It was during the ninth of 50 planned foul shots when I began to hear a repetitive call not unlike that of a small, persistent, confident bird. With successive shots I realized that call was not from a bird but from a tiny boy perched on the corner of the court’s retaining wall not far from me at the 2 o’clock position, “Chinaman.  Chinaman,” he called out, “Chinaman.”  The boy was not more than three years old.  I looked at him momentarily and he waved.

I didn’t wave back.  I observed that he was a diminutive chap without a shirt and with frayed dark brown long cotton pants not unlike the color of his skin.  He was cute with close cropped hair and he had large bold eyes and good teeth.  Do not give positive reinforcement to negative behavior, I reasoned.  The boy obviously did not know of my numerous academic degrees.  I turned away.

“Chinaman.  Chinaman,” the boy called out. 

“Chinaman.  Chinaman.”

This is going to stop

“Chinaman. Chinaman.”

“Chinaman. Chinaman.” 

“Chinaman. Chinaman.”

“Chinaman. Chinaman.”

The boy was relentless.  He was from parrot school.  He was Paynesville’s hardest working cat caller.  He was born of wolves exterminated by Chinese hunters in the time of the Ching Dynasty who had a filial vendetta to pay.  What was certain was that the boy sincerely seemed to be enjoying himself:  New guy who didn’t look like anyone else (me), basketball thrust (expertly) into hoop, grown men arguing at the other end of the court (a hoot).  From my peripheral vision I could see that the boy was now supporting his stomach on the retaining wall as if flying.  He was on a role.  His chant had achieved a kind of rhythm with my ball:  Ball bounce…china bounce… man…china… bounce …man… china …bounce…bounce…man.   Really, if I had been dumb to English, I would have thought this spontaneous fall into slam poetry kind of amazing.  I winced at the paradox.  Worse, the paradox of me being Taiwanese. 

I was brought back to a book that plagued me as a child growing up in Salt Lake City, Utah.  A book that Satan must have slipped into my stack of Dr. Seuss, Five Chinese Brothers, Amelia Bedelia and Curious George collections.   I don’t recall the title of the book, but the book featured an energetic chimpanzee as the protagonist who played a mean set of bongos.  In one section, as the chimpanzee played, words in color, angles and bold face spelled out a rhythm:  DUMB DITTY, DUMB DITTY, DUMB, DUMB, DUMB.   In Mandarin di di (pronounced dee dee) means little brother.  Being familiar with this word, my three older sisters who didn’t speak any other Mandarin, used to chant this particularized rhythm whenever they wanted to punish me for wearing their dresses or for having curried too much Asian parent-to-son favor.   “Dumb Di Di, Dumb Di Di, Dumb Dumb Dumb,” they would chant.  Dumb little brother.  Dumb little brother.  Dumb.  Dumb. Dumb.  

"Stop it,” I yelled.  My sisters were not rhythmic at all but were strikingly able to taunt  in unison, “Dumb Di Di, Dumb Di Di, Dumb Dumb Dumb”.  On and on they went until I cried at which time, my sisters would transform back into human beings, feed me chocolate chip cookies and let me wear their dresses again.  Fully adorned in short blue dress and with my mom’s Loreal off-red lipstick mixed with cookie crumbs on my face, the situation hardly seemed fair.

Life comes full circle and cats do chase their tails because 37 years later, my emotions were cast back to that dastardly chimpanzee, only now I was on a Liberian court, my antagonist not my sisters but a Paynesville boy.  I decided to take a different tact. What else could a man do?  I stopped my drills, dribbled over to the boy and outstretched my right hand, “My name is Wilson,” I said, “Call me Wilson.”

“Wilson,” he said.

“What’s your name?” I asked

“Luma,” he said

“Luma,” I said to which the boy responded with obvious joy as he reached out towards my outstretched hand causing me to realize that I could have handled this situation earlier and differently. 

I have experienced similar connection with children throughout the world my entire professional life— a connection borne between strangers of love, respect, and curiosity—  but especially with children from economically disadvantaged communities.  One of my strongest memories in Rwanda was when I used to take the three hour minivan ride to Kigali from Kirehe.  Elbow to elbow with the passenger at the end of the seat falling off the edge, mothers would simply hand me their babies for the duration of the ride as they handled larger packages of rice or flour or the occasional chicken.  These babies would never cry and would look up at me for hours, occasionally batting their paws against my face when they became comfortable.  At the refugee camp in Bahn last week, my movements were followed by tens of children but always did two kids position themselves to both sides of me, meekly inserting their fingers into my palm so I would hold them.  They would not let go.  At JDJ hospital, the toddlers and kids I take care of on Saturday’s can have high fevers from malaria or be starving to death but they always stop crying when you pick them up.  Once in your arms, they nestle into very natural positions as if they have been there for a long while.  One read is that these children are needy.  A better read is that these children display amazing confidence and pleasure in seizing new opportunities and interactions that many in the West, particularly grown-ups have lost.  Of course, ode to their parents who in turn are willing to trust a complete stranger with the expectation that s/he will treat and care for their dearest like their own, whether the context is a simple conversation over origin and name or a medical intervention that determines whether a child lives or dies.  It’s that melodramatic and it's the greatest gift.

Luma and I proceeded to solidify our relationship with the Liberian handshake:  White man’s handshake, followed by an inward rotation of wrist to a full palm against palm clasp to a four flexed finger link-like hold, to a crisp thumb on middle finger snap.  An older woman who was sweeping the dirt from harder dirt next to us said like a stern muse reviewing the chain of events, “Man don’t want to be called Chinaman.  Man’s got a name like you have a name.” 

Luma looked momentarily at the woman, thought about her words, and scanning over his shoulder at the field behind him, suddenly turned and in quick skipping strides began to run away. "Bye Wilson," he said before leaving.

"See you Luma," I said.

 I went back to my drills.  While I practiced, I thought of the day’s lunch, how it’s important to be humble, how my shoulder ached.  I looked to the other end of the court where the players were arguing.  Like the Energizer bunny, still going on and strong.  I turned back to my hoop, aimed, and shot