token white girl
It bugs me when people comment, seriously or jokingly, about how everyone in New Hampshire is white. I see non-white people everywhere, every day… at work, at the grocery store, at the mall. And despite the fact that, prior to moving to New Hampshire as part of the Free State Project, I lived in Oakland, CA, a city whose demographics break down as 36% black, 24% white, 15% Asian, and 22% Latino [source:Wikipedia] and know what it feels like to be in the racial minority in a room full of people (try attending the premier of a Spike Lee movie in the San Francisco East Bay, for a whole new perspective on being “whitey”!), and despite having lived in an Arab country for three years, it wasn’t until I moved to “white” New Hampshire that I found myself in the unexpected position of being the only white person at a party. Suddenly, I was the token white girl.
How did this happen? Was I the only white person invited, or just the only one who chose to show up? It seemed inappropriate to ask. But I certainly wasn’t expecting that, when my Indian coworker invited me to a party at her place, that I would be the only non-Indian person there. What ensued was straight out of “Lost in Translation” (which I recently watched for a second time and still think is a really good, if subtle, film). Everyone was very nice, and yet so many things were… DIFFERENT. If I were on a business trip in a foreign country, I would mentally prepare myself for such a situation, but when I’ve simply walked to the next street over and unexpectedly found myself in Little Mumbai, it’s, well, freaky.
First cultural disconnect: apparently Indians know that when a party is scheduled to begin at 7:00, you will be served dinner. I, not being Indian, cooked and ate dinner immediately prior to going to the party. I expected there to be fingerfood, and there was (all unidentifiable, but tasty; even the things that looked like potato chips… weren’t). But at some point it became clear that I’d blown it by eating beforehand, as a full hot meal was busted out around 10:00PM, and I was urged to eat, and eat some more, and drink, and drink some more, by my hostess. Saying you’ve already had a full meal is apparently not an acceptable excuse. The “food is love” philosophy clearly isn’t limited to Jewish and Italian mothers.
Little things I noticed: everyone but me took their shoes off. This was *not* for the benefit of the carpets (I asked, and offered to take my shoes off); it was apparently just the universal preference. Now, I never wear shoes at home myself, but I felt funny about taking off my shoes at a party. Was I wearing hole-y socks? I couldn’t remember; I hadn’t planned for this!
Almost everyone sat on the floor, Indian-style. When I learned that phrase as a child, I always assumed it came from American Indians/native Americans. Now I’m unsure. Personally, I’m fine with sitting on the floor Indian-style, but I know plenty of Americans who would find it physically impossible to do so, not to mention very unpleasant. We’re too fat, too inflexible.
I know nothing about Indian music and its subgenres, so I couldn’t even guess what was playing in the background. The only song that was in English was “American Pie”, which struck me as a surrealistically comical addition to the evening’s soundtrack. A two-year-old in attendance shrieked and stamped until she was allowed to watch her favorite video on someone’s laptop. It kept her riveted until it ended, at which point she immediately wanted to watch it again. I have no idea what the song is about, if it’s from a movie, a cartoon…?
India is a country of many languages. Although the official language is Hindi, there are millions of Indians who don’t actually speak it, depending on which part of the country they’re from. This results in the not uncommon phenomenon of married couples being forced to converse in a third language, such as English. And to think of how many times I used to feel sorry for myself because English wasn’t my ex-husband’s native language, how frequently it added to the unavoidable communication breakdown between the sexes. Much of the conversation at the party was in English, but much of it was in a multitude of other languages as well. Why it engenders such fear and loathing in some Americans that some of the immigrants who live here don’t, or prefer not to, speak English, is beyond me. India has cultural, religious and linguistic hurdles we have never had to deal with. So does Russia. And Brazil. And… but I digress.
Once all the guests had arrived and chit chat was out of the way, we settled down to a serious game of… Bingo. I’m not sure I’d ever actually PLAYED Bingo before; it’s one of those American cultural things that’s just *there*, like Edsels, and white picket fences. Boy, did this crowd go crazy for Bingo. The volume in the room became deafening as people called out for the numbers they were hoping for, cursed in a multitude of languages, shrieked in triumph at scoring a row across, laughingly accused one another of cheating, haggled over the prize money (how were we to handle a tie??). Prior to the start of the game, our 95-pound hostess pleasantly but firmly collected cash from everyone. There was no sitting out Bingo. Prizes were awarded for the first person to get each of the five rows across, and for the first two people to get a full house. I won my money back, and sang the “nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah” song at my friend. Does she KNOW that song? Does that song have a name? Do Indians grow up knowing what it means? So much is lost in translation.
After Bingo, we played Apples to Apples, which, in case you’re not familiar with it, is a game that is open to a lot of interpretation, even when all those playing are from the same cultural background. It was fascinating, the references that proved cross-cultural (eg. family reunions and marriage can be sources of emotional mayhem, no matter what continent you’re born on) versus those that aren’t (eg. Scientology).
We ate (spicy foods whose names I never remember), drank (alcohol, water and Orange Fanta… I have observed that Orange Fanta is really big with Indians) and made merry, passed an adorable chubby baby around the room, giggled at the antics of the ill-behaved 2-year-old, congratulated the newlyweds, danced to exotic music… and played Bingo.
This concludes my New Hampshire cultural exchange lesson for the weekend.
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And if he does manage to get the NH nomination, I will publicly eat my hat. In fact, I will bring an enormous cake, in the shape of a hat, from Frederick’s Pastries, to an MVP meeting, and we can ALL eat my hat. 