The Pause

It happened again, the reminder that I don’t belong.  I made a connection, for a moment.  I mimicked the right words, in the right inflection.  I raised my eyebrows just so, managing to lift my tone when it ought to have been lifted.  I saw the connection in his eyes, the momentary light added to them as he realized that I indeed, had said something funny.  With that I felt an almost inaudible relief in both of us.  All of a sudden I was relatable.   But just as quickly the moment passed, and it happened.  He raised his hand, unconsciously as they all do, to slap my ready and waiting hand.  This is a Malawian (dare I say African?) gesture of mutual laughter, of appreciating the joke, a motion of shared joy and understanding.  He lifts his hand up and I abruptly jut my hand out predicting that this might happen, ready to receive the jovial slap. 

Then there it is; the pause. 

The pause when he realizes what he is doing and that perhaps I don’t know about this cultural norm.  I was ready and willing to receive the hand slap, only too aware of the human connection so prevalent through touch in this place.  Yet, he paused.  I perceived the moment of panic in his eyes reflecting that perhaps me, the azungu (white person) didn’t know what to do.  He slapped my hand all the same and we carried on with some mumbling and chuckling but I saw the pause.  I felt the pause.

Being on the outside of a group of people, who share so much in common, is painful and obvious.  Never more so than with humor.  Humor is my way of deflecting, my way of posturing and jockeying, it is my way of relating, my way of pretending to be part of a group without actually being part of it.  I can read people and relate to people who are very different from me, by way of humor.  I get sarcasm, having grown up in a home filled with it.  I understand that teasing can be like punctuation, filling in gaps where there is no conversation.  I get that a look, a glance, a shuffle, all sorts of minor movements can communicate “I get you” when no words are shared at all.

But here, as a foreigner in this country, it is painful to be silent and sit on the outside while people laugh and tease one another, slapping and strutting and relating.  Where is my entrance?

Of course, this is not specific to here, in a foreign land.  New workplaces, new social groups, new gender norms, new environments of every kind feel this way.  What do we do when we are on the outside?

The pain is real, the pause was real, but so was the slap.  Our hands did meet, we did share a brief moment.  Maybe the distance is still far but it is getting closer.  Maybe that’s enough.  Maybe I am not known nor understood, but humor can be communicated in one word, in one look, in one jab.  Fearfully, I keep trying.  I keep trying to enter when I feel shut out and I try not to take it personally.  I put my hand out all the same and try again to time it right.  I keep my posture towards and not away and remember that proximity brings understanding and who I am doesn’t have to change to meet in the middle.

What groups are you feeling the pain of being on the outside of?  How can you posture yourself towards and not away?  What’s one way you can relate when connection fails?