Woolly Wonderland.....

I was wondering how long it would take for a Scandinavian aid worker to run her fingers through my hair. Do NOT get the wrong idea…..I don’t play for that team. It’s just that throughout my life, I’ve had to accept that quite frequently, when I least expected it, a white person would ask if they could touch my hair.

Or not ask. There’s the “rub”—sometimes, they don’t wait for permission. You could be sitting there talking to another person at a party, and all of a sudden you feel fingers on your scalp. You start thinking that maybe your name is Rover, or something….why is this stranger patting my head and cooing at me? At least have a tasty treat or a chew toy to offer before you start mucking about in my hair.

It happened last night, at my very first aid worker soiree in Gulu. I thought I was living in a “nice” neighborhood out here in the Senior Quarters (or “Seen-ya Quo-TAHS,” as the people of Gulu call it.) But my little spread looks like Section 8 housing compared to the compound I was at. I’m talking a good half acre of front yard, a long driveway, and a HUGE house with a big front porch. All occupied by two white female aid workers in their 20’s.

I don’t mean to player hate, but DAMN! I been busting my hump for 21 years in this journalism game, and I live in a cottage that could fit in their living room. But I got over it pretty quickly, 'cause those girls can throw down! One of the residents, a tall, blonde, peppy girl named Justine, was celebrating her 25th birthday. (She laughed when I told her I had handbags older than her.) Her father, a dapper, silver-haired, apparently prominent businessman from Alabama, had flown in for the occasion. (I’m assuming he’s prominent because in the course of 10 minutes, I learned that he’s buddies with Kurt Waldheim, George Soros and the Clintons. Not that he’s a name-dropper or anything.) He'd spent the afternoon before the party barbecueing a goat. What else are dads for?

I was one of 3 non-Africans of African descent there. One guy was Afro-Cuban, and another woman was bi-racial. Two of Justine’s African co-workers there, and then everybody else was of European or South American descent. Pretty soon, the generational gap reared its ugly head….around the time Justine bopped out to the porch with a tray of orange and raspberry Jello shooters. It was probably only the third one I’d ever had in my life, and there was more vodka in it than Jello, trust me. (I wound up having to teach her 70-year-old father how to get the danged thing out of the cup. I also wound up having 3 more. They go down so easy.)

I will have to make a HUGE adjustment over here if I’m gonna have a social life. But then again, maybe it won’t be so hard after all. There were few people of color at the restaurant openings and cultural events I attended in DC…at many of them, I was the only one. But at least in DC, the people were old enough to remember that the corny song “Fame” actually came from a movie before it was the cheesy television series. Everybody here looks like they just graduated from college…even the ones in their 30’s.

It was one of those 30-somethings who grabbed a handful of my twists last night while we were sitting on the front porch. Eli is from Norway….I’d bet at least half of the young aid workers in Gulu are from Denmark, Norway or Sweden. The place is crawling with descendants of Vikings. They all wear tee-shirts, Birkenstocks and bandanas tied around their heads. I just hope they’re using sunscreen, often.

Anyway, Eli is 35, and she's the stereotypical apple-cheeked, jovial Scandinavian, with her long, blonde ponytail and pleasingly-plump frame. She had walked up to me and shoved her arm squarely at my stomach to introduce herself. Once we were talking, she told me she didn’t really attend a lot of these types of parties, because she was “so much older” than most of the people…at age 35. She refused to believe I was 45 (which endeared her to me for life), and decreed that we would have to start hanging out together.

We had moved onto another topic when she reached out and touched my hair, tentatively at first. Even though it’s happened a hundred times, it was a bit jarring. I mean, I wouldn’t have dreamed of reaching out and grabbing her ponytail…why did she think it was okay to fondle my twists? While I composed myself, Eli murmured dreamily, “I love your hair. It’s so soft.”

I was glad those hot olive oil treatments were working, but I had to stop myself from saying, “Just like a sheep, huh?” She’s such a sweet person, and there’s absolutely no chance she was being condescending or rude. Once again, I found myself having to be the engine of racial tolerance and understanding. If I can let just one white person actually experience the wonder that is African hair texture, my life’s work will not have been in vain.

Besides, ultimately, I think the age thing is going to be more of a challenge for me in the long run. Last night, Justine’s father, me, and another man named Esteban who’s about a year younger, were the three oldest people in the group. But as it turned out, we were the life of the party! I mean, Esteban burned up the floor whenever a Latin-flavored tune was played. And Justine’s father….jeez, the Silver Fox can shake his booty! At 70, I couldn’t keep up with him. Dude was poppin’ his hips, moving his feet, raisin’ the roof…..by the end of the evening, I crowned him the coolest father in modern history. In fact, I left him on the dance floor groovin’ strong at around 12:30.

Apparently, age really AIN’T nothin’ but a number.