Crossing cultures

Thursday night my key school principal came to my house to discuss a few things. My host mom complained to a teacher who told the principal that I've been keeping food in my room. I didn't when I first came to live here, but I noticed how fast food disappeared when I left it in the kitchen. If you're American, you're probably asking yourself, "Why does it matter if Melissa keeps food in her room?" That is the whole problem.

I, being American, asked, "Why does it matter if I keep food in my room?"

"It's our culture to keep food seperate from where we sleep."

I start imagining dorm rooms with refridgerators back at college and one-room tin shacks that dot my village and fill townships across South Africa. But I keep my mouth shut. "It's not my culture. I am an American."

I could say, "It's not my culture" to so many things. The fundamentals are different. American culture focuses on the individual. My food. My room. My money. The culture of villages on the community, especially large extended families. Everything is shared, no questions asked. Not rocking the boat is an admirable quality.

It's not my culture to formally greet everyone I see. Walking to school each morning requiers greeting 20 people. Once at school I need to greet all the teachers. No longer can I start a conversation with a nod, smile, or "hey." Little children have a formal greeting too; they calp twice then wait for their hands to be kissed or shook.

It's my culture to talk softly unless angry. Now I yell, "Could you talk a little bit softer? You're giving me a headache."

It's my culture to compliment people on their increasing fitness level. Instead, "Ooooo, Lethabo! You're getting fat! South Africa loves you!" is a compliment. I've started to explain that regardless of South Africa's love for me, to never call me fat.

I spend time alone in my room: reading, writing, plotting diabolic plans to stop the music from the shebeen (illegal bar) a block away. But it's not my host family's culture. They think I'm sleeping or sick. They think I'm angry.

My principal and I go to rehash our conversation with my host parents. Mma says that I'll go home for two months in October 2007 but I'll come back to live in the village forever. It takes all my will-power to restrain myself from saying, "No. I miss blending in and strangers ignoring my presence. I miss refridgerators, fans, washing machines, dryers, running water and snow. I want a roof AND a ceiling over my head. I'm tired of hearing what everyone else is doing in the house because the walls stop a foot below the roof. I want disturbing the peace ordinances and neighbors who obey ordinances. I want tex-mex, Chinese and cheese. I want more than one radio station. I'd like to not read tv. If I lived in South Africa, which isn't going to happen, I'd live in a city. With air conditioning. And good internet.

Instead, I smile. "I'm an American. I want to go home."

"You must hate South Africa."

"No, there's just something about where you grew up. Do you want to leave South Africa and never see your family again?"

By now, you must be thinking that I'm miserable and 30 seconds from taking the next plane to JFK international. I'm not. I like my life here. Really, I do. I like sharing and greeting. I see so much potential for South Africa to grow and change. I see all the citizens of this beautiful land entering the first world, not just the ones in cities and tourist hot-spots. The problem is a universal one: culture.

My principal ends the conversation. "I respect your culture. Just go back to doing what you were before." Don't expect exceptions in our culture to be made for you. We're not going to change. Assimilate, Lethabo. Just. Blend. In.

But Americans would never ask anyone to assimilate, right?