(1) HUH?: THE SITUATION

I remember the first time I introduced myself to somebody new. I was five years old, it was my first day of kindergarten, and I was terrified. A mama's boy content with the insular social bubble of my cul-de-sac, I had never needed to introduce myself before - I was always accompanied by someone who would make my case for me. And now, here I was, public school, a new frontier, and I needed to make new friends.

My mom and my younger sister came with me all the way to the courtyard to say their farewells. We were early; my family was always early. At the board designating my assigned class, I saw only one kid lined up against the wall. I didn’t want to go, but my mom, sensing my apprehension, assured me, “just go up to her, say hello, say your name, and ask for her's.” With hesitation, I mustered up the courage, and crossed over the cement courtyard.

Timidly, I recited my script, “Hi, name is Warren. What’s your name?”

“Hi, my name is Natasha.”

Natasha became my best friend. 

I have continued this habit; shaking hands, introducing myself, making new friends. Throughout kindergarten, middle school, high school, and college, my routine hasn’t faltered. Now, on the island of Viti Levu in the beautiful nation of Fiji, it has continued to treat me well… for the most part. 

Coming to Fiji was kind of like becoming a kid again; with callow eyes, everything feels fresh. New environment, new social circle, new amenities. Though for all the curious wonder that it brought, it also required reimagining old expectations. Culture shock, the old platitude goes. But this long-used adage hardly begins to define the confusion, the frustration, the acceptance, and the eventual enlightenment that comes from living in a world with different mores. If you can work through the bewilderment, you will come out the other side with new epiphanies - realizations about how you see yourself, how you define others, and how fallible your long-accepted values actually are. Pushed out of your tired complacency, maybe you can start to see the world how it really is, not how you had haphazardly defined it. In this case, I was challenged to review the cadence of one of my oldest rhythms, the introduction.

~~~

Flashforward to today. A few months ago, I attended a women’s group conference - representatives from each village’s women's group in our province all gathered in one place to discuss their latest efforts. The community hall was filled with hard-working Fijian women, all dedicated to improving the standard of living within their village. 

Naturally, I looked out of place - a man and someone who is not Fijian. This is a situation you get used to in Peace Corps. I did have good reason to be there though. It was my job - a diplomatic reconnaissance mission. Simple. Get to know the system my village’s women’s group works within and hear about the projects other women’s groups are doing, all while also building better relationships with people within my community. Essentially, my day consisted of schmoozing, and there was a lot of time spent schmoozing. 

Chatting wasn’t just killing time. It’s actually what JFK envisaged when he dreamt up the Peace Corps in 1961. Canonized in the Peace Corps’ 2nd Goal, “to help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served,” we are US representatives deployed at the community level. While State department folk work with Fijian government officials, our job is to show typical Fijians what Americans are really like outside of TV and news - ideally, leaving a good impression. The key to the Peace Corps’ vision of “world peace and friendship” is taking the whimsical concept of an “American” and turning them into tangible, bonafide people. Hanging out is literally what I am paid to do; Uncle Sam is cashing checks for me to schmooze in his name. 

But, at a more basic, human level, talking is just fun. There’s an inherent curiosity for both sides. For me, this is a new person in a different culture - a denizen from a different village than my own who is pursuing unique efforts. For them, there is a very obviously distinct-looking person here. What is this white boy doing at a Fijian women’s group meeting?

This gap in understanding is a perfect opportunity for me to talk about my work in the village: Peace Corps’ 1st Goal, “to help the countries interested in meeting their need for trained people.” Translated into Fijian, vakatorocaketaki - to cause to rise up, to empower. I justify my presence by talking about our village’s footpath, community hall, and dispensary projects that I am assisting, as well as the business and project management classes I have/will be teaching. 

With me representing more than just myself, I feel like these conversations are consequential. I am my projects, my organization, my country, and this will likely be the only time I talk to any individual person here. A quote I once read comes to mind, ”I shall pass this way but once; any good that I can do or any kindness I can show to any human being; let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”

After the meeting, I am having lunch with a few women from my village. As I am finishing up, a Stranger sits down right in front of me. Here they are, someone new. Awesome, I’ve been introducing myself my whole life; I know what to say. Locked and loaded, I am ready to go.

We see each other. I smile and extend my hand. She accepts; reaching out, she shakes it. I begin, in Fijian:

“Hello, my name is…”

The Stranger continues shaking my hand, but her eyes dart away from mine, towards someone else. “Who is this?” she interrupts.

“This is Warren,” my Neighbor says, replying to my new acquaintence’s eye contact.  

She returns her gaze to me, and with a wary, uneasy grin, says, “oh… okay.”

My Neighbor takes the reigns again, explaining that I am living in her village. This Stranger, who I was once trying to introduce myself to, has forgotten that I spoke at all. She is still shaking my hand, but is no longer looking at me.

“Oh, how long will he be here for?”

Have I… been kicked out of the conversation… when the topic of conversation… is about me???

At first, I chalked it up to an odd, individual quirk, and moved on. I regained my composure and tried to build any rapport my unwittingly disinterested conversation partner would allow for. But then, as the day went on, it happened more, and with different people. I meet someone new, they begin with the casual nicety of shaking my hand, but from there, I am hardly acknowledged. The person I am meeting requests that somebody else do the talking, or my companion, speaking past me, takes it upon themselves to give basic information about who I am. In other instances, I am not addressed at all. “Who’s that?” I hear behind me. “Peace Corps,” someone responds. Am I really that scary? Didn’t you just hear me speak Fijian moments ago? We can understand each other! An old habit challenged; introductions are no longer what I expected. The shock was uncomfortable, and my mother wasn’t there to feed me lines. I felt boxed out, unwelcomed.

It was a minor annoyance, but one that still nagged at something deep within me. So, I began to experiment. I go in for the handshake, but stop shy of saying my name, knowing full well it would be unnecessary - I would be interrupted by my Neighbor. No good. It comes off as insincere, or worse, weak. I didn’t like the feeling of letting others speak for me when I could do it fine myself.

So then I went to the other extreme. I took control. A brute introduction. I give my spiel, ignoring any plea or outside explanation. It’s an effective way of getting my point across, but not one that inspires trust or ease. Instead of defusing the inherent tension of a first meeting, it backfires, painting me as crass and hostile. A conversation ought to be like a friendly, prolonged game of tug-of-war, played just for the hell of it. You allow some slack to give your playmate a chance for control, and then they let you pull back, giving you an opportunity to go on the offensive. It’s a delicate balance. If you pull too hard, the game is over, and your opponent will get up and leave. You have reneged on the rules; the game wasn’t just about you. Choosing blithe indifference for others does not foster new friends. 

What I have found to be the most congenial approach is simply allowing it to happen, supplying any necessary, missing details throughout my Neighbor’s explanation. I am waltzing between comments, not stepping on anyone’s feet. But still, people are hopping in, providing details about me while I’m present. I am treated as background; they seem perfectly content with getting their information from second-hand sources. Despite trying my best to be an active participant in the discussion, I’m still the lame voyeur, the oddity who is the current object of conversation.

It seems as though there is no right answer. I interrupt, I don’t. I give a recalcitrant response, or I sit back content to watch. Either way, it feels as though my voice is not wanted right now. 

For levity, music began blasting from the speakers. People began dancing, but not in the sort of flashmob-esque style that possesses everyone with the mood to bust-it-down. Fijian dancing is both personal and public, as the other Peace Corps Volunteer attending the meeting discovered. He was the man of the hour - the blonde, American bachelor - and all the women wanted him. Each invitation was almost a ritual. With either a timorous speed or with the brazen confidence that comes from old age, a woman would shuffle over to the volunteer and tap his shoulder. She would jive a few steps in front of him, smiling. She caught him. He gets up, and does his dance modestly - everyone is watching, and nobody else is dancing besides him and his new gal. Even if it was just those two dancing, he was putting on a show for all the women; the crowd would explode with whoops and hollers anytime he would make the slightest tilt of the hip. He danced, I would say, over 10 consecutive songs with different middle-aged to old women, hopping in between community hall and outdoor bolabola (tin and bamboo structure). Finally, out of exhaustion, he started to decline their invites. He began looking out towards the hills, just trying not to make eye contact. I could sympathize, I was running out of steam too. 

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