Vahaza Woman

Vahaza woman
Donnez-moi; Donnez-moi; Donnez-moi
Les bonbons (literal or figurative, one never knows)
Eyes - in them a melange of desire and self-contempt, bitterness and is that a pinch of malice? -
On les grandes seins
Comme tous les images de
The apple-pie Jezebels,
The fertile blow-up dolls
Who shake their Vahaza goods
On all the televisions
Every night,
From hill to dale
Translucent tits paired with hot-cross-buns.

Yum Yum.

Or half the body for half the price -
Cropped at neck and knee -
No need for these -
Too tough to chew through.

These eyes want the prime rib, baby.
Only the best cut for this fine gentilhomme.
Would you like me to trim the fat?

Vahaza woman
Humanitarian or harlot?
Il n'import quoi.

Snap.Snap.Snap.
Raise your eyes.
My mouth is moving,
Asking questions, telling stories, proving my personhood, something divine.
In between my chin and my nose.
Northward troops!
You're getting warmer.

What do you see when you look at me?
Damn sure it's not capability,
Or heart and mind riddled with funny notches (won't call them scars) borne of absurdities,
Or contradictions of unflagging tenderness in my spleen but gravel in my gut,
That, if you bothered, you'd understand were far from contradictions.

But you see a blur of white, indistinct,
(Because we all look the same, you admit as much)
You see a lasso in my hand to capture the stars for which you're straining
(You want the Big Dipper; No interest for the Southern Cross).
I am simply the means
To achieving dreams.

But I am not a tool.
This is not cultural insensitivity --
This is me
Telling you
That I will not be the object of either your fears or desires.
Re-pocket your hand; I will not be your garden hoe or milk cow.
I will be but your equal; ax sharpening ax.
I will be but your equal; flint against stone, together performing impossible, making magic.
I will be but your equal; our unique wisdoms paired for stunning clarity.

So retrain your eyes -
Find my mind, the seat of my history and my potential -
And we, together, maybe,
Can then begin to heal.

I Think You Must Be Savage

“What have the Christians brought us? The concept of hell and the fear of death.”
-- Anosy elder

My family has a painting of an Anglo-Saxon Christ on their mantel. (Their conduit to salvation looks suspiciously colonial).

My little sisters love playing with my hair and my mother loves braiding it. They tell me it is beautiful and glisse (just like their poupees).

My mother plays me high church canons that she has saved on her cell phone. (Why are they un-translated and why are there no original Malagasy hymns to sing on Sunday?)

I was expected to make a contribution (a significant contribution) to my grandmother’s charity – the object of which is to build a new Lutheran church in a “poor, remote village”. At the charity luncheon, I was the only vazaha.

The good vazaha who is expected to nonchalantly present 10,000 ariary to the dear people of the poor, remote village to help them find God. Bring the babies to me, let me hold them and kiss them. The vazaha with the silky hair and the slender nose and the lacquered pout lips will bless the babies and good fortune will be upon them. Would you like a picture? I would like a picture to remember those I have pointed to salvation. I need it for my newsletter, which I write to inform the brethren of my Good Deeds in the Lands of the Lost, the Lands of the Possessed. Did you know you were possessed, sir? Possessed with deamons sent from the Devil to trap you in your loincloth and lice? You must be possessed, because you think that the earth gives you life, which is the creed of the Blinded Pagan. Don’t be a disciple of the Devil, good man. It will land you in hell! Be a disciple of Christ.

You don’t know what hell is? It is a place for the wicked; a place which cannot be described it is so frightful. Christ will keep you from the flames, if you cling to Him. How? Invite him into your heart. Repeat this prayer and be baptized. Hone your faith through memorization and practice of the Scriptures.

Well, some of them. The Old Testament is a little dusty, so we’ve made for you a list of the pertinent rules…pork is economically important and quite delicious (as are shellfish), so disregard rules concerning the avoidance thereof. We don’t have priests anymore (only the Catholics have those, and they worship Mary and the Saints – should be avoided), so don’t bother yourself with discussion of the sons of Aaron, et al. However, if the rule is in regard to sexual relations, you ought to pay attention. There is a small chapter on the subject we have chosen to respect in Leviticus – be careful you find the right one…it is hidden deep amongst other silly passages that are irrelevant to the modern man and you wouldn’t want to make a mistake. Additionally --

What have you heard? Ah, love for one’s neighbor. Loving your neighbor is important, you’re right, but saving his soul is paramount – that end cannot be compromised. Don’t be soft, man!

Speaking of which: sir, what do you do for a living? You grow manioc?

I think you must be poor, sir. Can you afford a dress comme ça for your wife and daughters? Can you buy shoes? What, sir? You wife makes your clothes? You share shoes? Tstststststs. That, sir, that is what we call poverty in the United States, my land which flows with milk and honey (mind you, it’s all privately owned, the milk and honey, not owned by me, necessarily).

You know, sir, I have shown you the One True God with my 10,000 ariary, but I can show you wealth as well. I can show you prosperity – for that is what the Lord desires for His Chosen Children. Thrift and industry! Efficiency and progress! Modernity and morality!

See that yonder mine?

That yonder mine, where the minerals are scraped out of the earth (Remember, the earth is inanimate. Cast off your Pagan sentimentalities!) – that mine is where you will find prosperity. Leave your paltry fields and turn toward the sun. You will make enough paper money to buy your manioc…and dresses and shoes and butter and televisions and taxi cab rides.

You don’t want to leave your paltry fields? That is what we call sloth in the United States, land of milk and honey. That is what we call a poor work ethic, lack of gumption, not appreciating Western technological benevolence. Do you want to be poor forever? Do you not want dresses, shoes, butter, televisions, taxi cab rides? No?

Then I think you must be a savage.

“Maintenant, tu peux voir que les gens de Madagascar sont trop pauvre, oui? Pas comme Washington. Nous sommes très pauvre ici. Tu dois être très content que tu es une Américaine, oui ?” my host mother asks me. Yes Neni, these people are poor – poor in spirit, in intelligence, in amenities – I am so glad that I am an American. I am so glad to have the truth.

“Poor wretches,” thinks the vazaha.