Maybe it was the tight 'disquette' jeans that did it



Farivar, Cyrus

Prof. Freedman

February 7, 2005

"In the Shadows"

WC: 2395

Maybe it was the tight "disquette" jeans that did it. Or perhaps it was the "bin-bins". Either way, Rachel wanted to be noticed. She wanted to engage with the Senegalese teranga -- hospitality -- that she had only just left weeks before across the Atlantic. Back in Dakar, Rachel was something of an attraction. She is, after all, a toubaab -- a white person. She is an alluring American brunette with a radiant smile. She speaks French fluently and speaks quite a bit of Wolof, the lingua franca of Senegal. Most places she went, she drew the unsolicited attention of men and the curiosity and/or kindness of women.

Rachel isn't the kind of person that normally seeks attention. But in Senegal, it became normal. You could connect with Senegalese people in a way that just wasn't possible in the United States. You could just meet them and 30 minutes later find yourself eating dinner with their family, and you would be just as welcome as an old friend. But that was only sometimes. More often, Senegalese couldn't quite pinpoint what a francophone (and somewhat wolofophone) white girl would be doing in any sort of situation, on the street, in a café, or in a concert. This sort of thing can get taxing when it happens on a nearly daily basis.

But those months on her study abroad were over. She had returned home to her native land -- Washington, D.C., filled with gossip from Capitol Hill. But she longed for a taste of Senegal again. Fortunately for her, Senegal's most internationally renowned pop star, Youssou N'Dour, was performing at George Washington University. She had a friend there who could get her tickets. It was set. All the Senegalese women wore gorgeous boubous, the traditional flowing robes, with magnificent colors that matched from the head wrap to the shin-length skirts. Younger girls wore "disquette" jeans like Rachel did, the kind of pants that some girls should be too young to wear.

Once in the hall, Rachel wasn't the center of attention. The NPR liberals didn't pay her any mind. The former Peace Corps volunteers didn't either. And the Senegalese who were there clearly didn't find it abnormal that Americans would be there. This was, after all, the nation's capital. She wasn't special.

While she was annoyed by the fact that people spoke to her because she was different, she craved that human connection -- although at times, it might be quite faint and might come in the form of a sleazy "sai-sai". But as the strains of Youssou N'Dour's mbalax music filled the hall, and Rachel enjoyed it, her mind was elsewhere. She wanted them to engage her.

Her American conscience got the better of her. Her standard Wolof phrase was a ticket of sorts in Senegal: "Na nga def?" (How are you?) wouldn't quite work here. These were ex-pat Senegalese. They wouldn't be impressed by one phrase that one can easily be gleaned from a Lonely Planet phrasebook.

Rachel craved a connection. She had lived in Dakar. She wasn't just one of those people who just came out to see "world music" because they heard it on the local college radio station. She had walked through Youssou N'Dour's neighborhood. She had taken pictures of him when she'd spotted him at a soccer match in Dakar. Where did these Senegalese people come from? Where did they work? Where else could she find Senegalese music in DC?

The Wolof would be her key, but it couldn't be something simple, like "Na nga def?" She changed tactics. She'd say "Baal ma" (Excuse me) when bumping into people. She'd say "Sa xarit rafet na." (Your kid is cute.) These phrases are things that she'd say anyway in English, so why not just say them straight out in Wolof? It drew a curious raised eyebrow or two.

The more Wolof she spoke, the more it consumed her. She not only yearned for the interaction, she hungered and even lusted after it. As the show ended, Rachel watched with some degree of dismay as old Senegalese friends found each other in the crowd, and she was left with just her friend from George Washington University whom she'd attended the show with. It wasn't that she didn't like being with her friend, but she hadn't been to Dakar, she didn't speak any Wolof. It wasn't the same.

Rachel drove her home, mere blocks from the concert hall. Other cars cruised the streets around the hall -- but Rachel didn't want the night to end. She needed something more. So she did exactly that. Circling around, orbiting this potential nexus of Senegalese culture, Rachel clung to the hope that something might happen. She pretended to look for someone, hoping that perhaps someone might be looking for her. If this had been Dakar, she would have been quickly invited to another club, an after-party, or at the very least: "tea" back at someone's house.

As bait, she started blasting Vivianne N'Dour, (Youssou's sister in-law, also a popular singer) at full volume. A couple of people looked at her. A white girl, listening to Vivanne. Huh, how about that?

"How do you know this?"

"J'ai habité à Dakar." (I lived in Dakar.)

"Ah. C'est bon. Baax na." (That's good. That's good.)

Rachel had done it. Something might happen.

She orbited once more, and she saw a group of people gathered at the rear of the auditorium. Autographs, maybe? She parked her car in front of the tour bus, with the music still playing and stood alongside her car à la James Dean -- except a little more nervous and a little less suave.

There was a couple standing nearby, and Rachel inquired if they were waiting for autographs. The woman's husband or someone she was waiting for worked on the tour and they were waiting for him to get off work. The couple quickly became impressed at Rachel's ability to speak French and inquired if she'd been to Senegal. It turned out that the woman worked at the World Bank, which suited Rachel well, considering that she is interested in International Economics.

Satiation set over Rachel. She'd possibly gotten a contact for a future job or internship, and had connected with a few Senegalese people. Perhaps it was time to go home. Just then, a roadie walked out from the back of the hall toward the tour bus.

"Did you enjoy the show?"

"Yeah, it was great!"

"Oh, you like Senegalese music?"

Rachel thought: "Excellent. This is the kind of novelty treatment I want. I want to be condescended to again. I want to be asked if I understand French and Wolof. Please speak to me as if I'm an oddity."

It was starting to be a perfectly "Senegalese" interaction.

"Well, I was just wondering, is he signing autographs?"

"Yeah, you know you can just go in and get them."

So she did that. The bouncer thought otherwise. But the roadie came to her aid.

"She's cool. Send her in."

All she had for Youssou N'Dour to sign was her ticket stub, smaller than a three by five card. A moment later, Rachel found herself in the hallway outside the green room. She wasn't the only one. There was an older guy, a weathered man in his 30s, two young guys and a young woman. One of the young guys was a musician, trying to get Youssou N'Dour to check out his demo tape. The other young guy was trying to get an autograph and a picture, just like Rachel. The young woman was with one of the men. The older guy was with the N'Dour tour crew.

"You're wearing bin-bins, I see," he says.

"Ha, ha, yeah -- they were a gift." Rachel giggled slightly.

"Oh, from who?"

"My host sister."

That was a lie. If Rachel had said that they were from her host brother, that would have been true. And the things that it suggested were also true.

Bin-bins are a string of beads worn on an elastic string. Senegalese girls typically wear them just beneath their pants or skirts, or sometimes just above. It is considered flirtatious, or even slightly erotic to show one's bin-bins, particularly to a guy. And if a guy gives a girl a set of bin-bins, it's pretty clear what that means.

"Yeah, do you like them?" she asked him.

"You know what those mean?"

"No, what?" She giggled again, playing dumb.

What was she supposed to say? "Yes, I recognize their erotic intent, but I wear them as cultural appropriation. Thank you."

"Ha ha -- no I didn't know." More giggles.

But she could never understand why she was always hassled, both here and in Dakar about wearing bin-bins. After all, many girls from 12 to 25 wore them. What was the big deal?

The topic shifted from bin-bins back to Dakar and where Rachel had lived. The older man, as it turned out, was a restaurant owner in addition to his gig on the tour. Kër Sokhna had one branch on 116th St. in Harlem and one in Dakar, near Rachel's old neighborhood.

Soon after Rachel informed him that the reason why she didn't go to Kër Sokhna is because of their high prices of a sandwich, and he exclaimed that they're ripping him off, the young musician went in to see Youssou N'Dour. A few moments later, he came out again and she moved up in the line.

Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. She'd never met anyone this famous before.

Youssou N'Dour's stature surpasses any sort of celebrity that exists in the United States. Our country is so huge and there is such an abundance of celebrity that perhaps we forget what our old national heroes like Frank Sinatra or Joe DiMaggio were like when the world was smaller. Youssou N'Dour exudes this sort of feeling. Aside from being a prolific musician, Youssou N'Dour is on all kinds of commercials and posters, his electric smile gleaming down at his fellow countrymen. In 2000, the UN Food and Agriculture Organization named him as an "Ambassador of Goodwill". He sang backup tenor for Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" and collaborated with other American singers such as Wyclef Jean and Neneh Cherry. He is the country's favorite son. He is a symbol of moderate piety (his latest album pays tribute to his Muslim faith) and Senegalese patriotism and good-naturedness -- and he cancelled his North American tour because of the war in Iraq. He emits wholesomeness to an unparalleled degree.

The door opened and the young man went in to get his picture taken and to get his autograph signed. The young man motioned to Rachel.

"Viens! Viens! Viens", he says, inviting her to join in on posing for the photograph.

A moment later, Rachel found herself hugging Youssou N'Dour. He signed her ticket stub and they had a short conversation in Frolof. She said that she had seen him play in Dakar, and that she was a big fan, and that she was glad that he had come to Washington, and that she was from here, and welcome.

Rachel had gotten so much more than she'd come for. She'd had interactions with people, she'd talked about Dakar, spoken some Wolof, she got to know some people, she got some phone numbers, and maybe she'd even connect with that woman about making her a Senegalese dinner? And she'd even met Youssou N'Dour. Omigod! She had shaken hands with celebrities like Bill Clinton before, but this was different. This was Youssou N'Dour.

As she started to leave, the older man poked his head into Youssou N'Dour's green room for a brief moment.

As Rachel was walking away to leave, the older man called her back.

"Xaraal, xaraal tutti." (Wait, wait a little.)

So she waited a moment, but being that she had work the next day and that she'd come for more than she'd even dreamed of, she couldn't stay too long. But she still waited.

Her patience started to wane, and she started to make her exit.

"No, no, xaraal, xaraal."

The door to the green room opened again, and out walked a journalist who had been talking with Youssou N'Dour for a few minutes. This was her cue to leave.

"Xaraal, xaraal."

The other people said their goodbyes while the older man came back over to Rachel.

"Youssou would like to talk to you, would you come in again?"

Thoughts raced through her head.

"He wants to talk? Ah! It's because he's Senegalese and he's touring in the United States, and I'm American, and I lived in Senegal, and we could talk about our experiences!"

She went in and sat down in a chair right next to him. They exchanged simple Wolof greetings again.

"Na nga def?" (How are you?)

"Maa ngi fii rek. Yow nak?" (I'm fine. And you?)

"Maa ngi fii." (I'm fine.)

He leaned over and says to her: "Yow, danga nice[1]."

Youssou N'Dour planted a big, tonguey, cigarette-tasting kiss right on Rachel's lips. She almost laughed him out of her face, but she kept it to a chortle.

In one half second, she thought: "This is ridiculous, the wholesome icon of Senegalese piety and values and patriotism -- tastes like cigarettes -- and is shoving his tongue down my throat! This is awful! He's taking advantage of my fandom!"

The second half of that second, she thought: "This is hilarious. What the hell?"

Before she knew it, she was against the wall, making out with Youssou N'Dour. His hands were everywhere.

She teased him.

"Tu fais ça à chaque concert?" (Do you do this at every concert?)

"Non, non!" (No, no!)

"Will you come to the after-party?"

"Uh, right -- where is it?"

"Je ne sais pas. Demande à mes assistants." (I don't know. Ask my assistants.)

He says to the older man in broken English: "Give her directions...to...to after-party."

Rachel was humiliated somewhat. She'd just gone into his green room with the door closed. And five to ten minutes later, she emerged straightening her shirt with her hair messed up -- and was suddenly endowed with access to the after-party.

She thought: "This night was getting more and more entertaining. Why not?"

That was where all those well-dressed Senegalese people had been headed.

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[1] The English word "nice" in Wolof has multiple meanings, but here, it means "fine." As in "You're fine." But he didn't say it as "nice" -- it was more elongated, along the lines of "niiiiice" , or rather "fiiiine" .

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