As I try to be a cross-cultural chameleon, I make an effort to greet people in their mother tongue. This requires a measure of discernment and, I guess, a bit of guidance from Ockham’s Razor. For instance, when encountering a Scandinavian-looking person, I generally don’t try greeting him/her in Shangaan. Likewise, meeting a “black” person in Africa rarely causes me to offer a greeting in Italian as a first option. This does require that I consider the colour-scheme of the person, as well as, perhaps, some other race-related attributes, like blue eyes vs. brown eyes, or blonde vs. black hair. Hopefully this is not an excuse for closet prejudice. (I promise, I’m not prejudiced against closets).
Of course, as people become more and more peripatetic, Ockham’s Razor becomes a less reliable guide. To shamelessly mangle Hickam’s Dictum; "people can belong to whichever language group that they please". It is easy to step inadvertently over the discernment/prejudice boundary, even when you are being well-meaning. Playing hop-scotch in the cross-cultural minefield is becoming increasingly perilous. Here are two examples of what I mean.
1. Ageism
When I arrive somewhere on my motorbike, I go through what NASA Mission Control would probably call MST & EVA (Mobile/Stationary Transition and Extra-Vehicular Activity). This involves stopping the bike, stopping the engine, lowering the side-stand, getting off, removing my gloves, helmet and balaclava (and ear-plugs if it has been a long trip), unfastening my jacket, locking the steering, putting the locks on the wheels, and making sure that the headlight is switched off. Then I am almost ready to face the world.
It is frustrating when someone wants to start a conversation the moment I stop, while the engine is still running and I am still wearing a balaclava and a full-face helmet. It goes something like this.
I see the person’s mouth moving. “— — — — — — —”.
“Pardon?” I shout.
“— — — — — — —”, he repeats (I assume).
I raise my visor and shout: “I can’t hear you!”
“— — — — — — -- !”. I guess that he raised his voice.
Finally, I have finished with MST and can commence EVA. Now that I have removed my helmet and balaclava, he can see that I am not freshly-sprung from the womb. He slaps a metaphorical “Senior Citizen” label on me and places me in the pigeon-hole in his mind marked “Departure Lounge”. This classification now informs his further interaction with me.
“I think it’s amazing that you can still ride a motor-cycle, Uncle”, he carefully enunciates, mezzo-forte. … “at your age”, he thinks (but doesn’t say, because he’s polite).
“Why?” I ask, just for fun. I know where this is going.
“I said ‘I - THINK - IT'S - AMAZING - THAT - YOU - CAN - STILL - RIDE - A - MOTOR-CYCLE, - UNCLE’” he repeats, in capitals, fortissimo e staccato. I guess he didn’t listen to my reply, or else his hearing is worse than he thinks mine is.
Instinctively, because he’s been well brought-up, he takes my arm as we walk up the steps. He takes the arm which is holding the helmet. The helmet which signifies that I have just—unaided—managed to pilot a 200-kilogram, 50-horsepower motorbike to a safe touch-down, but the incongruity of his action seems lost on him.
I appreciate his respect, but I don’t like being patronised. There’s plenty of life left in me still, even if my knees and shoulders creak.
2. Sexism
What is, possibly, one of the most remarkable experiences in my life took place when an elderly lady was trying to condole with me shortly after the death of my wife. Really, she meant well.
“So, how do you manage now?” she asked, after a period of prolonged tut-tutting.
“Well, it’s lonely, but life must go on,” I replied uncreatively. I thought I sounded like a cheap film script, but I was new at this and didn’t really know what to say, so I improvised.
“Who cooks your meals?”
“I do.”
“Hmm. Who makes your bed?”
“I do.”
“Oh…[long pause]. And who mends your clothes?”
“I do,” I replied, adding proudly; “I even used my wife’s sewing machine to put up the hems of my pants and to replace the zip in one of my hoodies.”
The look on her face made it clear that using one’s wife’s sewing machine was—in her opinion—down there amongst sins of a particularly despicable and unmentionable nature. Suddenly, her eyes lit up as she (I assume) thought that she had finally found a chink in my armour of independence.
“But, who cleans for you?” she asked, crescendoing triumphantly as she delivered the coup de grâce.
“I do.”
“What?” [incredulously]. “You don’t employ a domestic worker!?” I’m not sure if that was a question or an exclamation. (Perhaps it was a multi-purpose exclamatory question, or maybe an interrogative exclamation).
“No,” I replied, continuing on my quest for creative speech.
“Ah!” she said, with the light of revelation illuminating her face like the sun after a storm. “Of course! It’s so much easier for you, being a man. Men are so much less particular than women when it comes to cleanliness.”
Really, she meant well.