The Unlikely Patriot.

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I was driving west down 60^th in route to Cedars Sanai Hospital 3 days before I was scheduled to fly to Tunisia. I was finally going to Africa. Ok, it's N. Africa where the concept of colonialism was conceptualized, but it's still Africa. I was beyond excited for this journey and learned about 30 words in Arabic that I planned on putting to great use. But on this particular day, I would not be practicing my masculine and feminine nouns. I had the task of being attentive and documenting the most infinitesimal details while a dear friend was consulting with her plastic surgeon. She was having a double mastectomy in two weeks and I was the friend she chose to be there for moral support and to take notes. I was determined to be on time, but with my track record I knew she’d given me a 15 minute grace period due to my notorious tardiness. Why didn't I take Slauson to Crenshaw is what crossed my mind as I was compelled to bust a u-turn and go home to grab my camera. But not to capture moments in my friends journey to beat cancer, or a candid shot of us toasting to a speedy recovery. I had to document what I thought I’d just seen to make sure I wasn't... seeing things.

Three homes west of my corner sat a woman with a sign that read, "New Wemon Shoes 6-12" on a table with an assortment of old shoes. I was shocked and as I made my way around the block at a failed attempt to be inconspicuous, I felt confused. How can you be something you can't spell. Wemon? This was a legible sign with good penmanship and it was clear that who ever made it, took their time. So how did this happen in 2008? I snapped my picture as she watched me as if she knew what my intentions were.

I made my way up to the hospital, prepared to help my friend. I took notes while the gravity of her reality was sinking in. Breast cancer at 42. But the woman on my block was on my mind as well.

I landed in Tunisia around mid-night and could hear prayers from local Mosques that echoed throughout Tunis. I could smell the Mediterranean Sea, the night air was full of humidity and salt. I was going to pray for my friend on their holy soil, for her healing and strength. Oh yes, and the woman on 60^th as well. My first day was spent at a Hammam, which is a marble lined bath house where men and women go, (separately of course) to get bathed once a week. Vanity goes out the door when you’re getting your skin scrubbed by what feels like an SOS pad on a slab of marble by a robust woman who could easily bench press 300 lbs. The room was buzzing with curiosity as I was clearly a stand out. In a country where divorce is disgraceful and being American insinuates you're a Bush advocate who has lattes with Condoleezza Rice, one thing was clear. Seeing that I was both divorced and American, meant I had a first class ticket straight to hell. That said, I was prepared to tell the locals I was Canadian. It would be easier than being trampled with looks of damnation and having to say for the millionth time, “I did not vote for Bush!” But as we were all bonding as women, scrubbing each others backs as if we were family, I thought of that "wemon" back home.

I'd worn a shirt that I’d made at the local swap meet that proclaimed, "Barack don't stop" ™. It was my second day in Tunisia and I put it on without the notion it would evoke the plethora of conversations it did. But as the day passed, I was bombarded with attention and people reading aloud what was written on my shirt.

I was being embraced by Sweeds, Finlanders and folks from all over the world who made it clear if they could vote for Barack, they would. It was amazing to hear French, Arabic and Tunisian dialects with an abrupt and bold, "Barack Don't Stop™" accompanied by a peace sign or thumbs up aimed in my direction. I'm a black woman from the US in N. Africa where one minute I'm being called "Darky", yes that's right…"Darky", and the next minute, I'm being reminded that a black man is being rooted for by the world. I was on an emotional high with every tooth in my head beaming. Finally, I'm outside of the U.S. and there is something people are talking about other than how stupid Americans are and how Bush has single-handedly killed the crops we were counting on to sustain us. I became known as "The Barack Girl" in the local markets and all I could think was why didn't I bring t-shirts to sell, dang! I was really proud to be American. Me… the most unlikely patriot.

One late afternoon after being in those amazing markets for hours, we got back to my girlfriends mothers home who was hosting me. The sun was almost at the horizon and my friends’ twin and I decided to make a quick dash across the street for a few bottles of water. We needed to pass a café, exclusive to men where they drink espresso and smoke from hookahs. I felt a kind of way about going. You see, once the sun sets and a woman is unaccompanied by a man and her head is uncovered, she could be perceived as asking for trouble. The kind of trouble that would not afford her any sympathy from men nor women. I should have listened to that little voice in my head. I didn’t. My friends’ twin who is full on Tunisian walked out ahead of me looking more western than I did. So I thought, when in Tunis… follow the Tunisian. So we walked, admiring the sun in broken English and badgered Tunisian. The smell of spices and hookahs, mixed in with the landscape of Mosques was an amazing sensory cocktail. It really clicked that I was in Africa and it was off the hook! As we headed back, not five minutes later with our water and a baguette, it was dusk. We were passing that same café of men but now… instead of spices and hookahs I smelled distain and trouble. You don’t need to understand the language to know when you’re being discussed. And that wasn’t all that gave me pause. As we approached the entry to complex we were staying at, you could hear chairs scraping the concrete and a murmur amongst those men that wreaked of fury. My peripheral view was no longer of gold leaf mosques but instead of 3 men fixated on us and walking with such intensity that made my friend and I both look at each other as say, “RUN!” And we ran and ran and never dared look back. There was a steel gate that secured the complex that just the day before I learned to lock. That… was GOD. Because that same gate a day later saved us from being attacked and raped. There is no doubt that is what would have happened had those men caught us, as we were all kinds of whores as they banged and kicked in an attempt to get that gate open. I lost a shoe. Me. A shoe. So you know, I had my Flo Jo on.

When we got to my friends mothers home, exhausted and completely freaked, we could barely speak. Yet all I could think was how someone would have broken the news to my mom had they caught us. I was so grateful yet so upset. A day or two later, we went to get henna on our hands and feet by a local woman. As my friends’ mother explained to this woman what happened to me and her daughter, she gave me a once over. Then she said if they caught us, they would have beaten and raped us and that’s what we would have deserved. I’m not Muslim, I was divorced and my friend should known better for not being covered and unmarried. She said it as if she was giving directions to the local market while she was meticulously painting my hands. My mind went to that “wemon” in my neighborhood. I’d pitied her. Thought her to be simple. But in that moment, I realized she was no such thing. See… she would not have been chased. She would not have said she was Canadian. She would not have felt the need to lie about her relationships or lack thereof. As I thought of the woman selling her shoes, I no longer felt she was missing out on anything. She may not have the best education and may never have seen the world outside of her four block radius, but there was an inherent sense of pride as I looked more closely at her picture. She gave me the sense she'd seen it all and was quite content right where she was. I reckon she would not have flipped the script based on some when in Rome shenanigans. What I believe those men sensed that compelled them to target us was too many apologies. When you realize that you can never live up to someone’s expectations when there are so many cultural and religious differences, you don’t try. That doesn’t mean you don't respect their customs or try to be open to new experiences. But you must meet them somewhere in the middle without compromising your personal convictions. The woman on 60^th may be reduced to being ignorant or uneducated by some. But she wasn’t trying to be anything other than her authentic self.

I returned home exhausted. Keeping track of when it's appropriate to cover or not to cover or when to make eye contact with men was taxing. Mixing French, Arabic and English had me talking crazy for weeks. I’ve always felt traveling made you better grounded and deepened your perspective on life and other cultures. And I still do. But it took a while to shake off what happened by that cafe. Everyone is dealing with the same issues while trying to sort through the residual muck of lies courtesy of the tables we’ve been forced to eat from. Broken people in a machine well oiled to keep us distracted for as long as possible. Women being treated like property had not been my experience as a free woman. Traveling was coupled with anticipated explanations of where you stand and praying the locals were getting accurate information that hadn’t been sensationalized. What black means to people varies. The price you pay by being a woman in some cultures is a question I still struggle with.

Time has softened the blow of that experience. My overall trip was amazing and I’d go back again. It was beautiful and the Ruins, food and architecture were breathtaking. I haven’t seen that woman on 60^th since that day. Ironically she was selling shoes. They were in pairs which leads me to believe she never lost one running from nobody in South Central. I judged her never having walked in hers.