I’ve noticed over the years a trend starting to rear its hysterical head out from the bowels of facebook
The African child as profile picture accessory
These profile pictures all feature wealthy white girls
- holding hands with an african child
- Surrounded by African children
- Taking a selfie with an African child and then showing them the picture because the white female probably thinks that this will be the first and only time the child sees his own reflection
- Trying to acclimate to the African children’s culture while unknowingly embarrassing yourself in the process
- Having the profile picture focus on the African Child as if to give the impression that you actually went over to Africa to help the children without the intention of setting yourself apart from other college applicants
- Helping the African child with something that they definitely could do by themselves
- Scare the shit out of the African infant with your white girl camera flash (and not wax your mustache)
- And pretending like you actually like being there whilst African children are in the background
We all know that the minute you get off that plane and get through customs, your white anglo saxon parents will be waiting with your barbour coat and a pair of jack rogers.
OMG AND THE PPL POUTING IN THE NOTES!!!!
I’ma start a blog right now called “Babies Throwing Shade at White People”
Here I go…
YES! DO EEET!
It is done.
dead dead dead hahahaha
most of these kids look mad side-eye-y
Part of me is like: yes, this; but also: not this.
Yes, this to the people who go on five week missions trips or humanitarian trips and then believe they know all about the culture now that they’ve “immersed themselves in it.” Yes, this to the people who live there for years and years keeping themselves separate or clinging to every last shred of their first culture. Yes, this to the people who exploit African culture in its many many varieties and post their photos to show how diverse, well-traveled, humanitarian, whatever that they are. Yes, this to people who post photos of people they don’t know and whose names they never learned.
But also not this. Not this because of the women who cried with me when I found out my step-dad had terminal cancer and I’d have to go back to the United States to take care of him. Not this because of the phone calls (or, okay, beeps that mean “call me because I have no money on my phone!”) from Fatuma and Aneth and Pendo still asking how he’s doing. Not this because of the hours spent taking beans out of their shells with Belita and Fatuma (and Happy, Juhudi, Mara, Upendo…). Not this because of Mahonje and Mwambije and Jairos and Pendo and Mama Belita and Oliva and Mama Yasmin and Baba Yasmin and Mary and Mama Fatuma and so many others who did life with me, who invited me into their homes and came to mine. Not this because I already had to prove myself while I was living there, to show that I wasn’t just some tourist who’d come to evangelize American culture and frame them in photographs, to show that I valued their languages by learning Kiswahili and fumbling my way through Kihehe. Not this because I believe in the friendships I made in my village—in the family that we created—and still believe that cross-cultural relationships are possible and valuable and necessary.