The latest question on everyone’s mouth – “Whoa! Can she understand Ngakarimojong?”
To which I answer, “Yes, she can.”
After the laughter settles, the second question – “Are you a Karimojong?”
This is where one of my Karimojong friends breaks in : “Yes! Yes she is! See?”
Racism comes in many forms. It can be everything from someone screaming and spitting on you because of your skin color to a sidelong sneer and a clipped comment in the checkout line about how you apparently think you’re better than everyone else. Recently I’ve been noticing it a lot more – perhaps it’s because I’m getting older, but I’ve had more and more interactions where my skin color apparently made a lot of difference.
But then again, I am a Karimojong – or so they tell me. A real Karimojong. One who can grind corn, mud a house, carry a child and keep the wisecracks coming. And one who can laugh at any situation. Yes, I am a Karimojong. That’s me. Nakor(u) Naris Nakim Angolere Kokoi Teresa. (I’ve been given countless names – most of which I can’t remember. ) So why is there still so much trouble here? Why do I still get harassed?
Because I am white, I guess. To those that know me, I’m the in-between. They tell me I am not white and not black. And yet I am both. They tell me I am “a bit brown”. They tell me that I am a true Karimojong inside, but my outside is white. I am between colors. A bit brown.