drying small

A lot of shops here in Liberia are nothing but wheelbarrows on the side of the road, piled high with slippers and bras and little packets of cookies. The next step up is a bamboo shack, usually shaded by an umbrella or a tarp, with goods displayed draped over the cracks in the walls. The UNMIL store, which sells screen-printed t-shirts, is a step up from this.

It's unclear what the builders were thinking when they constructed this particular house, but the shop is entered by a low doorway. Watch your head the sign warns, so you duck and fold your body in half as you stoop across the threshold, expecting to straighten up as you get inside. This hope is soon crushed as, at least for a Yongo like myself, you realize that the floor and ceiling of this particular room are quite a bit too close together. As you move towards the back of the room, the dirt floor slants downwards just enough to allow a tall person to kind of almost stand up mostly straight. Clotheslines are strung along the sides of the room, and two necessarily low tables take up half of the space. The whitewashed walls are covered in stencils, the shop's way of letting you know what they might have in stock.

The main seller is the classic UNMIL shirt. It's got the UN logo, surrounded by the explanation of the acronym: United Nations Mission in Liberia. Classy yet understated, they're three for five dollars. The shop has recently been expanding its range, though, offering custom shirts for groups like the Nigerian Police, the Mercy Ships dental team and even the Toilet Doctor.

When we walked in today, we saw a new stencil for sale. Obama gazed almost majestically from his place on the wall, the words under his portrait distinctly Liberian. TRYING SMALL. It was a campaign shirt, designed by one of the workers at the shop, back when they weren't sure whether or not this black man would be able to win America over. We started searching through the stacks of shirts to find ones already printed; there were none, which isn't a problem in this particular establishment. All you need to do is unearth a blank shirt and hand it to the man standing at a small wooden stand. He grabs a frame and a pot of ink, and forty seconds later you're the proud possessor of a Liberian original. (Thanks to Luke for the photos for this entry!)

As we unfolded ourselves from the shop (although Amy and Luke didn't have to do as much in the way of bending, since they're not quite as tall as I am) we realized that the ink on our new shirts was still wet. We didn't want them to smudge in our bags, so we did what seemed totally natural, given the fact that we're in Africa. We put our shirts on our heads to dry in the hot sun and started the dusty trek home.

Here's where it got interesting. I know I've spoken before to the fact that I'm nothing close to anonymous here. I can't go outside the port gates without being called to almost constantly. White Girl! White Girl! You fine! I love you! Be my friend! White Girl! Today, on the half-hour walk home from the UNMIL store, my color was never once shouted out at me. As my feet got dustier and my shoulders burned in the heat, the calls were of a different nature.

Obama! Obama! Obama! I love that man! He's a great man! That man will do well for America! I want that shirt! Obama! They didn't ask for money or food or my undying love. They just wanted to share their joy with me, their joy that a black man was actually elected president of America. And for the first time in nine months, people didn't notice the color of my skin.

Like I said, I don't know anything about him. My shirt claims that he's trying small, but the the truth is, I don't know how he's going to lead my country, and I don't know what the next four years will hold. All I know is that today, for a few brief moments in Liberia, his color trumped mine.

For that, I can only thank him.