Sumisi

Seldom, as a white woman living in the northeastern US, have I been acutely aware of the color of my skin. More often, subtly or not, attention is drawn to my sex. When a heavy box, for example, is put aside in favor of one more suitable. Or, as the soul occupant of an elevator or parking garage, I wonder if the incoming company will be welcome or not.

The first time my whiteness was thrust on me, I was commuting on the Subway. I was on the “A” train heading home to Brooklyn. As we hurtled under the east river, the car rocking like an insane man, I reached into my bag and slid on my headphones – not to listen to music, but to dull the sound of the uneven rails. Settling back into my seat, I looked around and realized I was the only white person in the car. No one else seemed particularly to care or even notice that I was there. The faces around me did what the faces on the subway do, they read, they gazed at the strobing flash of tunnel lights and passing stations, they attempted isolation in what was inherently a communal situation. The moment stands like a snapshot in my mind, or rather two snap shots: the train from my eyes—a sea of brown faces each suspended in its own internal world; the other a fish eye photo from above—black, black, black, black, White, black, black.

In Ghana, our bus rides taught us two things, the first was, if we waved by showing our palms and rocking them side to side, people, mostly children, waived back. But if we extended our palms and waived by opening and closing our fingers, it meant “come” and people came to the bus windows with food or crafts for sale, or with open palms themselves, asking, asking.

We also learned the word “sumisi” which came whispering in through the windows laden with wonder. It hissed up at us from the street, sumisi, sumisi. When we asked the driver, he smiled and hesitated before sharing the secret. “White,” he said. “It means white people.” I’ll admit we did it too, albeit in our own language. “White person!” someone would exclaim pointing at the sidewalk or market.

At schools, younger children approached us shyly, round eyes on our faces, small hands reaching out to touch our skin, just to see what if felt like. Twice I sat with friends holding young babies, but when the babies focused on my face, my skin, or found themselves in my arms, they burst into tears frightened by the strangeness of me.

Faced with my traveling companion and I, of similar ages and builds, our hosts took for sisters, called us by each other’s names, and giggled when we revealed their mistake. A. was fair, blond-haired and blue eyed with an elfin chin. While I am also fair, my eyes and hair are brown, and my jaw square. All white people, I guess, look alike.