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The more they stay the same................
The Art of Guesting
Needless to say, Uzbek guesting happens naturally because people are, shall we say, assertive. Politely, mind you, but assertive none-the-less. Once someone has decided to get your attention, your attention will be gotten. Why? Welcome to the 'hood.
Uzbeks, like anyone else, have the bourgeoisie. Such people wait until they are within a full six to nine inches of the intended guest and use musical cadences to inquire about health, family and then extend an invitation to dine. When the invitation is accepted, they smile, make small talk and quietly walk the guest to their humble abode, introduce her to their demure relatives, and hurry off to prepare supper.
However, why front? If you happen to have been raised in an environment in which an angry woman performs an unusual slinky-like movement with her neck, fingers wave with alarming force during heated discussions (note, the masculine finger stabs, while the feminine one makes a slashing motion), males between the ages of twelve and thirty are convinced that a woman doesn't know how nice she looks unless they give loud shouts of approval, the same males only condescend to make these points because their astonishingly good looks struck said woman deaf and blind, and children's shouts for their parents are only drowned out by said parents shouts down the street at the children, you will feel absolutely at home in Uzbekistan. Note that I lived in the 60's- blocks in the late 70's and the 100's in the early 80's.
In fact, hearing 'Whooooooo' shouted across half a block (unless the caller has exceptional lungs at which point in time, the call may come from so far away, that the caller is but a distant speck on the horizon), can draw the attention faster. There is no ignoring said call because the determined inviter will become more specific. In case you are not clear about whose attention they were trying to get- and being surrounded by several hundred other people is no excuse- they will ratchet it up a notch and cry 'Whooooo! Whoooooooooooooooooo!'
At this point in time, everyone in the crowd will look toward the crier, and then look round at each other wondering what rude soul is ignoring the earnest efforts to get their attention. The wise will of course look at you accusingly because you know that nobody is going to go through all that effort unless it is to get a foreigner's attention.
Let's say that you put on a front. You simply continue on your way. You buy something, chat with a vendor, walk down the street. Now, you will feel the full force of Uzbek determination. The same determination that rebuilt Bukhara a couple of times (according to some histories, destroyed it, too), fought colonialism and waited out the end of Communism.
'AFRICAN! Hello, AFRICAN!!!!!!!!!'
There is no reason on earth not to answer this specific call. It doesn't matter if you are late, tired, irritable, trying to rush to email before the system crashes, or even coming from an earlier guesting experience. There is no reason not to answer.
Should you decide that, first of all neither you nor any of your relatives for the last several hundred years has even smelled African soil; should you decide that just because some of the people around you are as brown as you are and you should be able to fade into the crowd; should you be lying in a hospital after a two-story fall off of a balcony, YOU, MY FRIEND ARE BEING ABSOLUTELY UNCOUTH IF YOU TO REFUSE TO ANSWER TO YOUR AFRICANNESS.
After all, Africa is the Motherland, so why front?
Negeristan is another matter entirely.
Believe it or not, there is at least one country in the world where people not only accept European and Euro-American foolishness and call themselves N---, but claim to be proud of it. America's knuckleheaded population should take comfort in the knowledge that in Uzbekistan and, so I have been told, much of the former Soviet Union, dark complexioned Original people are called 'neger'.
It sounds just like it looks. The reason is found in the Russian language, which, like Dutch and some other European languages, names African people as 'neger, nigger, etc.' If you are lucky, you may even find older Russian/English dictionaries that give two entries.
Neger- African, etc.
Neger- Nigger.
And vice versa.
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A Little History
After the U.S. Civil War, Russia turned the land between the two rivers into a big cotton field, set the Uzbeks and others picking cotton and called them negers to complete the picture. During the Cold War, the Uzbeks were told that America's African population was treated very badly, being forced to pick cotton, etc. and that 'Nigger' was our ethnic name. In fact, quite a few Uzbeks think that we American Negers are still picking cotton. Cotton picking is an honorable work and it still forms a large part of the Uzbek economy, but as all the U.S. history books I shipped to my school showed, we Colored, Negro, Afro-American, African-American, Blacks have never called ourselves N---.
Alas, I wasn't being quite truthful.
Perhaps, if the Uzbeks had used wide hand motions, monotone base vocalization, and replaced the final consonant with a soft vowel, I would not have given the word another thought, but I was never able to reconcile 'Hello Neger,' and 'Negerjon' (Dear Nigger) with my self-image. Yes, I knew that no one used it as an insult; yes, I knew it was in the encyclopedia, the dictionary, and films; yes, I knew that Uzbeks sometimes called the darker members of their family Neger and not a tear shed; yes, my conscious Black folks, I'd read about ngr in 'Black Athena'; yes, yes, yes. But I still couldn't say 'yes,' when someone used that to get my attention.
Even better, by Uzbek cultural standards, calling yourself Black was a bit like placing yourself on the lowest rung of damnation, and I only met one person who could use the word for people comfortably.
Person X would use the word 'Neger,' and I would sigh inwardly and patiently explain that I was Black. Person X would look horrified and tell me that 'Black' was not an ethnic group and walk off shaking her or his head.
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The Bizarre
A few weeks into my life in Bukhara, two very dark complexioned children stopped me on the street and asked me the usual questions about family, place of origin, etc. When I asked them where they were from, they responded 'Negeristan,' as if this was a perfectly normal place that I could find on any map. When I finally levered my hanging jaw into a closed position, I managed a tiny 'Oh,' and left the conversation at that.
I was constantly questioned about why such a reasonable word was offensive. People assured me that everyone called them N--- and became angry that I didn't want to be called it; some people thought that I was ashamed of my ethnic group and assured me that everyone loved Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson and that the N- people were a great people; people pointed out the country Niger on the map. It was bizarre.
For a while, I explained. I explained until I knew the explanation by rote. I explained until I could give a five-minute lecture in two. I explained because I wasn't about to dishonor the striving of my ancestors by answering to a word that had such horrible connotations. I explained because I felt horrible that any people should have gone through an experience as similar as my own and were so deprived of information that they actually called themselves N-. I contemplated bolstering my explanations by organizing an emergency airdrop of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad's selected lectures. I explained because that's not who we are, anyway.
I explained until it was pointed out that the lyrics of every Black musician who appears on the international video channels which are avidly watched by 'modern thinking' Uzbek teens (and African teens, Pacific Island teens, Latin American teens, Middle Eastern teens, East and South Asian teens, etc.), clearly state that the United States of America contains an ethnic group called N---.
So where was I from, again?
Faced with my own glass house, I pocketed my stones, vowed to concuss the next Black American I hear calling her or himself out of her or his name, and went guesting.
That, my friends, is how I was living.
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Part I
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