B*tch

Okay. I tried to be someone else for awhile, but it just doesn’t work for me. As hard as I try not to, I can’t help but obsess about who I am and why I am the way I am. And I’m currently obsessed by the nagging fear that I’ve become a bitch.

I know, right?

I mean, I’m a nice girl! People like me! I like people! But not anymore it seems. Now, I only speak when spoken to, and sometimes I don’t even do that. I find myself looking past the people who approach me. Ignoring their requests for help. Brushing them off with an insincere “sorry” or “no thanks.” I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become. She’s an uncaring, unfeeling monster!!!

I don’t mean to be. And I certainly don’t want to be. I blame, at least in part, the fact that I still have a problem understanding the South African accents. I do okay when people speak slowly and e-nun-ci-ate, but really, how often does that happen? And I struggle even more with people whose first language isn’t English but Afrikaans or Xhosa or Zulu. Most of them have a good understanding of English and someone who’s used to the accent can probably understand them just fine, but me, half the time I don’t even recognize that it's English they’re speaking!

I ask them to repeat themselves; I really do try to understand, but how many times can you politely say “Sorry?” and “Excuse me?” and “Would you mind saying that again?” before moving onto a frustrated “What?” and “Huh?” before you just give up? I don’t know! But somewhere in the past eighteen months I have – given up, that is. Because I no longer ask people to repeat themselves I simply say “Sorry” and move on…

A few months ago I was at the mall with Roger and a man approached me. Now, Roger and I always hold hands at the mall – because we luv each other – but also to avoid losing each other in crowds. See, with Roger’s ridiculously long legs and my well, um, not so long legs we tend to get separated if not attached. So we hold hands, but Roger still has a tendency to stay three steps ahead of me, dragging me along behind him like a willful two year-old. (So rude, right?)

I say all this so you know that Roger barely noticed when the man approached me at the mall. Roger was practically in the parking lot and I was still in the lobby when a confused man approached me to say…something. I couldn’t understand him. And as I bounced back to Roger’s side (the man stalled me for a moment, causing me to rebound like a rubber-band back to my husband) I said to him, frustrated, “He needs help, I think!”

Roger read the concern on my face and looked back. I explained that I couldn’t understand what the man was saying but thought perhaps he was lost or needed some other kind of assistance. Roger left me standing there as he went back to the man I’d pointed out. I watched the interaction from the doorway. Roger says something. The man says something. Roger shakes his head and marches back to me, rolling his eyes.

“He just wanted money,” he explains as he takes my hand once more.
“Oh,” I say, feeling kind of silly. “I thought maybe he was lost and I was being rude.”
“I know,” Roger sighs. “But you weren’t.”
“But I might have been.”
“Not likely.”

He’s right. It’s not likely. In fact, most times in this country if one stranger approaches another it’s either to beg for money or pester you to buy some useless piece of crap that they’re selling. That’s why I’ve taken to saying “Sorry,” or “No thanks,” whenever I’m approached. Even if I don’t understand the question. It’s just my instinctual response.

But it makes me sad…and it just doesn’t seem right.

Last week I was running in the neighborhood, and I spotted two men up ahead, standing on the corner by a parked truck. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I have a vision of me being shoved into the back of the truck, kicking and screaming. I wonder how long it will take Roger to realize I've been kidnapped, then I think about how sad he will be without me. Despite all this, I keep running, and just as I feared, the man steps into my path, motioning for me to stop. He's saying something but I can't hear/understand him, so I give my standard “Sorry!” followed by a ridiculous, “I’m…uh…busy!” as I run off.

I continue down the street, relieved by my narrow escape, when I start to process the scene in my memory. The man was holding a slip of paper, and only in retrospect do I suspect that it probably contained an address...for a delivery perhaps? It’s likely that the men were just lost and needed some directions. I should have stopped. What kind of person am I? Why didn’t I just stop? I briefly consider turning back but feel too silly about the whole thing. Plus, in all honesty, there are no street signs around here so while I know the area well, I’d have no idea how to give directions. I keep running.

Now in that instance, accents had nothing to do with it. It’s my newly ingrained fear of strangers that prevailed. And maybe, maybe, that’s not such a bad thing. I don’t know. But I don’t like how it makes me feel about myself. I used to be quite the Pollyanna. Interested in meeting new people, fascinated by the quirks of strangers, eager to offer help to someone in need…but not anymore. Now I feel like a hermit. Unable to communicate with new people and too scared to try. Silly, huh? Is this something that happens to everyone with age, or is this a result of living in a foreign country?

I don’t know. But I miss the old me. Hopefully, she’s still in there somewhere, and I’m making a conscious effort to find her.