Running Between Trees

He nodded. “Have you ever found any of the concepts to be contrary to your cultural beliefs?”

“Oh yes. I definitely don’t agree with everything. To be honest, sometimes I wonder if some things are exaggerated or maybe the explanation is not as simple as just psychology. For example, take pica. I can understand somebody eating sand, since back home we give pregnant women potash stones to chew because it’s a normal craving. But to eat batteries or metal? That seems more like a spiritual problem.”

“So you think it’s a bit contrived,” he stated, adjusting his glasses.

“It’s just that sometimes it doesn’t make much sense.” I made a mental note to look up the word contrived later and decided that was a safe response. “The thing is, sir, I know there can be a biological component to something as crazy as that, but sometimes I just feel like it’s first world problems for people with stable living conditions and too much time on their hands.”

If they received some good flogging like I did, they would have had focus and direction in life, I wanted to say.

“Ah,” the professor said softly. “Is that how you perceived your classmates?”

Truthfully, I had found their preoccupations frivolous, like all they cared about was drinking and joining fraternities, not so much the education.

“Well, it depends. My parents would never have approved of some of the things they did, even when exams were approaching. Growing up in Nigeria, even babies in kindergarten are taught a nursery rhyme that goes like this: ‘Good, better, best / I shall never rest / Till my good is better and my better best.’ And so the expectation in school is that you would excel at all costs. Our teachers would compare results, pitching the As against the Bs.”

“Hmm. It appears you have a certain privilege, as I find with most immigrants. You’re grounded in the reality of high expectations by virtue of your immigration. It’s sort of a tentpole that keeps you focused on your goals.”

“I guess, but it’s not easy.” I scoffed. “I recall Clare saying—remember her?”

The professor nodded.

“She said she felt sorry for me because I couldn’t tell when people’s comments were racist.”

“And how did you respond to that?”

“I mean, I’m not stupid. I have definitely experienced outright racism, but I wasn’t focusing on that. My goal was to make my parents proud.”

At first those conversations left me feeling like a fool and then it became irritating to have to analyse every comment about my hair or accent or whatever else. I certainly hated the ugliness of racism. As an African, it put me in a precarious position as both victim by virtue of my skin colour and perpetrator as a descendant of cowardly Blacks who sold their brothers. But all of this existed in my mind only in theory until I came to America. Then the restless dream of living happily ever after in privilege quickly became unveiled as a fantasy. I resented that and tried to distance myself from it.

“Well, the same was true in this country up until about the nineteenth century. Mental problems were treated sometimes by exorcism, so that’s fair.” The professor evaded the race talk, possibly sensing my unease. “And yes, pica is one of the more extreme diagnoses, but think about your community back home. Can you see any benefit to the education you now have as far as understanding some of the common issues?”

“I do when I think about it. There were many things I didn’t understand before, but now I see them in a way that I wish I had back then, which brings me to something I’ve been wanting to ask you. What do you think of restraints for kids in a school setting?”

“Restraints?”

“Yes, like physical restraint for the kids when they become aggressive.” I motioned a dip with my hands.

“Hmm. They still do that?”

“Yes, sir. It just seems counterintuitive, like we’re not allowed to hold them back from running into traffic, but we’re allowed to restrain them.”