Patrick was the white name
given to the first friend I made
in South Africa. I feel somewhat ashamed
I can’t remember or begin to pronounce
his Zulu name. My mouth simply could
not form the sounds of his actual
name. He laughed at how much I kept
practicing his name, over, over, over
again trying hard to get it right. I stayed up
late with him just talking about our own
lives, what struggles we each faced. We shared
tears together. I trusted him. Later, I was told
by a Brit, I needed to stay with my color, AIDS
was given to South Africa as a gift. He warned me
that anyone lesser my skin tone was
especially dangerous. For a woman of my blonde
hair, my fair skin, he told me I was most at risk. He tried
to scare me with rape statistics (which I knew, but he
rambled on not letting me speak). The Brit telling me this
owned what he called a “Wild Game Safari.” I went to
the “Safari” with him to see that it was
nothing more than great animals in tiny
cages. I couldn’t get away from him fast
enough. I felt dirty even sharing
handshakes with the likes of that man. That
was the first time in my life I met a human being
who physically repulsed me just for being who he was.
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