A Croissant for Lunch, and Daddy

When you're used to looking at people of one race, people of another race all kind of look the same.  I remember when I was a little girl travelling in Asia, I thought that Asian people should be able to tell us apart because we have different colored eyes and hair, and it was hard for me to recognize them because everyone had the same color eyes and hair!  Obviously, we are actually picking up on things more subtle than color, and it's very powerful.  And, incidentally, my observation skills did adjust, and I can still identify Asian people and their actual ethnicity better than most white Americans.

So, whenever Buttercup sees a white man, she happily thinks it's her daddy!  Usually we just see someone going by on the road or passing in a store, and I say something like "maybe that's someone's daddy, but it's not your daddy," and we move on.  But yesterday, we went to the French pastry shop in Kabalagala while we were on our errands, and there were a lot of white men passing through.

We go to the French pastry shop every time we do errands in Kabalagala, and we're not the only ones; it's apparently ex-pat central.  This city is determinedly African, except for a couple of high-end hotels -- even the Chinese restaurants serve matoke and goat meat!  La Patessirie can make dough into different shapes and flavors (other than "poofy, white, and sweet"), has an espresso machine, courteous and prompt service, tables that are set out with space in between them (!!!), and even -- this is unbelievable -- air conditioning.  I think a few tourists come by, but it's not really worth their while to pretend to be in a French cafe in the suburbs, so not too many.  It's mostly people, of all shades of brown and black and white and cream, speaking all different languages, with the trappings of local living: they bring and their computers and their business meetings and their spreadsheets, their strollers and their babies and their dates with girlfriends.  The babies are all different colors, too.  It's the one place in town where no one seems confused to see a white woman carrying a black baby who babbles in two languages.

So this time, by coincidence, there were rather more men of the white persuasion rather than the in-between brown ones, and Buttercup had Daddy on the mind.  Finally, a man came in who was not only white, he was even a more or less daddy-ish age, and even had dark hair and beard.  (He also had a wife and baby, but they were irrelevant.)  Buttercup watched him pick out his pastry.  She snuck glances while he ate.  She really wanted to talk about Daddy, and finally I decided I needed to be really clear.  I held her up to get a good view of him, and pointed out that he wasn't Daddy.  We watched him gather his things and got in a good position to watch him pass our windows as he left.  She stared and stared, and gradually her excitement turned to sadness as she realized that I was right and this wasn't who she was dreaming of.

Mama: That's a different daddy, not our daddy.

Buttercup: Daddy!

Mama: No, honey, it's not your daddy.

Buttercup: Daddy?

Mama: That's not our Daddy.  Not Daddy Buttercup, not Daddy Emerson.

(this is the way people say names here)

Buttercup, softly: Not Daddy Buttercup.  Eh-son, scho-oool.  'Biscus, schoo-ooool.

Mama: Yes, Emerson is at school, and Hibiscus is at school.  We'll go pick them up soon.

Buttercup nods, glad to confirm the continued existence of at least some family members.

Mama: But your Daddy is far, far away.  Daddy is in America, Daddy is not here.

Buttercup: My Daddy.  Dis one, not my Daddy.

Mama: That's right, this one is not your daddy.

Buttercup: My Daddy, fah fah 'way.

Mama: Your Daddy is far far away.

Buttercup: My Daddy, fah fah 'way.  Want.  My Daddy, want.

Mama: Me too.  I miss your daddy, and I wish he were here.  But your daddy is not here.

Buttercup: My Daddy.  Not my daddy. 

Mama: That's right, that's not your daddy.  Your daddy is in America.

Buttercup: Want, Daddy Bu-cup.

Mama: Me too, honey.

Buttercup: Dis one, not my daddy.  My Daddy, fah fah 'way.

(the conversation continued a little while in this vein)

Then we packed up our things, paid the bill, and wrapped Buttercup on my back.  We went to the bathroom on the other side of the compound, wrapped back up, and went to our next errand.  Every ten seconds or thirty seconds, Buttercup said sadly "Daddy fah fah 'way," and I would agree with her.  

Daddy is far, far, away.

Daddy is far, far, away.

Daddy is far, far, far away.

We miss you, Daddy.  We love you.  Happy birthday.