Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.

In my junior year of college, I was driving back to Worcester, Massachusetts from New York City with my oldest friend – Wycuie Bouknight.  Wycuie is a tall, thin, dark-skinned and occasionally chatty prince of the city that I have known since fifth grade.  We had ended up at the same undergraduate institution by accident and after trying to live with other people, we ended up as roommates.  After some holiday, we decided to drive back up to school – late in the evening.  The ride up was a combination of jokes, music, reflections, worries, insights and aspirations. 

At one seemingly deserted rest stop, we pulled up, went to the bathroom and then began to pull away.  Upon doing so, I realized that I had forgotten something in the bathroom.  When we turned around to go back, we were surrounded on all sides by three different police cars.  After turning all the lights in the parking lot on us and pulling out their weapons, the officers approached the car; the blood quickly left my body.  Although they approached us on both sides, I was glad that Wycuie was driving for he would get all the questions – or, at least, that was what I thought.

One cop came to my side, aggressively tapped the window for me to lower it and began to ask questions: “where are you going?”

“Back to school,” I replied.

“What school?”

“Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts.”

“Do you have id?”

I waited because I thought they were talking to Wycuie.  He repeated his request while walking even closer to the car.  Scared to death, I gave him my id.

“What is your name?” He asked.

I never understood this.  He has the id, why is he asking the freaking question?  “Christian Davenport,” I said, barely squeezing it out.

Another car arrived and two more officers came out.

“When were you born,” he continued.

My mind was blank.  I couldn’t remember my birth day.  Then after a long pause, “June.  In June.”  I stammered.  Then after another long pause, I blurtered out, “I’m a Gemini.” 

At this, the police officers and Wycuie laughed in an almost uncontrollable fashion.  The guns were put away, the officers left and we pulled off – never to stop or speak for the rest of the trip.  We would speak of the incident later, especially repeating the comical break at the end, but the seriousness of that moment caught us both – one second, one mistake, one twitch – we were shot, it was just that simple. 

I thought of this incident hitting my first roadblock in Rwanda.  Many of the elements were the same: men with guns, attitude, a road that could not be passed, uncertainty, fear.  Several elements were different: I did not speak the language, the guns were not handguns but machine guns, guns were not being pointed at anyone – they were just being carried in a casual fashion, the number of cops involved in the process was seemingly endless: there were the two in the middle of the road, there were the six conducting searches of stopped vehicles, there were the ten sitting on the side of the road for back up and there were another five or six taking a wiz on a tree.

This was perhaps the only time I did not mind my Mizungu status.  Slow down, the driver would either know someone at the block, say something to him that would convince him that we were safe or show him papers.  The guard would look in and either pull us to one side or wave us through.  We were easy to spot. We currently had one person in a seat and we were spread out in the automobile.  This differentiated us from the other cars that had five to six persons per seat as well as a few more holding on the outside.

The guards faces were indifferent, cold, unmoving and ready for action.  The faces on that road in Worcester had been more varied.  All were white but some were relaxed – enjoying the test of wills and the seriousness of the action.  Some were angry – waiting for someone to start so that they could finish.  Some were pleasant (rarely) – doing their job with a degree of professionalism, never acknowledging that the “Driving While Black” Christian and Wycuie takedown was the reason we had been stopped. 

In contrast, I got nothing from the Rwandan faces.  Clearly, however, the difference were there.  Other cars, busses and vans that were stopped had their doors immediately opened, individuals were trotted out and searched on the roadside. 

I was told these were standard “security measures.” 

“What are they looking for,” I asked. 

“Weapons,” I was told – matterfactly. “People that aren’t supposed to be where they are not supposed to be.”

“Who is that?”

To this, I hit that wall around which you could never pass in Rwanda.  “So wide, you can’t get around it; so low, you can’t get under it; so high, you can’t get over it.”  There is a place beyond which one cannot pass.  There are questions that cannot be asked.  There are places where one could not go. 

Of course, things would not stay the same.  On each trip to Rwanda, the roadblocks would be fewer. The guns would be less numerous.  The guards less apparent from everyday life.  These would normally be good signs – signals of an opening, a reduction (like the Surge in Iraq).  But, what did they signal here?  Something different?  Something darker? 

My take was the latter.  One reason why you pull back security and reduce road stops is because there was nobody left to fear.  Once the enemies of the government go abroad, get shot, go to jail or hide, there is nobody left to stop.  With no one left to fear, the road opens.  You were now partially free to move about the country – albeit slowly. 

Now, a trip up to Worcester was a different matter, a different story.  There are plenty of people left to stop in the states.

AGAINST EMAIL

Ok.  I think that the constant stream of seemingly random interruptions into my computer needs to be addressed.  I feel like a battle is being waged - daily: for my attention and time.  As a consequence, I have decided to draft the things that have bothered me most about email (the e stands for evil by the way) and some clues as to how best to deal with me in the electronic realm.

First, the assumptions:

1) It is assumed that we are always online or at least frequently – I am not and it is inaccurate as well as somewhat unfair to assume that we are just waiting on the other end of a computer screen for something.  Admittedly one might feel that they are missing out on a world of virtual communication and that they must constantly be online, but who needs this?  Additionally, it is difficult to figure out when you can get mad at someone for not returning an email for there is really no clear expectations of turnaround for this medium of communication; there are also a million of excuses that are acceptable for why one did not respond (e.g., death, lines down, “just wanted to stay off the computer for a while”, another death – it goes on).  

2) It is assumed that we remember what has been emailed before – this is not the case and one must consistently re-read some virtual history, which could span over several weeks/emails (an electronic Memento kicks in – movie reference [sorry but cannot help it]).  As a result, most of our messages appear to us as contextless ramblings of some virtual representative of our real selves who is always trying to catch up to us like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.  

3) It is assumed that we communicate well over the email – I know that I do not and I believe that this message delivery system compels brevity, humorlessness, and factuality over creativity and depth (consequently, my motivation for using it has been decreased even further as reading the consistent barrage of brief, humorless and factual messages is analogous to factory work).  Let me be clear, I am not asking for long, funny, stories.  I just cannot take the endless stream of lifeless text any longer.  Facebook sometimes interrupts the flow with a photo or a funny cartoon but even here I notice that my ability to read anything longer than a paragraph is being triggered.

4) It is assumed that we will generally get to a message at some point in the near future – I am afraid that this is simply not the case.  I am always 20-50 emails behind and thus I am forced to prioritize: family and friends as well as “really important” messages, then emails from groups of which I am a member of the governing council and then everything else.  Those who know me have responded accordingly but this compels everyone to write subject lines that all convey a sense of urgency (like the news media) and this puts me in the same situation where nothing is considered anymore because it is concluded that everything cannot be an emergency.  The result: 5,654 (read and unread) emails currently exist on my system and more are coming.  

5) It is assumed that individuals expect to have their emessages responded to – this is absurd: if someone says that “I will see you on Thursday”, I do not see why I need to confirm this.  There has never been an email etiquette book, but I feel I need one.  For example, if someone sends an email with a smiley face, is one supposed to respond with some other form of e-cuteness or is it acceptable to just go about one’s business?  Are we meant to respond to every single question asked of us in e-space?  Whatever happened to things that we just ignore when they are put to us in person?  If someone sends you 50 word emails, what is the minimal response (in words) that one can send back without seeming to be rude (is there a 5-1 ratio or 2-1 or is it 1-1)?  Where is the Seinfeld for e-communication?

6) It is assumed that we have all agreed to become e-slaves - tote that barge, respond to that message.  I have been spending more and more time offline (returning to non-virtual life) as my incoming email tends to reach approximately 50-75 per day.  I do not recall signing any piece of paper where I agreed to be placed at the beck and call of any individual with a computer, iphone, ipad, blackberry or anything other electronic device.  Nor do I recall agreeing to be contacted principally through my monitor and eliminating non-computer, mediated human contact with colleagues.  “Give us free,” as the beautiful African said in the horrible film Amistad.

7) It is assumed that we can do other things without constantly checking ones account.  I do not check my mail box (the real one) all of the time nor keep picking up my phone to see if there is a phone message.  Yet, there is something about the email that I must keep checking it (perhaps the fact that we send out hundreds of emails all the time but are not quite sure when someone will respond or that it is never clear when that friend from high school will track you down).  In this context, I find it hard to work sometimes. I am essentially waiting for some random contact with another human being – given the manner in which email is constructed, however, this could be from any human being and it could contain any message.  It is actually something like a video game – how quickly can I kill the messages that have been sent to me.  An add, bamn let me get rid of that. Some question, bamn let me answer that thing. What’s next?  I thought the video game space invaders had been taken off the market.  It is simply back with a vengeance.

8) It is assumed that we will not become distracted when we go online.  Very frequently one could get lost during one session.  Actually, it is frequently the case that one goes on email for one thing and then the initial reason for going online is forgotten and two hours later you still have stuff to do.  

9) It is assumed that little half ass attempts to make the emessaging more human will make us more comfortable using it.  For example, smiley faces serve as nothing but a reminder that much of what we do when we communicate is lost on the web.  There is no personality, there is no inflection point, no thoughtful pauses – just punctuated equilibria; disconnected virtual intrusions into what used to be my private domain.  

10) It is assumed that we will not tire of being manipulated and then just quit (because we are so addicted/familiar).  For example, I am now receiving emails that have figured out that if you lead with the word “Re:” that it will automatically occur to the individual that they must have earlier sent something, which is only now being responded to.  Well since we don’t remember, we open them and that is half of the trouble/battle for your consciousness: getting you there.  Why?  Well, because the key is to get there and then it is assumed that since we are there we will give them some of our time and attention.  Well, enough is enough.  Quit figuring out ways to get me because I am just not looking anymore.

11) It is assumed that we will scroll long distances to read the actual email.  This is extremely misunderstood.  I think that the likelihood that I will read an email is significantly decreased for every line beyond the subject line.  

12) It is assumed that we are willing to accept the internet as a place to conduct battle (e.g., ducking spam, rudeness and so forth).

13) It is assumed that we are willing to open emails that you are not familiar with, engaging in the electronic equivalent of unsafe sex.  There are so many viruses and Trojans right now (not the good kind) that I am at the point of not opening anything that is not sent from someone I have known in the flesh for at least 10 years.  

Now, the solutions:

- Clarify to all individuals that you will only be online once a week (this will prompt them to call you)

- Clarify to all individuals that they will need to use the subject line better: e.g., place the topic and all essential words in subject line (this will also prompt them to call you for this selection takes effort)

- Use an old-school timing device that one would use in the kitchen to limit the amount of time spent on each email (you know with an alarm and the arrow – you wind it; you get the point)

- Email me every day until you hear back from me.  lately I am simply more inclined to respond to persistence as opposed to single efforts.  My thinking: if you can’t email me 20 times or figure out that you should just pick up the phone, then you’re not really interested in contacting me.  The wave of new emails is coming and if I miss a few, I can’t go back.  I can’t.  You know why?  Because there is more coming and I will be even further behind.  At moments of exhaustion, I will look at the emails missed/past and wonder what my life would have been like had I responded to everything.

- Stop emailing me and call me up or better yet skype me.  Generally, just leave me alone for a while as I contemplate the whole communication thing.  I realize that this contradicts the last one.  What's your point?

Next: why I don’t answer my phone and probably won’t give you my skype address. 

Recently, an old friend passed.  HIs name was Gil Scott Heron.  According to Gil's obituary in the New York Times, he was "the poet and recording artist whose syncopated spoken style and mordant critiques of politics, racism and mass media in pieces like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” made him a notable voice of black protest culture in the 1970s and an important early influence on hip-hop, died on Friday at a hospital in Manhattan. He was 62 and had been a longtime resident of Harlem."

Well, this is kind of correct.  Gil is also the person who first "hipped" me to the realities of the world and politics of every situation.  Sitting around between his recording or getting his cover art worked on, he would break things down to me.  It was hear that I first learned about repression, oppression, discrimination and Apartheid.  I had some of the words before these conversations but I did not have the concepts.  

Gil and I would see each other every now and then but the last few were kind of painful because of his problem with drugs.  In fact, this seemed to make it hard for him to talk to me.  I must have just reminded him of something different.  I know that he did to me.  

My last good memory with Gil concerned some time when we were both in London.  I think I was there to hang out for a summer.  He was there for a concert.  Walking down the street, I saw some sign for an upcoming show.  I went to theater and stood outside for him.  Inevitably, he walked by and I stepped up: "Gil, how are you doing?"  He looked at me and said, "fine, little brother" and began to walk away.  I was like, "Gil, it's me - Christian".  He looked at me quizzically.  I then said, "Christian... Christian Davenport - you know connected with Arista Records."  He then smiled and quickly stated: "sorry brother - get over here" (he hugged me). He then continued, "I was going through my mental rolodex of negroes I knew in London and your name didn't come up.  Tell me what you're up too."  

Like so many times before, we spent the next 5-8 hours talking about the world, his career, my going to school and everything he expected me to do and be.  In between he did a show and then we went to go chill in some house somewhere where he did his best to steer me away from what I did not need to be involved with.  


These things Gil could not stay away from and this is partly what did him in. Indeed, my last bad memory of Gil was catching him at the Blue Note or one of those random clubs on the lower east side of Manhattan.  Same deal, I saw some sign that Gil was playing and I went to see him. This time, I figured I would just catch him after the show as I showed up late. I didn't end up waiting however because the show was kind of bad and Gil just did not sound right. I think he saw me at one point and then moved to the other side of the stage (I could be projecting here). At that point, I realized that it was probably not a good thing to check him out after: I did anyway and it was so awkward that I just excused myself. I think we were both embarrassed. I kind of lost him then but kept my memories of all that he did to/for me in my heart.  Indeed, any time I pick up something about politics (which is daily now), I think of Gil.