Been quiet for a bit, taking it all in, preparing for the new year.  More on that later.

Hearing about the death of the two police officers in New York raises a great many issues.

First, the deaths immediately raised the topic of retribution and revenge.  Had it been the case that individuals in the population had decided that it was unacceptable to take African American lives and decided to strike back violently?  Had it been the case that individuals in the population were done feeling that they had no agency and they decided to strike back?  Were they done begging for something to be done?  What did it mean that individuals no longer feared directly bringing the fight to political authorities?  What did it mean that the fear that normally kept citizens in check had dissolved and they raised arms against the state?  Was this the very meaning of individualized anarchy?  Would the attacks diffuse throughout the population?  How many individuals in the population harbored antagonisms toward the police?  How deep and wide did that resentment go?  Or, was this an isolated incident of an unstable individual who took an act that could be misrepresented because of the current context?

Second, although the discussion in the media has not yet made the connection, with the explicit reference to the word “pigs” in the police killers entries, the deaths reminded me of the days of the Black Panthers, their use of the word and their violent interactions with the police. As shown above, pig has a specific meaning when used by black nationalists and black power advocates.  This phrase is associated with a certain type of vicious agent of the state that appears to just brutalize all in their path. The recent reference appeared to invoke the image but without the data it is hard to say if the situation now is any worse than it was in the 1960s and 1970s when the Panthers were active.  It was not about shooting the police however.  The Panthers wanted to put the police in check for their seeming aggressive and violent attitudes as well as the type of activities employed against the black population.  But, there are some major differences between this period and the current use of the word. For example, the Panthers were a social movement organization with a broad plan for how to improve the political-economic system and not an isolated individual with a single issue they wanted addressed. The Panthers were largely interested in having the police follow the law, not attacking them pre-emptively. This is not to say that there were no violent exchanges. At one point, some members of the organization did decide to break off, start their own faction and to attack the “boys in blue”.  Such action was set within the context of a perceived all-out assault on the black community which could no longer be tolerated. This opinion was not unique to the Panthers. Most black nationalists advocated such a position - especially when viewed as a "reactive" response to anti-black violence enacted by whites in general and the police in particular. This includes groups as diverse as the Revolutionary Action Movement, the Republic of New Africa (the subject of my latest book), the All African People's Revolutionary Party under Kwame Ture, US under Maulana Karenga, the Organization of African-American Unity developed by Malcolm X and occasionally the Nation of Islam.

Third, the deaths of the police officers seems to have invoked a significant amount of sympathy for the police in particular and agents of the government in general despite the recent revelations about their activities and growing mobilization around the topic.  Would the killing of “seeming innocents” or armed government agents “on the job” shift the sympathies of the mass population away from raising questions about what had taken place and what was taking place? Would people be too scared about offending the legitimate users of coercive violence who put their lives on the line daily?  Would the momentum be lost from those who began to come together in criticism of these agents of the state?  Could a separation be made between those criticizing the police and the killer in specific or potential killers in general?  Had the scales been shifted?  Would the general deference to political authorities be resumed and the growing critical tone from much of the population be stunted?

Fourth, there is the issue of when (if at all) it is acceptable for citizens to use violence. Many political theorists speak of the right to rebellion. In the face of tyranny (i.e., a misuse of coercive power by those in political authority), it was believed that citizens had the right to raise up arms against those in government.  Unfortunately these theorists never really dealt with the issue of exactly when someone knew they were in a situation of tyranny.  They provided no definitions, no criteria and no measurement strategies. They did not address the fact that governments were the ones who frequently compiled data regarding the use of coercive power.  They also did not really discuss any variation in the concept of rebellion.  Does such activity have to involve large numbers of people?  Does such activity have to involve violence?  Does such activity have to lay out a clearly defined plan of action or could it just be a “shot in the dark”?  Is all this discussion regarding the death of the police officers and the desire for retribution simply a justification for some violent action with no significance or resonance at all?  In this latter categorization, the activity is not some measure of rebellion or signal of dissatisfaction but instead some horrific act of random violence seeking a justification?  Could the deaths of the police officers be irrelevant for current discussions?  

Questions abound.

Beginning around 2007, I started traveling through Scandinavia a bit.  At that time I was awarded a Fulbright and given an award to spend some time at the Peace Research Institute Oslo, where I have recently been made a Global Fellow.  At some point I will discuss what research I am engaging in there (I don't really like to talk about things while I am doing them - hint: it is about repression and contentious politics).  Regardless, with my travels to and through Norway, I began to notice some important as well as interesting things which brought out comparisons to the other places where I was spending time: US, India, Northern Ireland, Zimbabwe and Rwanda.  It was at this point that I started writing my "Tales of Norway".  This is the third installment.


The Old are not Wasted on the Young: Leonard Cohen in Oslo

“Care to go to a concert?” I was asked by one of the Havards (many Norwegians have this name which is kind of confusing sometimes).

“Who is playing,” I asked – skeptical but interested: 1) to see who Havard liked and 2) to see who played in sleepy little Oslo.

“Leonard Cohen,” he responded.

I was like, “the off-beat, crooner from the 1960’s with the golden voice?”

Havard was like, “one and the same.  He has a show tonight and tickets are available.”

“He’s still playing music,” I asked – innocently enough.

“Of course,” he replied, “he’s one of the most popular singers in Oslo.

This I could not believe.  “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, not at all,” he said quite earnestly.  Norwegians don’t lie.

We then rushed to get tickets at the post office.  Don’t ask, different story and when I got up to the counter, I paid my $102 for my ticket.  Now, I’m not quite sure of the price for one of the first rules of having a good time in Oslo is that you never, ever convert local prices to dollars: it’s just too depressing and psychologically draining (immediately one cascades into “how can anyone live here,” “who can afford this,” “why has the American dollar dropped so much,” and then about 15 minutes later you come out of it).

Tickets in hand, Havard 1, Havard 5, R, Cy and myself went to the concert.  At first glance, on the tram ride past the crowd, I saw that Havard was not lying.  I mentioned that Norwegians were truthful, right?  The crowd went on – seemingly forever, winding in and out of the cobblestone streets, into/around alleyways and far, far away from the outdoor stadium.  The crowd was shocking not only because of its size but also for its age.  I could not believe the range.  You had the older crowd (60+’s) but you also had teenagers (not with their parents or grandparents), twentysomethings and everything in between.  To be honest, I was expecting an older crowd or for them to be in the majority and an indoor venue.  But there was no majority.  The distribution was almost proportional (perfectly balanced) – like everything else in Oslo.

Once inside and even through the warm-up act, all I could was watch the crowd. 

“How do the young people know about Leonard Cohen,” I asked.

“They play him all the time,” I was told.

“On the radio… regular stations,” I probed.

“Yes, of course.  All over the air waves.”

I thought that this could not be true.  Leonard Cohen was an acquired taste in the U.S.; hell, if he had not been in the film Natural Born Killers (singing), most under 45 would never have heard of him.  He was Canadian afterall.  But this was immediately confirmed as the increasingly liquored up crowd sang song after song after song with/to/for Cohen.  They totally knew and got the man.  They felt his pain (as he bent forward to croon), long for his love, squealed with delight at every turn of phrase, tilt of hat, which Cohen delivered with grace, dignity, style and likely a little hair of the dog.

The show was truly phenomenal in its depth, showpersonship and finesse – somewhere between Robert Plant meets David Bowie meets Frank Sinatra.  At some point, I realized that I could not even imagine seeing him in the states – at least not like this.  There were no explosions, no breakdancers, no snakes, no naked breasts, no 50-person marching band, no video clips of random violence, no rockets, no red glare.  Just mellowness.  His soothing voice, some relaxed music, the coolness of the night(ish) breeze – it was July so there was no darkness coming any time soon and, of course, the constant flow of beer.  These people can drink.

I racked my brain for most of the concert, trying to think of who America would sit through at a comparable age and degree of mellowness at a similar size venue with this type of variation in the crowd.  A few names came to mind: Elvis or Michael Jackson (brought back from the dead), the aged U2 (U60?) and maybe the remaining Beatles.  Springsteen, Billy Joel and Barry Manilow still got some people to see them, but not this size. 

“What’s up with Americans,” I thought.  “Why do we eat and/or discard our old?”

Then I thought that maybe the Norwegian crowd was like Deathwatch 2008; everyone was there to see the old guy’s last hurrah.  Maybe they thought he wasn’t going to be doing this much longer and in that context every concert could be his last.  Wanting to be a part of the event, therefore, they came out – in droves.

That was the theory.  This did not seem to fit with the reality though of what I was coming to understand about Norwegians.  It did not jive with the audience’s participation (including the 4 curtain calls when Cohen’s age began to show).  They were really into LC (abbreviated to make him a little hipper) and they celebrated each note (however off-key), each sermon (however preachy or corny) as if it were delivered by a good friend.  And for their friend, they listened, they laughed, they clapped, they roared, they drank (of course), and they sang into the dark/lightness(ish) of the Norwegian end of day.

After the event (at around 10pm), we went to sit on the grass under the still blazing sun. Watching several thousand people walk their separate but collective ways under the watchful eye of two unarmed police officers, one whom was holding an LC t-shirt in his hand.   

There is something elemental about it.

At once, mechanical and transcendent;

Habitual and mystical.

It starts simply enough:

The sun emerges, light is shed and warmth is distributed.

            Wherever they are, Norwegians feel its presence.

            In the throes of the call, everything else is suspended.

            They move to open spaces, remove clothing and find their way to the earth.

This must be as I was; as it should be.

Nevertheless, I sit inside pondering the disjuncture – ever uncomfortable is the high-strung, new yorker

How could we occupy the same space but be in such different places?

They look at me and feel pity: “he does not share the sun with us,” they likely think.

I look at them and feel derision: “how do they ever get anything done with all the sun-             
            worshipping,” I definitely think.

We gaze at each other, through glass and several thousand miles of cultural differences, but we do not see each other.

I envision other sunny days, after I am done/after my deadline.

Then I will enjoy it – content with my completion and movement.

They see no other day;

            Remembering dark days and darker nights

            They run to celebrate it, now.

I seek to erect, chisel, carve a legacy one word at a time.

They seek to disassemble, curl, extend into the grass, one limb at a time.

Don’t ask them about it. 

The answers make no sense for the questions are senseless, baseless.

How could one not commune with brother sun, sister moon is coming and she is a lukewarm and tempestuous being?

“Tomorrow will come,” they tell you, “but there is no guarantee of lightness.”

“Winter will also come,” they tell you, “and it is without question going to be no light then.”

Just a dark gray, a cold that wraps around your spine and a slowness that rivals tree
growth.

I have not completely transformed but after several months, I now take my papers and read them outside when beckoned by the sun.

I now walk along a river when I take in the afternoon breeze and midday reflection.

And, I gaze at the sunbathers at 8:30pm to recall the feeling of grass underfoot.

I never thought of Norwegians as funky (i.e., into the music of Parliament/Funkadelic) but they seem to get it: Everybody’s Got a Little Light Under the Sun!

As my mom will attest, I have not been a fan of President Obama.  On his watch, people have been killed and tortured, a beheaded behavioral challenger's body was virtually paraded around the minds of millions, civil liberties restrictions have continued, the poor have been kind of skirted and the difficulties with the criminal justice system have been short-changed.  I have also noticed that he has kept his distance from black folk.  Now, I did not expect him to embrace Jesse Jackson, Kanye West or Chokwe Lumumba (the last is a recently deceased black nationalist by the way), bring Kwanza to the Senate (blackening it up for a day) or put up a 24-hour basketball court on the front lawn (not desired) but I did not expect him to roll the way he did.  

Different discussion though (I can feel my mom scowling).  Today is a good day because of a photo - perhaps THE photo of his presidency as far as I am concerned.  Actually, the article is ok as well. By the way, the picture is on page one, right in the middle of the page. This is one reason for getting actual hard copies and not the online version.

Look at the picture.  He is surrounded by young black men (almost completely).  He is partially embracing one as if to say, I got you brother.  He is leaning in and having heard the man speak hundreds of times, you know he is saying something inspirational. The others look on and in this photo I am calmed and made a little hopeful (a bit, for a second). There just have not been (m)any photos like this over the course of the presidency.

Now, I'm not calmed or made hopeful by what the Prez actually said per se, which is something that should be discussed widely.  Indeed, the caption for the article is kind of intriguing, noting that Obama speaks uncharacteristically about his missteps as a youth as if to suggest that all black men have missteps being the problems that they are.  Reading between the lines you could think that if you follow what the Prez has to say (ummmmm growing up in Hawaii and going to Harvard), then things will all work out fine and you could become president.  Ok.  

Regardless, I am alright with this because there is now a photo that can be decontextualized and used to uplift individuals so that they can feel incorporated in some way. Yes, the context does not matter.  The photo is now part of the public record.  It will be used, downloaded, tweeted, reimaged, cropped and photo chopped thousands of times  And, that is perfectly fine.  People can do whatever they want to their images.  I'm going to leave mine just like this.  

I have been around gay men my whole life.  Specifically, gay black men.  The reason: my family was and is in the arts: e.g., dance, TV and film (my mother was respectively in things like Alvin Ailey, the Ed Sullivan Show as well as The Wiz) and music (my stepmother ran a record company or two). And, yes, in line with the stereotype, there is an abundance of gay males in general and gay black males in particular within the arts (luckily, in my opinion).  We all benefit from their light, talent and energy. 

Now, because of my upbringing, very early I developed what is referred to popularly as “Gaydar” -- the ability to detect a gay man.  I am not as gifted with detecting gay or bi-women, which would have been helpful while clubbing in New York City in my younger days but with a guy: give me about a minute and I'll tell you what the deal is (or not).

Now, I go into this because there are many brothers within Rwanda that are ummmmmm…. "closeted" (in the shade/shaded), in my opinion. These brothers are not "in the jungle" or "in the bush", to be clear - suggesting some crass primitivism. The logic of this position is straightforward: the continent is not the best place for homosexuals and, in my opinion, in Rwanda there is a whole country that's trying to keep the reality of gay Rwanda hidden.  Indeed, I have heard and seen denial before but the degree of resistance to even the possibility of homosexuality in Rwanda during my travels there was astounding.

When asked about the idea of a gay black man in Rwanda, I was told “no, we don't have THEM here” and “no, they’re are NONE in Rwanda.”  Yes, like it was the plague or something.  Direct quote.  Hand to the universe. On my travels, I constantly heard this.  Pushed to the edge of reason and thinking about what every gay, black, male friend of mine would have said to such an assertion, I pushed and finally had one person admit that there might be at least one or two homosexuals in the whole country but that was a major admission after some alcohol. Right after my colleague said this though he added: they had better not to get caught.  Seriously.  Truth be told, the conversation caused my colleague to get mad at me, like I was calling him a "barbarian" or "underdeveloped" or something because of how they (he and his country) were handling their homosexuality issue.  It was like he was Archie Bunker on crack with a side arm, walkie-talkie, explosive, machete (of course), a german shepherd and access to more of the same.

The evidence for the possibility of a few homosexuals in Rwanda was clear - at least to me.

First, men and women do not generally show affection to one another -- especially in the rural context. No hugging, holding of hands or kissing.  Men and women however can show affection within their respective groups.  Men, in particular, can and do walk hand-in-hand as well as arm in arm with each other down the road in the center of town without anyone caring. This practice was particularly problematic when Rwandans traveled abroad. For example, in America (where the last Tutsi king lives), I am told that he is often seen walking arm in arm with one of his “friends.”  Of course to those in the US, it was simply assumed that they were a couple.  Not that there's anything wrong with that but this is how it looked to neighbors. This was also problematic when someone I considered a friend, naturally swooped their hand to mine and started walking down the street.  Now, while I agree that we were friends and appreciated the Rwandan acknowledgment of such, I still was a bit uncomfortable about what it meant in my context and what it meant to the other mizungus.  This was not an issue of being homophobic (which because of my upbringing I am not).  Rather, it was an issue of being seen as having “gone native” – something especially frowned upon by non-anthropologists.  To have an air of legitimacy in the academia and as a researcher in the field, one had to have an air of empathy, sympathy but also a little distance.  But, I digress. 

My second piece of evidence for the gay Rwandan is that there was an observation of the occasional male prostitute hanging out with the female ones, eyeing the male mizungus. How did I know he was gay?  Well, I mentioned my Gaydar was pretty good but, aside from this, the mascara, swishing of the hips, slicked back hair, crotch-hugging jeans and glossy lips were a big hint.  Leaving with the gay white mizungu was another one.  The gay mizungu was even easier to identify.  Also, on this one particular occasion, there was a straight male prostitute standing right next to the gay one and the comparison was pretty simple to make.  Presumably, if there's at least one gay prostitute for mizungus, there must be at least one gay man in Rwanda.  Just saying.

Third, men hang out with one another all the time and are quite comfortable with one another, everywhere and at occasionally high levels of intimacy.  It does make sense as far as I'm concerned that relationships would emerge.  For example, men chill in saunas buck naked and real close.  Men constantly rubbed oil on each other at the pool and dancing with each other at nightclubs where women would never go unless they were prostitutes. Now, I do not believe that every woman is a prostitute but mizungus are a constant draw for this type of woman and they always appeared to be wherever they congregated.  In addition to that, single women never seemed to go to such places, leaving the environment all male, all the time.  Now, I am also not saying that every man dancing together in a Rwandan nightclub is gay.  Heck, by that category everyone dancing at Danceteria, Area and the Paladium back in New York when I grew up would be gay - which actually might be possible (except for me as well as my club buddy at the time - Parnell) and thus that is a bad example but hopefully you get my point. 

The epitome of the comfort/familiarity/intimacy phenomenon of which I speak is observable by watching men occasionally sit on each others laps in a bar.  Again, this in and of itself does not suggest homosexuality but the response to such familiarity and comfort did suggest homophobia, which I took as an indication that homosexuality was possible. How can you be homophobic is there is no homosexuality? See what hoops one has to go through in order to address the topic.  For example, one evening I pointed out to my Rwandan host two men at some bar and asked him if sitting like that was common.  To this question, it was first denied that the man was sitting on his associate’s lap - at all.  This, however, was clear to everybody. There was no other place that would be as proximate to the individual's chest and groin that did not involve the lap. Now, you say: "of course, non-gay men could be sitting on each other's laps and hanging out".  Well, as I mentioned, my gaydar works pretty well and I could just tell: those brothers were GAY and fabulously so!  Upon acknowledging that my observation was legitimate, and this one guy was indeed sitting on his friend’s lap in a slightly gay-like manner, my Rwandan associate stood up, walked over to the host and complained. Several minutes later, there was no more lap sitting.  Shortly after the initial complaint, the two gentlemen were approached by the host (who whispered something to them) and they left the bar entirely.  After they left and my associate seemed to beam with a little tyrannical, homophobic pride, I wondered about whether or not and how badly I'd put the two guys at risk with my little observation. I had merely attempted to learn a bit more about Rwandan society, but quickly realized that there were just certain things that Rwandans did not want to know themselves or have visitors probe. At that point, I realized that "outing" in Africa was both possible as well as potentially dangerous. 

To be honest, I found all of this completely fascinating except for the two guys being asked to leave, which I found a bit horrifying.  (Note: I actually looked for them over the course of the next month to make sure that they were ok but never saw them again). The identification of Rwandan gayness as well as the denial was in large part interesting because it revealed important differences to the United States. The image of old-school, hyper-masculine aggressive youth with weapons, military fatigues, attempting to mount every female in sight still existed in the US but it is also countered by an equally open, flamboyant, bold, triumphant gayness which no one (at least not openly) would label as anything but male. One sees this in the amazing celebrations during gay pride celebrations in New York and San Francisco - perhaps some of the best parades and parties offered in America.  In Rwanda, however, gay men were not even allowed as an idea, let alone reality. There are no parades there but only charades. On this dimension (and perhaps a few others), the country wears the mask that grins and lies. Indeed, the strength with which they were denied their existence was perhaps as indicative of the tenuousness of control over the society as the openly, hyper masculine aggressive young men with weapons and military fatigues attempting to mount every female in sight which was not only clearly observable in Rwanda but largely celebrated.  Just as I could not imagine an America without its fabulous gayness, I could not imagine a Rwanda with one. 

So, Dan Drezner put forward a cogent overview of the recent networking debate about whether or not as well as how political scientists should net work (in his Foreign Policy blog) and he made a few references to some things that merited some comment.  Here are the others in this series:
Posts: Dan Drezner, Dan Nexon, Erik Voeten
Counter-Posts: Laura Sjoberg, Me, Will Moore
Counter-Counter-Posts: Bear Braumoeller

I would argue that there is clearly a "good" approach to networking. I grew up around artists and entertainers. While this has not assisted me in many aspects of my academic career, I believe that it has assisted me with being comfortable talking with people and additionally being able to figure out what I should wear for the day. Dan (Drezner), who I was colleagues with and consider a friend, clearly has this ability as well (both meeting people and sartorialism).  Not everyone feels comfortable talking to strangers or even talking for that matter. Many in our profession also have some problems dressing themselves but that is the subject of another blog - the Academic Sartorialist?  

Despair not however. Individuals like Rom Harre have maintained that we each learn and communicate in slightly different ways. Some are best able to communicate/learn through words, some images, some equations, some sound. We now are beginning to live in an age where you can find your thing and use that as you exchange with others. In short, "everybody's got a little light under the sun".  You just need to find your spot. I do not envision an APSA or a political science where we just have small conversations going on in a large, poorly lit and frequently poorly designed room. This pushes and privileges a certain type of communication/interaction. Rather, I envision an APSA and political science where we have some conversation going on over there, some DJ over here, some 3D projection over here, some film over there, some performance art over here and some large lecture over there. 

Riffing off of Mos Def, people often speak of political science as if it some giant in the hillside or something, where we are just subject to what it does when it decides to come down from it's cave. But, we are political science! We can create what we want for/with this thing. Actually, Dan is a perfect example of this with blogging and Zombified-IR. I'm now working on/pushing for interactive data, film, archiving and animation work. What you wanna do? I think that many of us face a crisis of imagination regarding things like APSA and then get blocked on things like networking.  We don't send ourselves to professional meetings.  We send our representatives (props to [Erving] Goffman and [Chris] Rock). I think we need to start attending - if you get my meaning. Things need to be done to "feed the beast" as it were but we need to start making it our own and taking it where we want to go.

The idea I was trying to communicate in my initial blog is that our discipline is too internalized. We live largely in our heads and publishing venues but if we are to survive, thrive and indeed have any impact at all on our world (which I think we should), then we will need to change this. We begin by meeting and interacting with one another at places like APSA. Awkward it might be but we are much better off from the sense of community and contact that arises from this. For example, has anyone been to a Peace Science meeting? Anyone who has gone will attest to the fact that this is a much smaller meeting than APSA as well as one where you feel immediately accepted, appreciated and very much part of a family. APSA might be too big for this but we never interact with the whole meeting anyway. We stick to our primary interests, panels and people. Well, imagine the meeting in this way: APSA is simply an opportunity for communication, community and fellowship. We can shape it as we see fit.  We need to stop looking for this to emerge from the panels, workshops, business meetings and receptions put forward. There are an awful lot of hours in the day and many places in the cities that we are going to year after year. 

So, you might not be able to chat up the leading political scientists on the fly in some elevator for 30 seconds, but perhaps you have a short film in you that you place as your poster, in the hallway to catch people walking by, on your webpage or in a local bar - ever heard of Pechakucha presentations?  Perhaps you have a cool graphic that you can sport on your t-shirt or a musical composition that you play during your presentation or somewhere in the city where the conference is taking place - folks would come if you told them. Who wants to hang out in the lobby not knowing anyone when they could have some place to do.  Perhaps we should create a multi-media room: something like the old "paper rooms" where everyone deposited their papers for conferences but more allowing for creative diversity as well as more permanence than posters. 

Now, I am not just some extrovert who strangely became a political science or even an optimist - anyone who knows, meets and/or talks with me will readily communicate this to you. Rather, I believe that we have something to gain from interacting with one another at moments when "our people" congregate. Some of these things we have to gain are professional. Many, however, are not and this tends to get lost sometimes in our conversations. 

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.

Image to left by Jean Michel Basquiat


Ever meet someone who in every aspect of their being exuded something regal, above but not with effort, prideful but not egotistical?  This describes Jasmine to a T (bag that is). 

We met through one of my research contacts: she was one of our local logistics people, who handled everything as well as everyone.  Her English was impeccable as were her demeanor and appearance.  Weekly she had a new haircut – dramatically shortened one time, amazingly braided and longer the next, Kid n’ Play another.  It was like having a one-woman BET (Black Entertainment Television) session or would it be AET cause she was African?  Daily her outfits were astonishing – linen was her thing which came in every color and every design you could imagine, pressed as if it has just come from the dry cleaners.  Nothing impressed you about Jasmine as much as her smile.  When her face would light up, clouds would part and somewhere music chimed, like a good soundtrack should.

As the Rwandans we generally met were closed, reclusive and quietly hostile, Jasmine was engaging, open, helpful, charming, kind, commanding and pleasant.  The difference could be explained in part because she was brought up abroad – like many who had recently returned.  The local culture had not gotten to her yet. 

Now, this said, Jasmine was not overly any of these things.  She would explain but never give too much detail.  She would assist us but never fully deliver.  She would take us somewhere but never quite all the way and when things got tight/tense she would dismiss us from the room, leaving us with glimpses of the secret world she occupied but little understanding.  It was like we were Diane Keaton in the Godfather when the door closed, except they weren’t Italian and this was no movie. 

The regality of which I speak was revealed clearly one day in seemingly the smallest of instances. Jasmine would hold a pen as if she never held one.  Not the award way that Bush Jr. tried to check out at a supermarket but rather the way that one imagined a great writer would hold an instrument. She would walk as if she was nailed to a board – perfectly straight like 6 o’clock.  She seemingly knew everyone or, at least, everyone that we needed to know and equally as important they seemed to know her. 

We went to lunch one time – a new Rwandan place and invariably she would be stared at and someone would approach her.  It was not quite as over the top as the scene in Coming to America with Eddie Murphy when a former subject bows and stuff but it was clear that something was going on and that they were not socio-political equals.  The conversation was short, the head slightly tilted below Jasmine, eyes cast downward.  Something was up, but what? We could never quite figure it out and banana beer was not helping.

Another time, in front of the Milles Collines, I saw her get out of an automobile that made a Hummer look like a Volkswagen Beetle.  The man in the front seat played for the Pittsburgh Steelers (I believe); not just one player but the whole defensive front line.  I saw him/it/them walk around and open the door for Jasmine, who delicately stepped out.  As she left, you saw the window go down, some face peered through smoke (which filled the inside) and then it pulled back.  The window then went up and the truck/tank/airbus pulled off, dragging the surface of the earth with it. Now, because of my family I have seen a bunch of celebrities in a wide variety of settings. Met the late Michael Jackson before all the cosmetic changes and again later after he transformed. Met En Vogue, the late Whitney Houston. Heck, I even met Robert Flack, Aretha Franklin, Dionne Warwick, Barry Manilow as well as a host of Hip Hop artists you have never, ever heard of, but this was some next level blingy type $h@t.

Yet another time, some man approached Jasmine in a restaurant when she had left our table to go to the counter and order.  She seemed to be somewhat familiar with the guy but did not really acknowledge his presence.  The guy’s look was priceless.  Remember when the character in the Bugs Bunny cartoon looked at his friend like a hot dog?  That was the look.  In response, we saw an amazing switch; Jasmine turned from her normally pleasant and engaging self to some off-putting, curt and rude person.  To this, the man appeared to move in close and say something. 

Responding, I thought in a natural and somewhat chivalrous manner, I stood up to assist our host who appeared to be in distress.  My traveling companion and friend, Al (Stam) immediately grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down.  “Do you really want to get into something here?”  He continued, “Do you have any idea what is going on and who is involved?”  He was, of course, correct. I had no idea.  We rarely did.  Who was this guy?  What was the nature of his relationship with Jasmine?  How many guys did he have with him (we later counted 5). 

Part of the strangeness of the situation was derived from my knowledge of what happened during 1994.  Another part of this was Rwandan culture.  It was eerily quiet there – too quiet.  Everyone walked around, worked (usually hacking or pulling something in a field), talked and/or scowled at passersby.  Think of a Brit, add in some Scandinavia and then multiply. Actually, the only time you heard a loud Rwandan was when banana beer and music were involved – a combination that was quite unsettling on more than one dimension.  I always found myself simultaneously more relaxed at seeing Rwandans finally unwind and more fearful at the same sight; did I really want to be present when they let loose?  Nope, is the answer.  Once was enough. 

At the same time, I was frustrated by Rwandan unity and their us-nosity; juxtaposed against my otherness and outsider status. Indeed, I don’t think that I was ever in a situation where I felt that if you called someone out that a whole bunch of people would show up to kick your ass.  This was far, far worse than the time I got off the wrong stop in South Boston (in the 1980s), making it look more like Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.  Heck, it even made New York’s Alphabet City where Hell’s Angels used to hang out (again in the 1980s) look like a lil bike club. Just something in the way they moved…

I supposed this is the reason that Jasmine stood out.  She was one of them but not.  And every one seemed to know it.

Despite our pleasantries, however, Jasmine and I had one repeated tension.  Because of how she carried herself and interacted with folks, I would constantly call her Princess.  Poking fun, I would go out of my way to open doors, stand up when she left a room and all the rest of the chivalrous package (cue Hugh Jackman in that movie with Meg Ryan, which no one but me seemed to see).  Whenever I did this, Jasmine would get serious and would tell me not to “do such things.”  As it seemed to bother her in an odd way, I continued to push the issue and did it continuously.  I’m just kind of like that (as you have gathered by this time).

One day, Jasmine had come over to remind us about bringing our water bottles – one must continually hydrate when in country.  After she left to check on where our driver was, some person sat down next to us and mentioned that we were lucky to receive such treatment.  Thinking he uttered a sexist remark (with the woman bringing the men some beverage) but unsure, I said “yes, she is very nice.”  Pushing the issue, the gentlemen repeated “no, you are very lucky to receive such treatment from her.  Royalty in Rwanda never performed such duties (pause) historically.”

At that last remark, Al and I looked at each other and I said, “Excuse me?”  The man went on to explain that Jasmine was part of the old Tutsi (my bad - Teabag) royal family who because of the current context kept a low profile.  Some in the country wanted the monarchy to return to power.  At the time, the deposed king was hiding in the Northeast of the U.S. 

But, I digress.  When told that Jasmine was royalty, we couldn’t believe it.  At the same time, it made perfect sense.  Al immediately started laughing and repeatedly did so during the trip because of how many times I put my foot in my mouth. 

Upon being confronted with our new information and asked why she never told us, Jasmine blushed and said that she thought we knew.  I said that I did not and apologized for any discomfort/danger we put her in.  As she said, “it was alright”, she tried to put a happy face on the whole thing.  Al continued to laugh and in fact he did this for months, unable to believe how incredibly stupid I had been and how simply hilarious the situation was.  We literally got the royal treatment and in many ways at once.