I have frightened my peers.
There is no certain knowledge to which I may return.
I lectured about transcultural observation in Prague, Lisbon, Swaziland and even at Oxford. I wrote a novel particularly to illustrate it. It did.
Especially the writing of it. The book is hitting the streets any day now.
I became a fable.
In this package, I was bullied, as if I were a proverbial ass. Then I was expelled from my PhD course, because transculture wasn’t based on gender, class or race interpretation of cultural phenomena. ‘O.K.’, I said, that too, but also this.
Torn out of that package, I learned that the politics of culture, like sex, resemble the politics of my own memory.
When I was more distant, I was in Nigeria, at the foot of the mountains near the Cameroon border. The mountain was aflame from the fires of “those people.” The school was still smoking from the fires of the first fundamentalists.
It was a new world. I was a teacher of women teachers. None were fundamental. Some were Madonna-like, demanding purdah, second wives, some were fifteen-year-old liars in too-tight uniforms, who had to be kept from the fences at midnight when the gowned boys came to howl and the old men in government Peugeots with offers.
The rain was coming in a wall across the horizon then. Dust cast before it in billows reddening skies.
It is time to prevent men from becoming books and books from becoming men.