Big Eyes, Seeing Nothing
Jason Armstrong stares at the expanse of baize in front of him, a rectangular universe populated by spotted and striped planets of polyester resin. As he lines up his next shot, hoping for a collision to spin the orbs in a winning direction, he glances at the men playing pool on the other side of the room. After weeks of looking for a pool hall with a colleague from school, he deplores the sense of segregation pervading the atmosphere. The divide between the two tables, visually palpable, grows cavernous. Jason resolves to bridge the chasm.
Jason and Matt, two White American teachers from Windhoek International School, discovered the lounge after a tiring week. It’s down a back alley, has a corrugated tin roof, and concrete floor. Jason and Matt, obsessive science teachers, came to Namibia because of its commitment to wildlife conservation. Their enthusiasm for the animal life of the country transmitted well to the students, many of them embassy kids from the capitals of Europe, unfamiliar with the natural world.
International teaching ignited a passion in Jason for diversity and inclusion. His classes teemed with children from different parts of the world and he thrived on the range of cultures. Every day underlined the contrast between his reality and the mundane world in which he grew up in rural Ohio.
Outside campus were pockets of hunger and poverty. But Jason’s answer to the stark inequalities was the idea of constructing a better future for everybody. He engaged his friend Matt to branch out beyond the western-style haunts of the ‘expat’ community. If diversity and cultural exchange made sense in the classroom, they deserved encouragement in the wider world.
Matthew Page was a keen cyclist and former Peace Corp volunteer. Although content to spend his Friday nights seeking adventure, he was out of his element in the pool hall. Perhaps, thought Matt, there was a reason they were left to themselves.
“Why did we come here?” asks Matt while Jason takes his shot. “We’re intruding.”
“Nonsense! The bartender likes us. He gave us a warm welcome,” says Jason.
“He’s hoping for a big tip!” Jason wrinkles his nose at Matt’s comment.
“Would you rather be hanging out with other Americans, complaining about exchange rates?” asks Jason.
“No, I’d rather be out of the city exploring the countryside.” Growing tired of the weekly routine, Matt felt a change of scenery beckoned, with or without Jason. While his more outgoing companion wanted to interact with local people, the bartender provided the only conversation during their time in the pool hall.
“Fine! You’re right. We should drive out of the city next week,” says Jason as Matt chalks the tip of his cue.
“Yeah?” Matt’s voice and eyebrows raise together in surprised relief.
“Yes, we’ll go to the desert.”
Geoffrey Kasiita rests against the wall, waiting for his turn. He listens to the conversation of the Americans, grateful for their plan to vacate the city. Geoffrey likes hanging out with his friends, drinking beer, and playing pool. The Americans took over half the room.
Geoffrey returned every Friday because the pool hall is between his home and his workplace. The walk home became less safe, adding to uncertainty about his future patronage. His wife, Michelle, had her purse snatched while walking in the neighborhood, prompting apprehension. After the incident, Michelle urged Geoffrey to take the bus home.
With the announcement of the American withdrawal, he and his friends would get full use of the hall. He has nothing against foreigners, but their absence meant more time at the tables. Geoffrey makes a mental note to take a taxi home. Michelle didn’t mind him blowing off steam on a Friday night, she simply worried about him. With three young children, it made sense to take precautions.
Geoffrey steps outside to call his wife. Michelle’s mugging a few streets away stays at the forefront of his mind. Upon returning inside, he finally has a pool cue in his hand, ready to break, when the unthinkable happens. One of the Americans approaches him.
“Hello sir,” says Jason. “Can I introduce myself?” Geoffrey, bent over, with his cue drawn behind him, stands upright. He dislikes being interrupted during a game. He reaches into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief to mop his brow. As he does, he looks around the room at his somber-faced friends. They wonder at the audacity of this move as they anticipate Geoffrey’s response.
“What?” asks Geoffrey, not requiring an encore from this man, but uttered in a sense of bewilderment.
“Well, my friend Matt and I have been here for a while,” Jason points in the direction of Matt, who grins and provides a small wave. “And we wondered if you and a friend would like to play a game of doubles?” Geoffrey leans on his cue while his friends sit still watching the action, anticipating a stern reply. Instead, there’s no verbal response.
Geoffrey pulls his hand from his pocket and withdraws the four-inch handle of a switchblade knife. Jason’s face turns ghostly. The American yells and runs out the door, causing his friend to follow. Most of the others never saw what Geoffrey showed the White man, although they laugh at the commotion it causes and applaud the result.
The bartender scolds everyone, unhappy with how they treated the foreign guests who were only trying to be friendly. His words fall on indifferent ears. As Geoffrey breaks apart the triangular pack of balls to start his game, with a sledgehammer stroke revved-up on adrenaline, he shakes his head. This wasn’t how he wanted to represent himself or his people. He knows the foreigners will find somewhere else to go. The knife, which—until a minute ago—he forgot he had, is for his protection.
When he arrived to play pool that night, he was a middle-aged bank manager with a wife and three kids. Over the course of a few minutes, he wasn’t sure what he’d become.
The Mane Tale
The moment I stepped off the bus and made my way to a youth hostel on Capitol Hill, I felt freer and more at home than in Charlotte. There were sidewalks! Upon dropping off my backpack, I felt inspired to seek out a barber and, for the first time since arriving in the USA, obtain a haircut.
The establishment I found a few streets from the hostel offered an exceptionally good deal, so I ambled in and asked if they had someone who could cut my hair.
“Of course, sir,” said the young man at the front desk. “Joseph can take care of you. Please take a seat.” Ushered to the nearest chair before I made up my mind to stay, in front of a mirror with small flags around it, my eyes followed the receptionist as he hung up my jacket and went to the back of the shop. He pulled aside a curtain to reveal the backroom containing Joseph and several men sitting in a circle of armchairs. There was a large poster of Malcolm X on the wall and, through the partition, five pairs of eyes focused on my presence. I may have interrupted an important meeting. An older man with graying temples stood up and walked over to my seat, signaling his friends to continue their conversation.
“Good morning, sir. My name is Joseph. What can I do for you?” The barber, raising both eyebrows and smiling, looked at me via the mirror.
“I’d like it short at the back and sides and thinned out on top.” I looked at the array of clippers, combs, brushes, gels, creams, and lotions on the counter, curious about the lack of scissors. “Are you sure you can cut my hair?” I asked.
“I’ve been cutting hair for thirty years, sir. I think I can manage.” Joseph kept smiling in spite of the bristle in his voice. “What brings you to the Hill?”
“I’m sightseeing—museums and monuments.”
“That sounds nice! Where you from? I detect an accent.”
“I’m from Scotland,” I replied.
“Scotland…the United Kingdom.” Joseph paused, humming as he formulated his next question. I assumed he would reel off stereotypical Scottish touchstones many Americans mention to prove geographical acquaintanceship. “Have you heard of Clive Lloyd?” This question took me aback.
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“I went to high school with him! We were classmates.” That explained the green flags with red and yellow triangles around the mirror. Joseph was Guyanese.
“Interesting! He’s very well-respected in the UK. Do you keep in touch?”
Joseph laughed as he plugged in his clippers, getting to work on the back of my head. “Clive is too famous for the likes of me. He’s a superstar, although nobody here knows him!” Joseph shook his head and sucked his teeth.
“Cricket isn’t popular in Scotland,” I said.
“I like to watch. I wasn’t a good player, compared to Clive. He was captain of the school team by the time my family moved to Georgetown.” Joseph shifted the clippers around my ears, so the sides of my head experienced the same length of cut as the back. Scissors, which would make this procedure easier, still failed to appear.
“Where did you move from?” I asked.
“I was born in Belladrum,” said Joseph. “That’s where I went to primary school. My family lived there for decades. Muir, that’s my last name.” Joseph put a finger to his mouth. “Since you’re Scottish, d’you know anything about the name Muir?”
“Yes, it was my grandmother’s maiden name,” I responded. Joseph nodded as he clipped the hair on top of my head. He was less surprised than me by the coincidence. “I barely remember my great-grandparents,” I continued. “Aside from during wartime, when my great-grandad went off to the trenches, neither of them ever left Scotland. Also, there’s a place in Scotland named Belladrum, not far from where I grew up.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of that. I left Guyana and came here when I was sixteen. Never went back and never traveled anywhere else. Our history is too depressing. I miss the food and cricket back home, but my life is here now. I have a family of my own.” I looked in the mirror as Joseph attached a large plastic guard to the clippers and ran the device from my forehead to the crown as if plowing a small field.
If Joseph Muir was a White barber from Aberdeen, Washington, I’d suggest researching his family tree. That wasn’t appropriate in this case. We both treaded carefully in the conversational minefield.
Joseph lathered the back of my neck with warm shaving cream and used an open razor to shear off the long, straggling hairs near my collar. He did the same on my neck at the front before edging his blade over my cheeks. After that he buzzed my beard and mustache and slapped on some pungent aftershave to tighten the pores. With a flourish, he pulled off the protective sheet—spilling tiny hairs over the floor like pine needles from a tree after Christmas—and stood, arms folded, with a big smile on his face. He nodded to me in the mirror and hunched his shoulders, pleased with the job he performed.
I looked at the bowl-shaped hairstyle the clipper rendered, wondering how I could repair the damage. While my head felt lighter after three months of growth in the Southern heat, my new haircut reminded me of a toupee placed backwards on a bald man. “That’s a fantastic job! Thanks so much, Joseph,” I said, handing the barber a large bank note covering more than twice the cost of the haircut.
“Here’s your change sir,” said Joseph, holding out several bills.
“Please, keep the change,” I stated, shaking Joseph’s hand and grabbing my jacket as I walked out the door.
Joseph nodded in appreciation and returned to his friends sitting in their armchairs under the poster of Malcolm X.
John R. Frame was brought up in Wick, Scotland. After earning an M.A. and Ph.D. in history from Aberdeen University, he emigrated to the USA, and worked as a teacher in NYC and Columbus, Ohio. Since 2018, he and his wife Rama have lived and worked in China and Senegal.