I KNOW WHAT YOUNG PEOPLE can’t even imagine or guess. That when one has seen too much of life, one understands it is a good thing to die.
The very first day she came I could see my death in Tashi’s eyes, as clearly as if I were looking into a mirror. Those eyes that are the eyes of a madwoman. Can she really think I have not seen madness and murderers before?
In the village when I was a girl the mad were kept out in the bush. They lived alone in smelly, ramshackle huts, their filthy clothes in tatters. Their matted hair covering their backs like moss. I learned not to fear them, for I discovered, as all the villagers knew, that mad people, though murderous at heart, could, nonetheless, be easily distracted. If one lunged, you offered him or her—for there were always mad women and men; who never, incidentally, chose to live together—a yam. Or a song. Or a story that only a mad person could grasp the sense of. Stories we laughed at, nonsensical rhymes, made them weep. Stories sorrowful to us, about our own sufferings or those of the village, made them laugh like the fiends they were. While they laughed or cried, ate their yam or tried, usually without success, to locate the stinkweed we’d stuck in their mossy locks, off we ran.
To Tashi I have posed the following question and, she has failed so far to properly answer it: Tashi, I have said to her, it is clear you love your adopted country so much; I want you to tell me, What does an American look like?