Of Koffiyas and Chick-fil-A

29 October 2008

Of Koffiyas and Chick-fil-A

I was somewhere in Nigeria, commiserating with anthropologist Laura Bohannan when I quite unexpectedly heard a familiar accent – familiar in the most literal sense of the word. I jerked my head up from Return to Laughter to study the group of laughing, chatttering Americans coming up the café steps toward me; the middle-aged man in front, presumably their leader as he thereafter presided over their informal meeting in the upper room of Bless café in Abdoun, spoke with a warm Southern twang which I hadn’t heard since I left Alabama; he sounded, in fact, just like my family. And he said “ya’ll”; I was thrilled beyond words.
For some time I sat with pg. 27 open before me, mechanically scanning the words without reading them, listening intently to the conversation of the 15 or so Americans. They used a churchy jargon with which I was familiar; if one were to seek out such a group in Jordan, Bless café would be the place to find them. They spoke of shared experiences in the field, but in a very different sort of field than the one in which the anthropologist works; they mentioned a name which I’d heard before, an American missionary imprisoned who shared her story with me in person, whose story had been a spark to the kindling of my interest in the region, though of a very different sort of interest. Now things had come full circle.
The leader stood up and moved past me; I could no longer resist. “Excuse me, sir,” I spun around to face him as he passed. “Would you mind telling me where ya’ll are from.”
His serious eyes brightened at my use of “ya’ll”. “We’re mostly from the States,” he began. “I live in Atlanta….” “I knew you were a Southerner!” I exclaimed. Then I checked my excitement. “I’m sorry, I was so curious when I heard the accent. It sounded so familiar.”
“But,” he continued, “I was born and raised in Birmingham.”
“I’m from Birmingham!” I nearly shouted. I never realized I’d ever claim that city, or the South much less, but I was so glad to hear their Southern speech, I couldn’t suppress my enthusiasm. The leader inquired about my study abroad, my University back home, and then he excused himself, only to return a moment later.
“Being from Birmingham, I guess you know Chick-fil-A…” he said dryly as he handed me a free chicken sandwich card. I stared at it, mouth agape. Chick-fil-A, that moral bastion of fast-food chains revered by my family and every other patriotic, religious Southerner. I remembered from early childhood all those Sundays when we passed the restaurant after church services, my father solemnly and approvingly pointing to it and commenting on it being closed “to respect the Sabbath”.
So Chick-fil-A, bastion of morally-inclined business, has come to Jordan – to lead a seminar about women in business, no less. I smiled half-heartedly at the group as they passed by my table, feeling somehow estranged from them as much as I identified with the accent. Again I stared at the card in my hand. I put it away and thoughtfully fingered the fringe on my koffiyah (the traditional Arab head-scarf for men, now donned by hipsters as a trendy scarf). The young people chattering and sipping coffee around me had draped koffiyahs about their necks and shoulders various ways and in some ways I felt closer to them than the Americans I had just encountered. Already I feel caught between the two cultures; already I’m apprehensive about re-entry and readjustment. But I think that free chicken sandwich might facilitate readjustment.