The Resto

by Eva Peskin | 2009

I remember when I was a freshman and I would go to the dining hall alone, I always brought a book or something to look too busy to have company dine with me. It is easier to seem casually occupied in the dining hall at Barnard than at the Resto at Université Gaston Berger.

When I am standing in line by myself, I can tell that people are eyeing me. The guy in front of me keeps turning to the side and nudging his friend. The girls behind me will ignore me.

To sit by myself is harder to do when there are only seats open at long tables. And even if there were open seats at small tables, to sit there alone would be inviting others to fill in the empty seats. I sit in the back with two chairs in between me and the group next to me. They are all girls so they probably won't talk to me.

I eat in silence (in peace). I like watching all the people in the Resto, seeing friends talk to each other, seeing who sits together. I like not having to think socially in a second or third language while I enjoy my yaasa ginar. I like having a moment with no thoughts, no words, just eyes and mouth. I like not having to explain who I am and what I am doing here. I like sitting by myself for a moment.

And then Maurice comes in. I look down, trying to seem engrossed in my food, hoping he hasn't seen me. My bubble of private enjoyment has burst, and I have to sit soaking in the wetness, for everyone to see. I am privately embarrassed for trying so hard to avoid socializing with someone who is probably very nice. I am publicly embarrassed that I let myself have such an intimate moment in such an obvious place, for now I have been found out. Maurice saw me from the moment he picked up his tray. The girls next to me are talking about me, I just wasn't listening. The basketball team is coming and they are going to sit next to me and they are going to ask me questions with devious grins on their faces. I like talking to people. I like eating with people. I like making friends. Why not now? Why not here?

My heart races a little and my face flushes a little and my mind snaps into self-presentation/preservation mode. My name is Awa Diallo. No, that's my Senegalese name. I'm American. I've been here since January. You want to know where I live? You'll have to get to know me first. They laugh; I am savvier than they expected, perhaps.

Maurice comes and asks if he can sit with me in soft, polite English. I can tell he is intimidated by the basketball team. When I say yes, in English too, I see a flash of confident satisfaction in his eyes. I speak her language, I know her already, we have a history, his posture says to the burly and puerile group next to him. He can tell me things in a way that they won't understand.

How was my day? How are my studies? How is my roommate? Do I have plans tomorrow evening? Can he and a friend come and practice English?

I say yes, even though I know I will probably back out again. This is the third time we have made plans to have English-speaking séances, and I have either been sick or out, or busy or tired. I am tired of talking about the weather, or what rap song I like the best, or which is my favorite Senegalese dish, or how English is easier and nicer than French, but not as easy and nice as Wolof. Do other people find me so exhausting when I small-talk in French?

Well, Maurice, I have to go get some work done (that is a lie, I never have to get work done). Yes, it is important to work hard at one's studies (YOU are my studies, Maurice, I am already working as hard as I can). I will see you tomorrow, inch'allah.

Related work by Eva Peskin:
Going (Coming) Home
Centre-ville
Ataaya
Hotel de le Jeunesse
Adhan

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