A Universal Theme Binds Us

By Bracey Harris I am becoming more aware that commonality is a universal theme that has the power to bind us. Oxford, Mississippi A Universal Theme BINDS US Ironically, it took traveling to South Africa to understand Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA.” Similarities I find Her song deals with a small-town girl traveling to Hollywood and the nervousness she feels. There is a line between Oxford in which Cyrus references her taxi driver playing a Jay-Z song. Its immediate effect is to overcome her homesickness. In a way, that is how I felt when I hear Adele and Port Elizabeth crooning from the speakers in our cab. Rain greets us as we head down the street to eat and buy essentials. Although I am not hungry, have universal I am cold. It is winter in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, and we have no heat where we are staying. The windy mist does not help, but I keep my complaints to myself. Many in this municipality and nation have less. implications

There are a number of things I could blame for my lack of appetite. At the head of the list is the 15-hour plane ride across the Atlantic.

Flying never has bothered me, and I had felt this flight was going well. There is no discomfort in my ears as we adjust altitudes, and I relax.

After watching “The Hangover II” and “The Fighter,” I decide to go to sleep, but turbulence wakes me several times. When the flight attendant comes around with breakfast, I gratefully take the water she offers. My lips are parched, and my mouth is dry. She hands me a cup, and I return her smile. The cup has no ice, and I reluctantly drink the lukewarm water and begin to drift off to sleep.

A few minutes later, I wake up. My stomach does, too.

I am in row 55, seat B, the middle seat, in economy class, what some regular travelers call, “the village.”

There is no nausea or warning. The bile already is in my throat, and the seat pocket has no paper bags. If I get up, I will vomit on the man lucky enough to have the aisle seat.

I stay in my seat and heave at least three times.

Okhule Dotwana of Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University and Bracey Harris of the University of Mississippi in conversation during break from class session at NMMU.

It is not a pretty picture. All I can do is pathetically groan, “Oh God.”

At home, someone would have said, “Bless your heart,” but those sitting next to me do not react.

I frantically push the flight attendant button, and a middleaged blonde flight attendant comes to my assistance.

She leads me to the lavatory. The front of my shirt is drenched. My pants are splattered. I desperately ask for a t-shirt because I do not have a change of clothes.

Nothing is available.

After seeing me cry, an older African American flight attendant with a slight accent moves me to an aisle seat on the last row.

I am silent when we arrive in Johannesburg and transfer for a flight to Port Elizabeth. Gentlemen to my left and right enliven the relatively short flight.

When we finally arrive at our accommodations, I head to the bathroom, but paper and towels have not been provided, and I resort to the pocket tissue I always carry with me.

Thankfully, there are linens.

After making my bed, I get under the covers and cry for at least 30 minutes.

I finally manage to compose myself enough to borrow another student’s Ethernet cord, get on Skype with my mother and we talk for an hour.

The next morning, I still am not hungry.

Neil, our chauffeur for the weekend, arrives the next morning. His warm smile and good driving skills ease my worries at the van’s not having seat belts.

In South Africa they drive on the left side of the rode. The speed limit is measured in kilometers, not miles, but the more we traveled the more comfortable I became.

I smile for the first time since our arrival when we pass a KFC and a McDonald’s, and my spirits lift at the Green Acres mall — not because of the thought of shopping, but because everything seems familiar. I see mothers with their children and young couples.

When we arrive back at our home (because that’s the way to think of it now), we put away our groceries, and I start with the toilet paper.

I fix a ham sandwich with mustard and sit down to flip through Cosmopolitan South Africa. Familiarity brings comfort.

Absent my mother’s presence, nothing could calm my nerves better.

I spent my first 12 years of school nurtured and guided by wonderful teachers.

Their efforts helped me through my high school senior year. Two weeks before school started that year, my father unexpectedly passed away, and the warmth and care of my teachers helped me get my diploma.

Thus, the thought of distant, cold professors was unbearable. However, when I arrived on the Ole Miss campus, I found teachers who cared, and my residence hall fellow became my mom away from home.

In the days that follow the trip to the mall, Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University becomes my new university home. Scurrying monkeys are a more exotic substitute for Grove squirrels, and milling students on their way to class make me feel like I am at Ole Miss.

When we visit a township, a beat up car with rims rolls by blasting 6’7 by Lil Wayne.

There is no Square in Port Elizabeth, but Stanley Street has restaurants and bars where college students hang out. The bars have a relaxed atmosphere, and antics of falling off a stool and karaoke are similar. There also is a guy who cannot take the hint and is too close for comfort.

While we are in South Africa, the nation is riveted on Chad de Clos, a young swimmer who won a gold medal in the 200-meter butterfly in the Olympics in London. Their cheering for de Clos mirrors my home country’s feelings for Michael Phelps, who beats de Clos in the 100-meter butterfly.

A trip to Cape Town reminds me of the long commutes my fellow Rebels are willing to make to experience the party atmosphere of New Orleans. We take the same precautions that one might take when visiting The Big Easy: Small purse, or better yet, no purse. No accepting drinks from strangers, especially the charming ones.

We wait for a friend at the hostel, but he takes too long, and we leave. At the first bar, we have intense discussions over where to go next or whether to stay. There are ill-fated suggestions of songs for the DJ to play.

Our party splits. One young man stays behind at a club with an old friend, and another goes missing — only to be found safe back at the hostel.

I decide to dip out early. In this town that means 2 a.m.

Two fellow students stay out long enough to watch the sun rise.

The next morning we gather, not at IHOP or Big Bad Breakfast as we would at Ole Miss, but in the lobby of our hostel.

But just like back home, we swap stories of the previous night’s adventures.

How similar are the patterns of our lives, whether in South Africa or Mississippi.

Port Elizabeth, South Africa