In opening, I remain closed. Being closed, yet I am also open. What am I?
Today, two answers.
We stood quietly for a moment, pondering. Then I heard
someone’s voice in the kitchen.
“Good evening?” I tried.
“Good evening!”
“Is the restaurant closed?”
“Good evening!”
“Is the restaurant closed?”
“No, I’m here. The other people haven’t come.”
“Oh! Can we have a drink?”
“No, it is closed.”
We decided to get a taxi back.
2. A pharmacy on a Sunday
I checked my temperature on Saturday: 34.4 degrees Celsius,
which is less of a normal resting temperature and more of a normal hibernating
temperature. Sometimes I run a little cold, so I checked Chris’s temperature:
too low to read. I decided I needed a new thermometer. Many places in Cameroon
are closed, or open only for a few hours, on Sundays. Happily, there is a
pharmacy open seven days a week right on our block.
Approaching the pharmacy, I became confused. There was the
sign that said “ouvert,” but there also was the barred front door. There was
the security guard who’s usually posted outside, waving. It turned out, though,
that instead of waving me in, he was waving me back. There was, I saw, a light
on inside. I became more confused.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning.”
“Is the pharmacy closed?”
“No.”
What then should I do? At a loss, I pulled out my
thermometer and waved it around, explaining to the guard that it had un problème.
As if summoned by this tiny, malfunctioning wand, a man in a
white coat appeared behind the closed door. He was the pharmacist. He agreed
that 34.4 degrees was very low. He also agreed to sell me another thermometer.
He went to the back and got me one, showing me the price. I gave him the money
and held on to the thermometer. He went to the back again and reappeared with
my change. We parted satisfied, though still curious. At least, I was.
These experiences remind me: beware of false binaries. Black
or white? Open or closed? Like so many things, these exist on a spectrum.
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