The story of how we met (and then, how we really met)

Guyana, 2000                   Photo by Kristen Hare

By Kristen Hare
Guyana, 2000-2002

  When it’s time to tell a story, my husband usually sets it up nicely with a few words in his singsong accent, leans back and opens his hands up to me in a silent “proceed.” 

  He can change my car’s oil, grill a beautiful piece of meat and make us new friends in ways I’ve never been able, but Jai leaves the stories to me.

  Usually.

  So one night nearly 10 years ago, when we’re sitting around with a group of friends in our tiny first apartment in St. Joseph, Mo., and someone says, “How did you two meet?” he looks to me, and I proceed.

  The very first time wasn’t actually meeting as much as passing. Jai sat on a bridge with a few friends one hot night in Guyana and I walked by. I’d had one of those horrible Peace Corps days, one where every flaw I had was called out. I was fat. My hair wasn’t pulled back nicely. My slip was showing. 

  So I took my fat, rag-a-muffin, slip-showing, poor little self down the main road in my village, Adventure, and bought a small tub of ice cream, a tin of Pringles and a glass bottle of Coke from a little rum shop, then stomped my way home.

  “Miss,” a voice reached out from the dark, calling me the respectful title all female teachers got in public. “You sharin’?”

  “NO.” I shouted back and kept on stomping.

  Jai was aware of me, the new white girl in his village who exercised up and down the main road every afternoon, headphones firmly over ears, but the second time I became aware of him was a few weeks later, in October of 2000. 

  Someone down the road in Adventure was hosting a Hindu thanksgiving celebration, which meant lotus leaves piled with seven vegetarian curries, loud music and lots of great people watching. It also meant I got to wear a sari every night, so I was in. 

  That night, I wore a bright green one, and by the time I saw Jai, I was a bit sick of male attention. This wasn’t because I was stunningly beautiful, but in Guyana, I was stunningly different. 

  Oh, and my mother was not present.

  So when a student pointed out that a man nearby was staring at me, I looked up and saw Jai.

 My manners were on empty.

  “What?” I pretty much shouted across the bottom house at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Just admiring.”

  I gave myself a few moments reproach for being a nasty American bitch, then went back to talking with my student. Woletta, or Wooly as everyone called her, sat with me that night and we chatted about the things a 22-year-old American can with a 12 or 13 year-old Guyanese girl. Namely, boys.

  “Miss,” she asked me. “How do you let a boy know when you like him?”

  “Hmmmm,” I tried to look thoughtful, but was really planning the quickest way out of this line of questioning. “Well, you can play the eye contact game.”

  Seemed safe enough. 

  “What’s that?”

  “You just look at a boy for a moment,” I told her, “then look away. Then look again a bit longer, then look away, and after a few times, he’ll probably come over and talk to you.”

  Her eyes opened a bit wider, absorbing what I’d said.

  “Show me,” she hit back.

  Gulp. Was not expecting that.

  “OK,” I said with dread. “Pick someone.”

  “Him,” she said without missing a beat, pointing to my earlier admirer.

  Great, I thought. Fine.

  So I looked, and looked away. Looked again, and Jai sat up a bit straighter, then looked away. By the third time, I could tell he wasn’t really listening to the person next to him, and I was feeling a bit amused myself.

  “That’s it,” I told Wooly. “Now we’ll see if it worked.”

  It did.

  Jai sat down near by on a wooden bench, and he didn’t propose marriage or tell me I was a sweet gal or say any of the terrible and disgusting things some Guyanese men feel the need to say to women. Instead, we talked about school. I learned he was pretty smart. He read several newspapers every morning and knew more about the world than I did. The reporter in me was impressed. He was back after two years of school in the capitol to run the gas station down the street. His mom had been ill and he wanted to be closer to help his family.

  I’m not sure how long we talked, but it was the first time I’d had a real conversation with a Guyanese man, and as someone who always had close guy friends, it was nice.

  Somehow I mentioned what I really missed was cereal, and he told me they’d have it soon at the gas station. He repeated this every single day as I passed by on my afternoon walks, where he’d stop me to talk more, and every single day I went back, until at some point I wasn’t asking about the cereal that they’d never have.

  That night in St. Joe, I retold the story of how we met, and Jai looks up and says, “That’s not how it happened.”

  “Of course it was,” I say.

  “No,” he says, and I’m sure he was shaking his head and smiling big. “After you played your game, Wooly came over to me.”

  “What?”

  “She said, Miss Kristeen wants to talk to you.”

  “What?!”

  “And so I got up and came over to see what you wanted.”

St. Louis, 2003

  "What!!!"
When Jai first corrected the history I’d already cemented in my head, I was a little upset with Wooly. Why had she done that? Was she trying to get us to talk the whole time? What a conniving girl. Next, I felt embarrassed and a little silly for thinking my game worked. And finally, I admitted it was all kind of funny.

  Now, after 10 years of marriage, two awesome kids, and more adventures than I thought I’d get post-Peace Corps with someone who makes me feel stunningly beautiful every day, I’d like to find her and say thanks.

  Because of that wily Guyanese girl, the story of how we met turned out way better than any I could have told on my own.