SUBURBAN LEGENDZ: Cultural Exchange

 

 

Don’t be Judah McBride.

Do people even still remember why that was even a saying? Judah certainly doesn’t. 
Judah was your typical college teen, on an exchange program to Africa. Where exactly? He didn't know. He was a sheltered kid from the ‘burbs. Any place that wasn’t home was worth exploring. Couldn’t even spare a few minutes to actually learn about the country he’d be living in for the next six months. Oh sure, it was definitely said countless times, written on papers, and his ticket but he let that information slip out of his head. To him he was the main character and ‘life’ would just happen around him. The classmates going with him and even the leader of his program were all the guest stars, while he experienced the world.

 His program lead tried to tell him, “This exchange is as important for people to meet you as it is for you to meet them.” Judah McBride brushed it off. There was one thing the lead tried to hammer deep into everyone’s head. Since the students would be guests in another country it was of the utmost importance, they respect the culture. 

Judah got off the plane enthused by where they were. “Isn’t Africa the best?” He took a long breath.

“Dude, it’s Nigeria.” A guy on his trip said, annoyed.

“We told you like 1500 times.” A girl rolled her eyes in disgust. “Stop being rude.”

Over that first month, all his classmates would soon come to learn Judah was the worst.

He wasn’t loud, obnoxious, or even dumb like most American tourists. No, that honor belonged to Nash in this college group.

Judah was worse. 

He was himself.

Everywhere they went, it was ALL about him. Museums. Parks. Zoos. How he felt. What he thought. Why the places he wanted to visit were better than the other students. The short answer: He thought his naivete was charming and endearing. Completely unaware how he was steamrolling the others.

 

When it came to actually interacting with Nigerian citizens, Judah was a complete mess. A few of his classmates stopped by a grocery store, with Judah tagging along. He pestered a worker to help him find ‘real’ Nigerian milk. The worker passed him a carton that read Danny Milk. The picture of a frat boy in a backwards hat as the mascot. The worker laughed, pointing at the nascot then Judah. Judah kind of saw the resemblance if he squinted his eyes. He looked at the other flavors with different mascots. His thoughts? Boy, Africa sure is weird!

He went to the checkout line behind one of his classmates, and she peered over.  “Hmm, that’s odd I thought it was Dano Milk.”

“You must have got off brand.” Judah said smugly, shaking his milk, “Cause this is the real deal, the worker hooked me up.”

Scoffing, the girl turned around and ignored him.

By the time they got outside, Judah was on his bullshit again. Talking about how he needed to get back to cook a traditional Nigerian meal. The group walked 10 steps ahead of him. A little distance went a long way. They found their way into a crowd watching a performance.

 

Three young men in traditional garb dancing. The crowd was eating it up as the drums played behind them. The crowd was mostly a diverse group of tourists watching. Judah walked to the front to watch it closer, three powerful bodies. He wasn't thinking about his classmates. They’d find him when the time was right. But he was going to enjoy the show until then. The three guys all moved in unison, drafting a spectacle for the eyes. 

The street performance came to an end and people in the crowd clapped and cheered. A few members of the crowd approached the young men talking in various languages: Spanish, French, and German. The young men were highly capable of talking back in all three even swapping between them. Judah was floored. He wanted to know if they could speak in English. As the main character of the world, he charged ahead into conversations already happening. What he wanted to say was more important anyway.

“You guys were amazing!” He tried to cut in, but it didn't work. The guy in the middle, the leader of the trio, tried to give Judah a smile and a nod. There were a few other people shouting the same as they walked by. Judah wasn't like everybody else; his words were important. He squeezed in between the German and French guy pushing them out the way. The two men and even the Spanish guy left as Judah wiped down his clothing. The three ripped dancers looked at Judah pissed, but he was not clocking it.
“As I was saying. Great work. Judah, by the way!” He held out his hand.

The young man in the center crossed his arms, answering back in English, “I’m Kayin, that’s Eijiro, Dayo,” he nodded to his left and right at his friends. 

Judah took his hand back, “Do you guys teach lessons or—

“It’s not for foreigners, it's ours.” Kayin stated flatly. Every word a warning for Judah to move on 
Judah laughed as if he and the guys were in some secret joke, “Oh come on, you can’t just keep it to yourself. Besides, I'm a great dancer.” That was a lie. Judah had no moves at all but in his delusion was sure that he’d somehow manage to pick anything up.

“We’re done here,” Kayin made a round up hand motion, for his friends and their musicians. As he went to turn away, Judah grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him back.

“I’m only asking to learn a few moves. See how it all comes together. What’s wrong with that?” 

Kayin rolled his tongue, mouth open, contemplating, “You really want to know?”

“Yes! I’m an exchange student, that's what I’m here for: exchange.” Judah defended, feeling like he was getting somewhere. 

A chuckle escaped Kayin’s lips, “Alright let’s do some exchanging.” He nodded, behind Judah as the young man hadn't noticed, Dayo and Eijiro had left his sight. Dayo grabbed his arms and locked them in place and Judah felt something slip on his neck. He was let go and his hands immediately flew to it, finding it was a necklace with a heart. 

Judah tried to take it off, but it wouldn’t comply. He struggled, hands pulling with all his might. The necklace began to heat up. Judah’s body rose to the sky as he gained several more inches from 5’ 10 to 6’4. His clothes did their best to keep up but then came the muscle. One minute his boy was fit, the next every single muscle was on fire. What he had dedicated years in the gym to achieve was being ignited far beyond his suburban dreams. Being travelled up his arms carrying new nutrients as his shoulder sand traps reformed. The features in his face shifted as his skin grew darker until it was as black as the dancers’.  He wasn't just getting bigger he could feel his body age gathering more years. 

The biggest change was Judah’s pecs pushing out his shirt, until the damn thing could no longer hold.

Another necklace appeared formed under the shirt as if it’d always laid between the crevice of his pecs. The twin pounds of flesh sat heavy, dark nips pointed downward. They weren’t just built like the rest of his body. Judah had sensed it; his brain being drained into his knockers. Memories of his home, schooling, and personality, poured into his pecs, converted into milk.

In return his head filled up with the exact knowledge of the dance Kayin and his friends had performed.  Finally, he understood why it wasn’t for foreigners. This was from their ancestors passed down for generations. It wasn’t to be made light of. 

Kayin playfully slapped Judah’s left tit before, he leaned forward and suckled a nipple, milk releasing into his mouth. Satisfied he smacked his lips, a white streak, dripping from them. “You’re really going to be helping our young men grow strong. They’re gonna pick up English and understand the USA better in no time because of these bad boys.”

Judah was gone, replaced by Jummai. 

The last anyone would see of Judah McBride would be in the dairy section of Nigerian markets. His face across countless packs being sold throughout the country. Men of all ages would gulp and drink down every experience, Judah infusing into their very beings, helping their bodies, minds, and muscles grow stronger, never to be anything more than fodder. A main character, reduced to an extra in others’ stories.
So, remember suburban young men, cultural exchange is a two-way street. If the interaction isn’t a net positive, it might be turned into one.

But don’t worry, just be kind. 

Don’t be Judah McBride.