Toubab bi.” It follows me wherever I go — down the street, on the bus and in stores and cybercafés. It’s not an imaginary friend, host family pet or sleek European car.

The phrase is Wolof slang for “white person,” a term used for the French during colonial days, which now encompasses all white people who visit Senegal.

My host brother, 20-year-old Thierno Ndiaye, says Senegalese are tolerant of other races, religions and ethnicities. He is right — the first president was Christian in a 95 percent Muslim country, and the six major ethnic groups live together peacefully.

As a white American, I have not experienced discrimination in a menacing way. I feel completely safe while walking Dakar’s streets, riding on the bus and dancing in clubs. But racism can take many forms, even innocently, as the blunt Senegalese make their observations. I am a toubab bi, and they let me know it.

Kids in my neighborhood chant “toubab” while jumping rope, teens whisper the phrase in cybercafés, and adults communicate it through looks in markets and restaurants. But their words are not solely responsible for my feeling out of place.

I see myself through the eyes of Senegalese. I’m a rich, pale tourist in sunglasses and new clothes, breezing past peanut vendors and hurriedly hailing taxis. I try not to appear like an ugly American. I make strong attempts at friendly and intelligent exchanges. I play soccer with the kids in my neighborhood, make conversation with taxi drivers and greet seated elders with Wolof salutations.

But “toubab bi” follows me still, a long white shadow made brighter by today’s uninformed tourists, like the French women who sunbathe topless in a country where a mini skirt can be interpreted as advertisement for prostitution. I muster my best French and Wolof, but language will not darken my skin. Here, race is key to assimilation.

Even on a bus filled with 50 people, I feel horribly alone. My white arms, reaching up to grip the metal bar for support, look stark and alien in a sea of beautiful ebony skin. Alone at the bus stop, one crazy man across the street actually stopped running, picked up a rock and shook it at me, yelling a string of insults in English.

Eventually, I begin to critique every difference that creates a barrier between me and the people here. My thin, light hair refused to obey the hands of even the most skilled braiders during my three-day stay in the village of Thiokhol last week.

When a crowd of observing girls whispered “toubab hair,” my host mother, Batour Ndiaye, struggled to fix a rebellious braid. I felt ugly and unwanted, crying and escaping into my bedroom. My hair was unfinished, and my pride was hurt.

I asked Papa Bouna Fall, an administrator with my program, if the Senegalese know what it is like to experience racism. Not on such a grand scale as minorities in America, he theorized.

Carrying the colonial burden while walking with the power and privilege attached to my citizenship and class, I know I will never know how my African-American friends feel when discriminated against in the United States.

The Senegalese are blunt about appearance, and will tell foreigners to “eat whatever you like, but dress like us.” But “toubab bi” goes beyond dress. It’s a white shadow that grows longer every time a Senegalese calls attention to my race.