Another older assignment (Cultural Incident #2):
My skin has been feeling particularly brown lately. The last time I felt this brown, it was during Welcome Week at my first frat party at USC. But of course, the context is different now. Instead of being the only brown girl in a packed, sweaty room of drunk, white college kids (myself included in the drunken stupor), now I am one of the few minorities within a group of predominantly white students, dotting a sea of Nicaraguan brown.
I can't remember the number of times I've been called "chinita." Not because there have been too many times to count, but because they seem much fewer than I can remember. I've heard "morenita" quite a bit, actually more so lately now that Semana Santa, the Coast and Laguna de Apoyo have done more than a sufficient job on my tan. To my surprise, however, I've been asked if I was Nica more times than what kind of Asian I am.
Back in the States my so-called "racial ambiguity" seems more prevalent, especially when I meet people for the first time and the occasional "So what are you?" question pops up. And because of this ambiguity, I've been called "exotic" and envied by my skin that never burns in the sun. It only gets darker. In the States I've taken ownership and pride in this exoticism, with its connotations of attractiveness, sex and beauty. But it took me a long time to be comfortable and enjoy my skin, the blackness of my hair, the shape of my nose, the slant of my eyes. Standing out from the crowd, I felt empowered by what others did not and could not have - the insecurities, pride, shame, love, hate and personal relationships inherently tied to being brown and Filipino. Here in Nicaragua, these things still resonate with me as loudly and heavily as before. But still, in this country, no one else seems to notice.
For the most part, I don't even have to put on sunglasses to blend in with the rest of the crowd - and by that I mean other Nicas. I've told others in the SIT group about the times I've been asked or confused for being Nica. And initially, I would agree in that yeah, it is pretty damn cool to be seen as a local - of course, given that this perception changes as soon as I open my mouth and attempt to speak Spanish. But afterward - after friends have told me that they want to reach my skin color, my level of brownness - I can't help but question the consequences that result from this color in this country.
This is more than just a matter of piropos - even though when I walk with someone who is white, most of the time those calls are for her and not me. It's passing through the "walk of shame" at the U.C.A. and being glanced over, eyes averted and focused on the person next to me. It's questions about myself, my life in the United States, questions that are not intended for me, but for someone else. It's going to Bally Total Fitness Gym-Managua and seeing mostly cheles there. It's listening to my family and neighbours in the campo talk about how pretty blonde hair, fair skin and blue eyes are.
I've regressed to that moment, that first frat party at USC. I'm comfortable and happy being the only "chinita" in the group. But my skin is as brown as a campesino worker. That said, am I my own racist? I don't know now. I used to be growing up. Like my cousins in the Philippines, who spend their money on lightening creams and afternoons at the beach fully-clothed in the shade, we all wish that being brown meant just as much as being white. And black, yellow, green, purple - all other shades too. But I can't avoid my brownness. And I don't want to. I guess I just miss being recognized by it instead of being passed off as everyone else.
Nicaragua's Flag
Map of Nicaragua