Well, it as has been three weeks since I traveled back to my country of birth, but I still feel as though I am in transition. My new house in New Jersey is very cute, and comfortable. I've been spending my days going to the gym, relaxing, chatting with my (Colombian) grandma and cousin, spending time with my parents, and contemplating my "life plans." I sent Katrina an email that I think explains just how I am feeling:
I really love spending time with my mom, grandma and Patricia, now more than ever, because I feel so much more comfortable speaking Spanish with them, and relating to their culture. I don't think I ever felt an urgency to integrate into Chilean culture because I knew that what I really wanted was to reclaim my own Colombian identity... but being in Chile provided the vessel for that in some ways. I also do really miss Chile. After leaving in December, I somehow got used to the idea that I would always be leaving and coming back. *sigh* In my last two months there, I had many self realizations, made personal progress, made good friends, and became more comfortable than ever. My departure felt abrupt in so many ways. I feel as though I have unfinished business in Santiago, and the memories scratch at my daily life in the States. Unfortunately, most of my life in Chile now feels irrelevant - like a long dream that isn't worth explaining. I also long for my "social position" as an extranjera (foreigner) in Santiago. I long for the latino onda (vibe), which I think is always warmer than the gringo onda. Luckily, there are tons of Latinos in NYC (though US Latinos are quite different from LA ones), and of course there are plenty of Latinas in my own house.
"So how was Chile?" people ask, expecting a short remark, as if I have just come back from vacation. I cringe when I say, "it was great" or "it was an incredible experience" or "amazing!" It isn't that these remarks aren't true, but they are superficial responses that certainly do not explain "how Chile was." "How was the last year of your life?" I want to respond. Now imagine that in the last year you faced some of your biggest challenges and triumphs; did things you would never do in the States; were exposed to magical people and places; had revelations; felt physically and emotionally horrible; felt happier than you've been in years; made a house, a neighborhood, a city, a country, and a continent your home; met people that changed your faith in humanity; learned to be with only yourself; hurt, loved, hated and opened your heart to strangers all in a context thousands of miles away from the things that make you who you are. And in 10 hours north on an airplane, all of those things, those people, those experiences are memories saved in the "study abroad" box.
As my dad says, traveling only puts up mirrors from which to view ones self. I know that I haven't seen myself 360 degrees around (do we ever?), but I have been quite affected by these new angles. I guess I can't expect everyone to see the new images, or know that they are there, unless I share how they came about.
I suppose that is what this blog was for - sharing the image.
So here's to that.
With love,
KT
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Goodbye
I've been waking up with that anxious feeling that usually occurs the morning of a big trip. But lucky for me, I've been waking up with that same anxiety for the last two weeks. I am incredibly excited to return home to my city (well, near the city), to my family, and to my friends. But I believe that most of my anxiety is a product of the realization that I may never come back to Chile. I spent 10 months living in one house, in one city, learning one culture, making as many meaningful connections as possible. And in four days, that will all be a part of a world that I may never see again. Chile is a fairly unknown country in my social groups (at least it was), it is further away than it looks on any Gringo map, and I only know five people who share my Boston - Santiago experience. Because of this, I feel as though my year in Chile will seem to be a distant memory once I arrive in the New York City heat (I am currently inside, and sitting in my winter coat), surrounded by people whose culture I'm supposed to belong to, and holding a year in the life that feels so random, but that has meant so much.
And so to calm my nerves, I shall express some final comparisons.
Things I will miss about Santiago de Chile:
- My friends. Though I often say that I didn't make many Chilean friends, I do think that I met a good amount of wonderful Chileans (and the non-Chileans) that I did become close with.
- Homemade food at the universities. At both La Chile and La Católica, students and non-students would make soy burgers, brownies, fruit cups, sushi, etc. and sell them on campus. It became a part of my routine to buy a big fruit cup on Mondays and Wednesdays, and soy burger on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Delicious.
- An efficient metro. Though I will certainly not miss the crowded subway cars, and people bumping and touching me at rush hour, I will miss the cleanliness and efficiency of the metro. I also have mixed feelings about the televisions in the metro stations and in the subway cars. Though I have enjoyed watching many a music video, I have also been frustrated by the commercials and constant noise.
- Latin American kindness. I think that Chile is one of the colder (in both temperature and affection) Latin American countries. But the honesty, love of the family, formality, and natural physical contact that occurs in Chile is not so common in Gringolandia. I am quite happy to be of Latin American descent, knowing that these customs are still a part of me.
Things I will not miss about Santiago de Chile:
- Dogs. Well, I have mixed feelings about the dogs, too. It is quite fascinating to observe so many unusual mutts everyday, and to observe their canine interactions. However, it is also disturbing to see so many homeless animals, especially when they're curled up and freezing cold... or dead. Today, I saw two dogs fighting so intensely that several people had to use metal poles to stop them.
- Street food. Traditional Chilean home cooking is delicious. But the food on the street consists mostly of hotdogs drenched in avocado and mayonaise (called completos), friend starch, and other bland foods.
- People staring at me. Yep, I still haven't gotten accustomed to it. I worry that I've gotten so used to staring back that I'm going to be in trouble when I go back to NYC.
And so to calm my nerves, I shall express some final comparisons.
Things I will miss about Santiago de Chile:
- My friends. Though I often say that I didn't make many Chilean friends, I do think that I met a good amount of wonderful Chileans (and the non-Chileans) that I did become close with.
- Homemade food at the universities. At both La Chile and La Católica, students and non-students would make soy burgers, brownies, fruit cups, sushi, etc. and sell them on campus. It became a part of my routine to buy a big fruit cup on Mondays and Wednesdays, and soy burger on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Delicious.
- An efficient metro. Though I will certainly not miss the crowded subway cars, and people bumping and touching me at rush hour, I will miss the cleanliness and efficiency of the metro. I also have mixed feelings about the televisions in the metro stations and in the subway cars. Though I have enjoyed watching many a music video, I have also been frustrated by the commercials and constant noise.
- Latin American kindness. I think that Chile is one of the colder (in both temperature and affection) Latin American countries. But the honesty, love of the family, formality, and natural physical contact that occurs in Chile is not so common in Gringolandia. I am quite happy to be of Latin American descent, knowing that these customs are still a part of me.
Things I will not miss about Santiago de Chile:
- Dogs. Well, I have mixed feelings about the dogs, too. It is quite fascinating to observe so many unusual mutts everyday, and to observe their canine interactions. However, it is also disturbing to see so many homeless animals, especially when they're curled up and freezing cold... or dead. Today, I saw two dogs fighting so intensely that several people had to use metal poles to stop them.
- Street food. Traditional Chilean home cooking is delicious. But the food on the street consists mostly of hotdogs drenched in avocado and mayonaise (called completos), friend starch, and other bland foods.
- People staring at me. Yep, I still haven't gotten accustomed to it. I worry that I've gotten so used to staring back that I'm going to be in trouble when I go back to NYC.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
What I've Been Doing
For some reason it has become harder and harder to keep up with writing. Perhaps it is because my bilingual (or 1.75 lingual) brain is tired, and writing in formal English is no longer easy for me. Or perhaps it is because I've become accustomed to living in Santiago, and few things seem new and exciting enough to report on. The new friends, advancements in guitar, salsa dancing, difficult academics, and uncomfortable weather feel so normal now. But as I look back on the last month or so, I realize that two very new things have happened to me: my internships.
My first internship started about six weeks ago with a Catholic mass at 10:00am on a Saturday morning. It was an introduction to the very religious group of Universidad Católica students who visit socially marginalized communities. I joined because - as a result of my curiosity about rejected societies, and passion for education - I was interested in visiting incarcerated youth. I had never been inside a jail before, let alone a foreign one. And so it is. Every Saturday morning I meet a group of about 12 university students at the metro station just 40 minutes away from my house. We spend about two hours with the 16 year old boys, and though we bring activities, they would usually rather dance and converse with us. So far, it has been a fascinating experience because I spend time with two very different groups of Chilean youth: the upper class Chileans from one of the most prestigious universities in the country, and the marginalized, and, most likely, lower class Chileans in jail.
My second internship involves working at a school for mentally disabled, often abused, children in Santiago's notoriously dangerous neighborhood, La Legua de Emergencia. This is a doubly new experience for me because I've never worked with mentally (and often physically) disabled children, nor have I spent much time in the dangerous parts of any city. It's only been three weeks, but I've already learned a lot about working with children with disabilities and personal trauma, and even more about Chilean culture. The best part is that the children and teachers that I work with are some of the sweetest people that I've met in Santiago. Also fun, is when all (well, not all, but many) of the children immediately touch my hair upon seeing me. This has caused me to wonder how many other Chileans, and people in general, restrain themselves from touching my hair on a daily basis. Come to think of it... my university friends with whom I visit the youth jail also enjoy touching my hair. What an entertaining Afro-American I am.
In conclusion, I feel quite privileged to have these two internships, for the people I work with will teach me more than I could ever teach them. And so I hope that our passing exchange will leave a beautiful impression on all of us.
My first internship started about six weeks ago with a Catholic mass at 10:00am on a Saturday morning. It was an introduction to the very religious group of Universidad Católica students who visit socially marginalized communities. I joined because - as a result of my curiosity about rejected societies, and passion for education - I was interested in visiting incarcerated youth. I had never been inside a jail before, let alone a foreign one. And so it is. Every Saturday morning I meet a group of about 12 university students at the metro station just 40 minutes away from my house. We spend about two hours with the 16 year old boys, and though we bring activities, they would usually rather dance and converse with us. So far, it has been a fascinating experience because I spend time with two very different groups of Chilean youth: the upper class Chileans from one of the most prestigious universities in the country, and the marginalized, and, most likely, lower class Chileans in jail.
My second internship involves working at a school for mentally disabled, often abused, children in Santiago's notoriously dangerous neighborhood, La Legua de Emergencia. This is a doubly new experience for me because I've never worked with mentally (and often physically) disabled children, nor have I spent much time in the dangerous parts of any city. It's only been three weeks, but I've already learned a lot about working with children with disabilities and personal trauma, and even more about Chilean culture. The best part is that the children and teachers that I work with are some of the sweetest people that I've met in Santiago. Also fun, is when all (well, not all, but many) of the children immediately touch my hair upon seeing me. This has caused me to wonder how many other Chileans, and people in general, restrain themselves from touching my hair on a daily basis. Come to think of it... my university friends with whom I visit the youth jail also enjoy touching my hair. What an entertaining Afro-American I am.
In conclusion, I feel quite privileged to have these two internships, for the people I work with will teach me more than I could ever teach them. And so I hope that our passing exchange will leave a beautiful impression on all of us.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Ode to My City
A couple of days ago, I entered a semi-crowded metro with my typical New York attitude: conscious and uninviting. I noticed that a young girl and her mother were looking up at me. So, naturally, I intensified my uninviting face. I've decided that there is nothing wrong with appearing like a hostile and disinterested New Yorker here in Santiago. If anything, it will make me more comfortable with the fact that people stare at me.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my arm and looked down to see an old man looking up at me, "you look pretty in that scarf - very elegant," he said. I smiled and thanked him. "Where are you from?" He asked. "I'm from New York," he looked as though he might have been expecting a different answer. "Ah, the United States," he said in English. "Look," he pointed to an east Asian looking man to my left, "there are people here from all over the world. It's really great for the city." This last comment surprised me. I've never heard anyone talk about immigration as being "great" for Santiago, or any city for that matter. I was truly amazed that this friendly old man had the same appreciation for diversity that I do. And that is when I began to think of my own home back in New York, where diversity is what, I believe, makes it such a special place.
Though New York is changing in ways that taint my love for the place, I am learning to accept that change is what makes the city breath; what keeps it alive. Sometimes I think back to when the small island was full of trees, and its first inhabitants called it Manna Hatta. Now those trees are a forest of buildings, of heartless business, and artificial lights. But despite the - sometimes painful - evolution, New York's soul sits in our memory. In my memory, the city's soul is a poly rhythm of sorts: 24 hour movement and constant variation...
It's a place where you can eat jerk chicken made by loyal Jamaicans, and minutes later hear the songs of Hasidic Jewish children; where one you might run into your favorite movie star, or go to school with the children of diplomats and world leaders. Maybe you'll step into Prada and look at the most expensive bag you've ever seen, then walk ten blocks and get the same bag for fourty dollars. If you're old enough, you might remember the sidewalks where Kieth Herring and Basquiat shared their first pieces of revolutionary street art. You'll stroll through parks that inspired Langston Houghes and Walt Whitman. You'll walk the streets where Dylan and Hendrix played their magical guitars, and stand by the bodegas where Salsa met Jazz. Someone might rob you, and someone might give you their ticket to a Broadway show. You might befriend a refugee, a tourist, or a millionaire. Maybe you'll enter the projects, and later find yourself in a 5th Avenue penthouse. You can taste India and Pakistan; Whole Foods and soul food. You can be spoken to in at least thirty different languages, and insulted by hundreds of different cultures. You'll ride the train with people who have been homeless for longer than you've been alive, and later walk by the very buildings where a world financial crisis reached its climax. You'll catch a glance at a feminine man, a masculine woman, and everything beautiful in between. You can be anyone, or anything, and no one is fazed because they are all busy finding themselves. Everyone is simply surviving. And though New York City is almost as harsh as it is stressful, the fact that so many different people manage to live in such close proximity is - in my opinion - one of the most beautiful things in the world.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my arm and looked down to see an old man looking up at me, "you look pretty in that scarf - very elegant," he said. I smiled and thanked him. "Where are you from?" He asked. "I'm from New York," he looked as though he might have been expecting a different answer. "Ah, the United States," he said in English. "Look," he pointed to an east Asian looking man to my left, "there are people here from all over the world. It's really great for the city." This last comment surprised me. I've never heard anyone talk about immigration as being "great" for Santiago, or any city for that matter. I was truly amazed that this friendly old man had the same appreciation for diversity that I do. And that is when I began to think of my own home back in New York, where diversity is what, I believe, makes it such a special place.
Though New York is changing in ways that taint my love for the place, I am learning to accept that change is what makes the city breath; what keeps it alive. Sometimes I think back to when the small island was full of trees, and its first inhabitants called it Manna Hatta. Now those trees are a forest of buildings, of heartless business, and artificial lights. But despite the - sometimes painful - evolution, New York's soul sits in our memory. In my memory, the city's soul is a poly rhythm of sorts: 24 hour movement and constant variation...
It's a place where you can eat jerk chicken made by loyal Jamaicans, and minutes later hear the songs of Hasidic Jewish children; where one you might run into your favorite movie star, or go to school with the children of diplomats and world leaders. Maybe you'll step into Prada and look at the most expensive bag you've ever seen, then walk ten blocks and get the same bag for fourty dollars. If you're old enough, you might remember the sidewalks where Kieth Herring and Basquiat shared their first pieces of revolutionary street art. You'll stroll through parks that inspired Langston Houghes and Walt Whitman. You'll walk the streets where Dylan and Hendrix played their magical guitars, and stand by the bodegas where Salsa met Jazz. Someone might rob you, and someone might give you their ticket to a Broadway show. You might befriend a refugee, a tourist, or a millionaire. Maybe you'll enter the projects, and later find yourself in a 5th Avenue penthouse. You can taste India and Pakistan; Whole Foods and soul food. You can be spoken to in at least thirty different languages, and insulted by hundreds of different cultures. You'll ride the train with people who have been homeless for longer than you've been alive, and later walk by the very buildings where a world financial crisis reached its climax. You'll catch a glance at a feminine man, a masculine woman, and everything beautiful in between. You can be anyone, or anything, and no one is fazed because they are all busy finding themselves. Everyone is simply surviving. And though New York City is almost as harsh as it is stressful, the fact that so many different people manage to live in such close proximity is - in my opinion - one of the most beautiful things in the world.
Monday, April 19, 2010
New Things in Santiago de Chile
1. An entire section of the city where tall, blonde (I mean blonde in the Chilean sense, which means anyone whose hair is light brown or lighter) people congregate:
This area is the San Juaquin campus of the Catholic University of Chile. A large percentage of the students at San Juaquin come from private schools and live in the more affluent areas in the city. For the most part, the people in Santiago tend to be shorter (as compared with people in, say, New York City), have dark, nearly black hair, and look as if they are Mestizo; descendents both white Europeans and Mapuches. Tall blondes are not what one expects to see very often. In fact, many foreign, tall, blonde, blue or green eyed men and women who come to Santiago get a lot of attention because they are considered to be very beautiful. I could write an entire essay on why this is, and how it is a reflection of Latin America's subordination to the needs and cultural imperialism of the United States and Europe... but I won't. I will save my fervent criticism of the world's exploitative super powers for another occasion. I'll just let it be known that the tall, blondes hang out at the wealthy, prestigious, and very American looking (as far as clothing style and campus layout) Catholic University.
2. Women curling their eyelashes with a spoon:
Last week I saw at least five women doing their make-up on the subway. The shocking part was seeing about two of them use a small spoon to curl their eye lashes the way that one might curl a ribbon with a pair of scissors. I cringed as I stood just above one women put a spoon so close to her eyelid that I thought I might start tearing. She, on the other hand, didn't flinch or seem to be in any pain at all. Part of me became bothered at the thought of all the waxing, perming, shaving, coloring, covering, enhancing, plucking, and thinking that women (and men) go through to live up to socially amplified (biologically influenced) aesthetic standards. The other part of me was completely fascinated, and convinced that I should try this eyelash curling technique. Well, I tried it out the other day, and it didn't work out so well. I ended up pulling out some of my eyelashes (I have very few to spare), and realized that they are too short for curling anyway. So I'm sticking with the mascara.
3. A Bakery:
Most supermarkets and "delis" in Chile sell three types of white bread, which are basically made up of white flour and water. The bread is good because it's fresh - but other than that, it's pretty bland. Today, however, I took an alternate route home from the subway, and found a lovely little bakery. They carry several types of Italian bread, and even some varieties whose flour look like it might have at some point been a part of a whole grain. It's all very exciting, mostly because I'm discovering new things in my neighborhood.
4. Live music:
Last weekend I went to see a friend play at a jazz bar in the nightlife neighborhood, Bellavista. This was the first night out that I spent just enjoying some live music. Though I had the most unusual of encounters with two older American men and two older Venezuelan men, I had a great time. I sat at the bar and conversed with these lonely travelers, and enjoyed the funk jam session that was taking place on stage. I even knew the bar tender, and talked briefly with him.
It has been a long time since I've heard live music in that small jazz bar setting. It almost reminded me of the days when I'd go see my dad's gigs in the city. The bar tender would make me a Shirley Temple with extra maraschino cherries, and I'd talk to the band between sets. For a small child, the bar felt something like a special playland filled with sweets, instruments, lights, and smoke. Today, I see that it is the same playland where passion and vices meet.
This area is the San Juaquin campus of the Catholic University of Chile. A large percentage of the students at San Juaquin come from private schools and live in the more affluent areas in the city. For the most part, the people in Santiago tend to be shorter (as compared with people in, say, New York City), have dark, nearly black hair, and look as if they are Mestizo; descendents both white Europeans and Mapuches. Tall blondes are not what one expects to see very often. In fact, many foreign, tall, blonde, blue or green eyed men and women who come to Santiago get a lot of attention because they are considered to be very beautiful. I could write an entire essay on why this is, and how it is a reflection of Latin America's subordination to the needs and cultural imperialism of the United States and Europe... but I won't. I will save my fervent criticism of the world's exploitative super powers for another occasion. I'll just let it be known that the tall, blondes hang out at the wealthy, prestigious, and very American looking (as far as clothing style and campus layout) Catholic University.
2. Women curling their eyelashes with a spoon:
Last week I saw at least five women doing their make-up on the subway. The shocking part was seeing about two of them use a small spoon to curl their eye lashes the way that one might curl a ribbon with a pair of scissors. I cringed as I stood just above one women put a spoon so close to her eyelid that I thought I might start tearing. She, on the other hand, didn't flinch or seem to be in any pain at all. Part of me became bothered at the thought of all the waxing, perming, shaving, coloring, covering, enhancing, plucking, and thinking that women (and men) go through to live up to socially amplified (biologically influenced) aesthetic standards. The other part of me was completely fascinated, and convinced that I should try this eyelash curling technique. Well, I tried it out the other day, and it didn't work out so well. I ended up pulling out some of my eyelashes (I have very few to spare), and realized that they are too short for curling anyway. So I'm sticking with the mascara.
3. A Bakery:
Most supermarkets and "delis" in Chile sell three types of white bread, which are basically made up of white flour and water. The bread is good because it's fresh - but other than that, it's pretty bland. Today, however, I took an alternate route home from the subway, and found a lovely little bakery. They carry several types of Italian bread, and even some varieties whose flour look like it might have at some point been a part of a whole grain. It's all very exciting, mostly because I'm discovering new things in my neighborhood.
4. Live music:
Last weekend I went to see a friend play at a jazz bar in the nightlife neighborhood, Bellavista. This was the first night out that I spent just enjoying some live music. Though I had the most unusual of encounters with two older American men and two older Venezuelan men, I had a great time. I sat at the bar and conversed with these lonely travelers, and enjoyed the funk jam session that was taking place on stage. I even knew the bar tender, and talked briefly with him.
It has been a long time since I've heard live music in that small jazz bar setting. It almost reminded me of the days when I'd go see my dad's gigs in the city. The bar tender would make me a Shirley Temple with extra maraschino cherries, and I'd talk to the band between sets. For a small child, the bar felt something like a special playland filled with sweets, instruments, lights, and smoke. Today, I see that it is the same playland where passion and vices meet.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Las Replicas
Approximately 20 minutes ago, as I sat on my bed shamelessly watching Youtube videos before calling it a night, I felt a strong jerk that shook my room. Another replica.
Since arriving in Santiago (about a week after the big 8.3 earthquake), I have felt about five small tremors and one big one. The first few tremors that I experienced did not worry me at all. As I've mentioned, they felt as though I was in an old NYC apartment as the subway passed by.
But after hearing story after story, of people being on the 12th floor and feeling the entire building rock from side to side while the still moon moves in and out of view; or having my professor come in to class saying he didn't sleep at all the night before because of the tremor that awoke him in the night (which then leads him to make constant humorous, relevant, and therapeutical references to earthquakes and his lecture); or being told by several people that another earthquake is bound to happen; or sitting in the Tufts office thinking of how terrifying it would be to experience an earthquake from the 16th floor.
When I first arrived, I was ignorant of all the worry that seismic cultures experience. The idea of another earthquake didn't scare me because it wasn't a fully constructed reality. But now, after speaking with so many nervous people, and living on the unpredictable joints of our planet's body, even my heart began to race when this short and forceful tremor rattled my room's windows.
Since arriving in Santiago (about a week after the big 8.3 earthquake), I have felt about five small tremors and one big one. The first few tremors that I experienced did not worry me at all. As I've mentioned, they felt as though I was in an old NYC apartment as the subway passed by.
But after hearing story after story, of people being on the 12th floor and feeling the entire building rock from side to side while the still moon moves in and out of view; or having my professor come in to class saying he didn't sleep at all the night before because of the tremor that awoke him in the night (which then leads him to make constant humorous, relevant, and therapeutical references to earthquakes and his lecture); or being told by several people that another earthquake is bound to happen; or sitting in the Tufts office thinking of how terrifying it would be to experience an earthquake from the 16th floor.
When I first arrived, I was ignorant of all the worry that seismic cultures experience. The idea of another earthquake didn't scare me because it wasn't a fully constructed reality. But now, after speaking with so many nervous people, and living on the unpredictable joints of our planet's body, even my heart began to race when this short and forceful tremor rattled my room's windows.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Reasons to Shave My Head Pt II: Observations & Reflections
It has been approximately four months since I cut off ten (or so) inches of wavy, brown, relaxed femininity, and it has been about two days since I cut off three inches of erect, aggressive, unfamiliar attention. Of course, by the former, "femininitiy," I mean the head of hair I arrived in Chile with, and by the latter, "attention," I mean the unexpected mohawk (or was it a faux-hawk?) that came into the picture months later. Though it may seem silly, I've already noticed several changes in peoples reactions to me as a human being. Please note, however, that I do not really know what people are truly thinking about my appearance. I only draw conclusions based on social ques.
Not long after adopting the mohawk look in November of 2009, I had already begun to notice significant differences in the way I was treated. In Santiago, people still stared at me, but the looks seemed to change ever so slightly. Men on the metro wouldn't look wide eyed, for what felt like minutes at a time. Strangers wouldn't half smile at my friendly brown face. Instead, people would look, and quickly avert their eyes as if they were scared that I might catch them. Only children, and people my age had the courage to point and say, "rock and roll!" or, "hey, I like your hair." In my daily exchanges with vendors, I felt as though they were slightly intimidated by me. It soon became clear that my aggressive hair style amplified my assertions. I found this amusing, because I have never been treated like an aggressive person. It's empowering.
New York City was a bit of a different story. I certainly got looks (though they were subtle) but I also got a lot more compliments from strangers. Most of these strangers were men - black men. I found their attention fascinating. "That's a cool hair style" or "I like that look" always came in a complimentary, and friendly tone. This is the same (or similar) demographic that - nine months prior - would have said things like "Hey ma, how you doin'?" and certainly not in a friendly tone. It was more like the intonation one would use to speak to someone that one found sexually attractive. Do I know that the black guys who complimented me on my hair would be the same black guys who would holler at me in the street? No, of course not. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they were a completely different mix of people. We'll never know. Point is, I felt like men, and people in general, treated me as a gender neutral character. Which, in some circles, was seen as really cool, and in others it meant that men talked to me more like a friend, and less like a docile creature with a vagina.
Back in Chile, after two months vacation in NYC, and still with the mohawk, I became hyper aware of the ways in which people looked at me. I told my mother that it felt as though people were thinking "where is she from? What is she doing here?" "What a horrible hair style" "How could she look like that?" or "Wow a black punk!" My wonderful mother (who also happens to work as a therapist) reminded me that I was just projecting my own thoughts on to these strangers. So I confronted my projections, and didn't allow my appearance to take over my looking glass self. I really have had to toughen up in the last few months because standing out can be very disarming.
Now I am newly disarmed: I've chucked the mohawk and have a short little Afro. My host mom said that I look more like a little girl, but pretty (which she never said with the other look), and the old man at the kiosk on the corner said that I look prettier now than I did before. What is most interesting, is the male response on the street. I think I've gotten more whistles and whatnot in the last two days than I did in the last four months. And that's really only a slight exaggeration. I feel as though I've reentered the realm of sexualization - and it's good to be back (I'm only partly joking. Or am I? ...What do you think?)
It's hilarious how much three, or five, or ten inches of dead follicles can do. I went from an average, feminine looking girl, to an aggressive, cool, rock and roll kid, to a, perhaps, slightly edgy, vaguely attractive female. It's been quite the ride. I never thought I'd be brave enough to take it. What I find most exciting is that my external remodeling has not been a full reflection of my internal refinements. Though the two clearly affect each other, I enjoy their distinctions and my new found ability to appear as various caricatures, personalities, or stereotypes, and still feel like my complete self.
Not long after adopting the mohawk look in November of 2009, I had already begun to notice significant differences in the way I was treated. In Santiago, people still stared at me, but the looks seemed to change ever so slightly. Men on the metro wouldn't look wide eyed, for what felt like minutes at a time. Strangers wouldn't half smile at my friendly brown face. Instead, people would look, and quickly avert their eyes as if they were scared that I might catch them. Only children, and people my age had the courage to point and say, "rock and roll!" or, "hey, I like your hair." In my daily exchanges with vendors, I felt as though they were slightly intimidated by me. It soon became clear that my aggressive hair style amplified my assertions. I found this amusing, because I have never been treated like an aggressive person. It's empowering.
New York City was a bit of a different story. I certainly got looks (though they were subtle) but I also got a lot more compliments from strangers. Most of these strangers were men - black men. I found their attention fascinating. "That's a cool hair style" or "I like that look" always came in a complimentary, and friendly tone. This is the same (or similar) demographic that - nine months prior - would have said things like "Hey ma, how you doin'?" and certainly not in a friendly tone. It was more like the intonation one would use to speak to someone that one found sexually attractive. Do I know that the black guys who complimented me on my hair would be the same black guys who would holler at me in the street? No, of course not. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they were a completely different mix of people. We'll never know. Point is, I felt like men, and people in general, treated me as a gender neutral character. Which, in some circles, was seen as really cool, and in others it meant that men talked to me more like a friend, and less like a docile creature with a vagina.
Back in Chile, after two months vacation in NYC, and still with the mohawk, I became hyper aware of the ways in which people looked at me. I told my mother that it felt as though people were thinking "where is she from? What is she doing here?" "What a horrible hair style" "How could she look like that?" or "Wow a black punk!" My wonderful mother (who also happens to work as a therapist) reminded me that I was just projecting my own thoughts on to these strangers. So I confronted my projections, and didn't allow my appearance to take over my looking glass self. I really have had to toughen up in the last few months because standing out can be very disarming.
Now I am newly disarmed: I've chucked the mohawk and have a short little Afro. My host mom said that I look more like a little girl, but pretty (which she never said with the other look), and the old man at the kiosk on the corner said that I look prettier now than I did before. What is most interesting, is the male response on the street. I think I've gotten more whistles and whatnot in the last two days than I did in the last four months. And that's really only a slight exaggeration. I feel as though I've reentered the realm of sexualization - and it's good to be back (I'm only partly joking. Or am I? ...What do you think?)
It's hilarious how much three, or five, or ten inches of dead follicles can do. I went from an average, feminine looking girl, to an aggressive, cool, rock and roll kid, to a, perhaps, slightly edgy, vaguely attractive female. It's been quite the ride. I never thought I'd be brave enough to take it. What I find most exciting is that my external remodeling has not been a full reflection of my internal refinements. Though the two clearly affect each other, I enjoy their distinctions and my new found ability to appear as various caricatures, personalities, or stereotypes, and still feel like my complete self.
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