Exotic

Written by Gina, writer and linguist from London

Since before I was a teenager, the perception of my own natural beauty has been warped and modified to adhere to the male gaze. I was an early bloomer and was made aware of that fact before I had fully acknowledged it for myself. At school, boys would comment on the size and shapes of our female bodies, try to snap our bra straps through our shirts, or run into our changing rooms after P.E classes. A lot of the time, these interactions seemed harmless and flirtatious. But as we grow up as women, trying to love our natural selves, we forget how certain forms of attention challenge our personal notions of body image and identity.

I remember being 16 years old heading to my local underground station on my way to work – I used to collect glasses and do dishes at a wine bar near Liverpool Street station. Blissfully in my own world listening to music, I noticed a car go by with the passenger staring out the window at me, thinking nothing of it at first. I hadn’t even processed his face. Minutes later, the car drove back the opposite way and pulled over on the curb in front of me. The door opened and I stopped in my tracks, frozen. I took my headphones out and winced at the muffled sound of the car radio ahead. Why did I have to be in my work uniform? A fitted black skirt and shirt with the company logo stretched over my left breast, as requested by our manager. I was used to dodging slimy comments from drunk men at work, but this was different, I was trapped on the pavement. As I quickly swung my jacket over my shoulders, a man got out of the car: he was a short man, perhaps in his late 30’s. He held his arms low down in front of him as though to try and calm me, but his anxious body language and wide eyes made me all the more tense.

“Please don’t be scared, I know you’re young, how old…?” he asked as he moved closer.

“I’m 16,” I replied, expecting that it would hopefully cause him to rethink his actions.

“16, right, I know you’re young, but just listen, you are the woman of my dreams. You are so my type, honestly and if you were older, I would ask you to marry me. I just had to say that, please don’t be afraid, I’m going to go now.” And off he drove. 

What did he mean by his ‘type?’ I was in disbelief yet extremely relieved that nothing else had happened. 

That same evening, exhausted on the tube on my way home from work, a 22-year-old in a black suit and tie started speaking to me a few stops before I had to get off. After telling him my age and saying: No thank you to his multiple attempts to get my number, he persisted that we get to know each other because apparently, I looked decent. I sporadically looked around at the people on the carriage as though to usher one of them in to get him to leave me alone, but nothing. Like clockwork, as I caught him staring at my legs, the question surfaced: 

“Where are you from, like, what’s your origins?”

I could list countless other conversations just like the ones above. The most exhausting interactions are those with men who determine their attraction based on my mysterious ethnic identity. In correcting their assumptions, I have to both engage in an exasperating lesson of geography as well as establish whether or not sharing my origins will solicit unwanted attention. For me, the burden of male attention is that it can switch from flirtation to intimidation at any point. Usually, it is how I respond to their comments which should determine the boundary, but it’s the sad truth that with many of these interactions, regardless of how I respond, some will continue to disregard it. Despite being in my presence for mere minutes, they feel it necessary to share their opinion of my appearance. 

Too often I deign to fruitless conversations with a stranger in which I have to explain and defend my identity, only for their response to consist of a medley of buzzwords such as exotic, Latina, tropical, or even: a bit all over the place. As I begin to explain further, I am interrupted by speculations of various labels of races, ethnic groups, even other non-related countries; the listener’s attempt to place me within the realms of their own understanding. Usually, the conversation develops as such:

“Guyana, isn’t that in Africa? Do you mean Ghana?

… Oh it’s in South America, so you’re Latina? Do you speak Spanish then?

… Of Indian origin? Do you mean indigenous?

… There are Indians in the Caribbean?”

I watch as their eyes light up when they hear South America and then furrow in confusion as I explain my Indo-Caribbean roots. The ironic part is that as East London as I feel in my wit and humour, saying I’m from London is never a sufficient response. Had I not completed my master’s on this topic, it would be far more exhausting to engage in these conversations, but I no longer find it a burden to educate people on the multiplicity of identity. Actively spending so long navigating and studying my own identity has armed me with the historical knowledge to explore my identity for myself, rather than bouncing off people’s half-understandings. 

I proudly explain my heritage to others by sharing stories and family experiences, with the hopes that it will spark an interest about the region. I was born in London to an Irish father, and Guyanese mother. My mother arrived aged two from Guyana, a small country on the shoulder of the South American continent. Formerly a British colony, Guyana is the only English-speaking country in South America with a population of African, Chinese, Portuguese, Indigenous and Indian descent – my Mum is of the latter. Hence, describing my origins results in a longer conversation than anticipated as I can’t resist delving into Guyana’s national and cultural history – a history defined by multiple waves of diaspora and displacement. 

I have dedicated my academic career into transcribing the journeys and sacrifices experienced by the women before me, and I have evoked their divine feminine strength to fuel me in defining my own identity. I prefer to see exotic and tropical as having a closeness with the fertile feminine energy of our mother Earth, rather than as a sexual plaything for the sterile, industrial rigidity of a patriarchal society. Reclaiming the language that has been used as a weapon for so long to mould us, can set us free. By viewing myself through my own personal gaze and producing art that expresses the depths of my creative mind, I have seen my feminine energy glow more clearly than ever before.