Today I was reminded of how my identity as a female takes on a meaning different than from what I am comfortably used to in my happy liberal existence on the West Coast. That´s right, I´m not just a human being who happens to be walking down the street, but I apparently bear similar physical properties (and perhaps mental in the eyes of some) to that of a slow-cooked shawarma (a delicious and popular snack in La Mariscal, the part of Quito I´m currently living ing). I was walking with a friend to go to an art exhibition put on by a formerly exiled feminist artist (her work is amazing. Check it out: http://sandrafernandez.info/default.php), when a man of about 75 years of age drove by, licking his lips and saying "how tasty" in our direction. Nearly moments after that, upon entering the museum, another gentleman decided it would be ok to stroke my arm as he passed by. I could feel myself boiling with anger, yet I didn´t have the desire to make anything else of it. I shrugged off the disconted at having been so disrespected and continued to enjoy the rest of the day.
La Mariscal, (un)affectionately known as Gringolandia, is the place to go if you´re between the ages of tall-enough-to-reach.-the-bar and 50, providing a garden-variety bars, discotecas, fancy cafes, and kitschy tourist shops. It´s also the hippest spot to go if your a pick-pocket, as there are many gringos around with pockets wide open (I actually met someone who got $1,000.00 stolen out of his pocket yesterday...oops). Having street smarts in a place like this is a necessary skill. If one lacks them, they will learn them quickly here.
Walking back from a movie, a friend and I skillfully dodged being accosted by another individual. Rather pissed off and racing with adrenaline, we returned to our abode, or the tower as we have come to call it, where we find ourselves kept safe and sound behind 5 locks (that´s the norm for most houses in Ecuador, btw). It was 9:30 and we were stuck behind these infernal bars of safety, knowing that our identities as females made us vulnerable. I hate feeling like a victim just as much as I hate describing myself as such. But, plainly put, it sucks when you become aware of the fact that your actions and your sense of agency are suddenly limited by the world around you. I am grateful for the fact that I am priviledged enough in that I don´t usually come across this type of sexism, yet it´s experiences like these that make social/racial/gender inequalities much more of a reality. I´m stuck in a rut, because I know that my experience of machismo as a priviledged white woman is perhaps different from that of an Ecuatoriana (because our politically correct selves can´t pretend that this power dynamic is invisible), and as problematic as that may be, I still feel anger for having my personhood (and that of others)diminished.
2 comments:
This behavior is common in the Third World. Doris and I encountered this in Central America in the mid-seventies, where, in of all places, we found that we could not walk a block in San Jose (the capital of Costa Rica) without Doris being propositioned by the local males. This occurred even though I was walking with her and, compared to the physical size of most of the lechers, I was much more formidable in appearance, at least.
Interestingly, while I found this behavior all over Central America (Guatemala and Panama as well as Costa Rica), such behavior was much less common in Mexico. I think that the difference is one of the status of the family which, in somewhat more "traditional" Mexico, is still revered as the basic unit of society.
Piopa
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