(05/09/18 6:56pm)
Respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Written on the chalkboards of kindergarten classrooms, in gymnasiums and in doctor’s offices. From a young age, we are told that the respect we give is the respect we get. As a young adult lady today, I have not found this to be true.
A few weeks ago, a small woman in Proctor Dining Hall, at Middlebury College, dropped her yogurt bowl all over the counter. A group of male students socializing and hopping around the salad bar, fixing sandwiches, hogging the panini presses, throwing bananas at each other, kept it moving.
No one offered help.
She cleaned it herself, even after I offered to assist, despite the many things she had juggling in her arms. This is such a small example, but it really made me stop and think. I ran through all the times that I have seen dining hall staff rush to pick up a boy’s mess… and why? Because we probably assume that they can’t, or won’t try to clean it up anyway. Maybe it’s because people assume that women are naturally more independent than men, maybe it’s because we are the “domestic” gender that should know how to do that kind of s**t and enjoy doing it, maybe it’s also that women by nature don’t command respect or attention in the way that men do.
Women don’t take up space in the same ways, we don’t receive the same acknowledgements and we certainly do not expect to.
I asked a few friends, all of whom identify as female, when the last time they felt like the most respected person in the room was. These were their answers:
1. “I genuinely don’t know… I mean, when I’m in the room alone? Haha. Maybe it’s my youth, honestly. Maybe I haven’t gotten to that place yet.”
2. “At a volleyball practice when Coach called me out to model a move or something, I guess I felt like the most important person on the court. Then again, that was in an all female setting… I was also team captain…”
3. “Maybe when I graduated and had my party. Everyone was there in a supportive nature. People were getting to know each other better, getting drunk, not dressed too fancy, and it felt really awesome that I was that common theme.”
4. “No good response relating to work… People have appreciated the work I have done — “Good find,” or “good job.” But I think women working, even women who are my ultimate superiors, I can see how their male counterparts are treated in comparison to them.”
5. “My brother’s funeral maybe. Also, possibly when I was a camp counselor. Definitely not class, or a job.”
Interesting… Either we’ve sought it out, or we’ve put ourselves in situations where we might earn it, but it is not usually innate with the title or position we carry, unlike men.
I read an interview recently with female rapper Cardi B in Cosmopolitan Magazine. She spoke a little about her past life as an exotic dancer, and the rejection she received from both her family and society as a whole. She comments on why she is always bringing up her stripping past: “Because ya’ll don’t respect me because of it, and ya’ll going to respect these strippers from now on.” In that same interview, she touches on the infidelity of her relationship. She is expected to explain it, but decides instead to tell people to mind their own business. It is not unusual that women are in the spotlight explaining male behavior… I’m pretty sure Chris Brown did not have to cry on camera after he beat Rihanna, but she certainly did.
When we introduce the ‘rents to a significant other, we expect a handshake with dad, but mom will get a hug. A hug is more intimate, which isn’t an inherently negative thing, or less respectful per se, but it does already establish a power dynamic. Mom has to be a hug, and dad gets the business handshake. A man gets to choose when he wants to become the tender dad and accept that hug, but initially he still does get that handshake. Mom usually doesn’t get to choose.
Women who raise kids in the home. We respect the dads who bring home the bacon, and make it possible for mommy to do the grocery shopping. How about a stay-at-home dad? They’re atypical and god-sent.
The list can go on and on… We know all about this. Double standards all around, the patriarchy shaping our experiences as women, making life unfair, blah blah blah. So, what am I trying to say? To be aware of the respect you get versus the respect you deserve. There is a level of respect that women do not think they deserve. When we grow up thinking we are going to get less respect, at a certain point, we internalize it. As a result, without even realizing, people continually disrespect us in everyday situations because of who we are.
By respect I don’t mean all eyes on you — I mean your person. Are you going to be looked at, spoken to, approached or listened to with the same respect as the cis-het male 10 feet away? I’m not quite sure how to define respect, or if I should have to in order to prove a point.
Ways disrespect appears every single day:
1. “Thanks, hun.” You call your friends hun, hun? Boys, take notes: pet names are a fantastic way to show how much you could give less of a s**t about what her name might be.
2. Silence in the face of disrespect is a form of disrespect. “Would you hit that?” “Rate her ass/face/titties!” The excuse is always, “That’s just how guys talk to each other.” I get that there’s a general culture of silence that makes it hard to openly speak on emotions or point out when another guy is doing something wrong, but I also really don’t get it at all.
3. Listening. The way men listen to each other at a lunch table versus listen to their female counterparts is absolutely fascinating. I challenge you to count the number of times a woman gets interrupted.
Respect is behavior. It’s also often cultural. It is a direct reflection of what our society values and thinks is important, and time and time again, it doesn’t feel like equality is up there on that list. Teachers, nurses, receptionists — does the way they’re treated accurately reflect societal value? Hell no.
But if those were notoriously male positions (which they are not), would that change the respect those people get? Men, by virtue of achieving a high-ranking position in a major field, gain respect — lawyers, doctors, etc. For women to receive the same level of respect, they need to go above and beyond. They need to not only be top of their field, but earn a Nobel Peace Prize, move mountains, be able to shotgun a beer in under eight seconds, run a four-minute mile, all while maintaining approval from the male gaze.
The way we talk to a doctor versus a babysitter — are they different? Of course, one has a medical degree and the other is probably a teenager trying to make some money and do APUSH homework while looking after a hyper six-year-old. However, in every stage, the man will probably earn more respect, or acknowledgement, than the woman — a male doctor versus a female doctor, and a male babysitter versus a female babysitter.
Men get to choose when they want to go into a female-dominant field, and when they do they are welcomed and applauded, and are almost treated in a special way. “It’s amazing he’d want to spend so much time with the kids!” versus “Oh her name is Hannah, she seems sweet.” A female babysitter is expected, but a male babysitter is “impressive.”
For women to go into a traditionally male-dominant field (like medicine), they aren’t met with that special treatment; they are met with skepticism. Overall, men get to choose how they navigate the world, and are blindly applauded and praised. I suppose I’ve become increasingly interested as a young woman who will soon be entering the workforce. How long will it take before I feel like the most respected I could (especially as a woman of color), or as respected as the white male who will likely take on the same job as me or be my boss? What the f**k do we have to do?
Two summers ago, I interned at a cable network. I was one of two consumer marketing interns alongside a very tall, elegant, African-American guy named Chad. He was more experienced than I was in the field, but we tackled our projects and got along just fine. He was rather quiet, and very mannerly. We had the exact same position, yet I was the one tasked with menial things like picking up food from the lobby for a meeting, or making copies. My internship was shorter than the other interns that summer with my study abroad semester starting before most. In handing off my work to the woman who oversaw me, I told her that she should not feel hesitant to give those same menial tasks to Chad. “He’s a good guy, and I’m sure he’s happy to do it.” “You sure he’s okay doing that?” she asked. The hell do you mean is he okay doing that? Maybe those tasks were beneath him. Maybe I was just seen as the more reliable one. No matter how you slice it, I had more (what many would call) b***h work.
I feel like I have the respect of my peers, people who I’ve decided are worth hanging out with, or those who I actively surround myself with. But inherent respect? I’m not so sure. It’s what intrigues me most. How many times have I had to point out that I am in college to be spoken to a certain way? Too many. How often do we females feel like we have to be in charge to command respect? Too often. It is so hard to pinpoint or quantify respect, to point out what is “respect” and what isn’t. However, it’s beyond easy to tell where there’s a gap between the inherent respect owed to men versus the respect owed to women.
Belcalis Almanzar — exotic dancer turned female rapper “Cardi B,” topping all the charts — needed to trade in a Honda Civic for a Rolls Royce before being taken seriously, and those who looked down on her have been the butt of the joke all along. Maybe, just maybe, she is finally getting the respect she deserved all along. Then again, she was still a stripper. Go figure.
Be more aware of how you approach opposite genders in the same positions or settings. If he is taking phone calls and orders at a front desk just like her, or sliding up and down a pole just like her, then equal respect shall follow.
Respect these receptionists. Respect these strippers.
Author’s Note: I would like to thank Hector Vila’s course Writing On Contemporary Issues for giving me a platform for these kinds of
discussions.
(04/04/18 2:17pm)
I am constantly asked just “how Latina” I am. I would say this question has come up more and more since coming to college. “So, wait… you aren’t black?” Well, I am — I am an Afro-Latina. But what does that even mean to someone who is unfamiliar with this demographic — a demographic that has only become comfortable labeling itself fairly recently? As a Dominican American born and raised in Queens, New York, I am not used to being questioned about my identity — people kind of just know. “Oh what are you, Dominican?” I guess I took for granted what Queens is — the most diverse borough in New York City, and arguably one of the most diverse places in the entire world. It’s hard to ignore race when there are cultural hubs in Queens for everyone — Greeks in Astoria; Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese folks in Flushing; Italian Americans in Bayside (where I am local to); Dominicans, Colombians, Mexicans, and Ecuadorians running Jackson Heights and Corona; African-American and Afro-Caribbean people holding down Jamaica; the heavy Jewish community in Forest Hills… We have everything within one place (which, yes, means the food is bomb). When I came to college, I stopped assuming that people were on the same page as me when it came to race, and more importantly, different identities. I have noticed that many people at Middlebury are born and raised in “monocultures” — places that lack diversity or multiple identities, often suburban prep cultures that aren’t tricky to dissect. I know New York can’t be everywhere, and it isn’t a comfortable place for everyone, but what it stands for is important and could shine through in more spaces. Why would my peers here be used to questioning identity, or taking it into consideration, when they haven’t been exposed to many races? I suppose they are from places where “other” is simply “other.”
The questions I am asked have everything to do with why the texture of hair, color of my skin, and plumpness of my lips don’t fall within a familiar category — I’m not fully black, I’ve got to be something else. Yet when I tell people Spanish is my second language, it “makes sense.” My last name helps give away the fact that I am “more exotic.” Why does it always feel like I have something to prove? I don’t — it’s more that people have something to learn, especially white people. The white definition of what Latinas look like is narrow. Either you look like Selena Gomez, or Gina Rodriguez. You can’t look like Zoe Saldana, Christina Milian, Rosario Dawson or Dascha Polanco. It’s too unfamiliar. I grew up with a lot of people trying to tell me what I am, and while they are correct that I am black, they are often too close-minded to consider that Latina is more than just one color, or one race. “Oh, I didn’t know Latinos could be black…” This mentality is what perpetuates shame in the black Latino community. There is a certain loss to society we have by living in such monocultures : when cultures become isolated there is danger in having a single story. We lose something as simple as exposure to and acceptance of different foods, while also losing something as great as perspective or empathy.
Who do we blame for this? I guess it’s easy to point to the United States government — but I’m going to point to the United States government. I cannot describe the frustration that comes with filling out forms at doctor’s appointments, especially when it comes to the “race” section. In a country where Latino-ness has been consistently associated with illegality, “crossing the Mexican border,” “Taco Tuesdays” or curvy women in reggaeton videos, the Latino body in the United States has either been made to look like a working Mexican immigrant, or Jennifer Lopez.
I had a friend who identifies as black ask me why I don’t identify as black. I don’t not identify as black — I do, and proudly. My frustration is that I am a Dominican-American woman, and I wish more people innately understood that the Latino identity has more to it than meets the eye. Let’s take the forms below for example.
At the end of the day, I can fill out a form any way I want to, but I do get stressed out while doing it. The separate section for “Hispanic or Latino” in Figure 1 explains it all. No one really knows what is going on there, including myself. What does that even mean? One time when I was at the doctor’s office, a man with a similar complexion to me sat down beside me. It seemed he was taking a particularly long time filling out his form, even after being handed one in Spanish. He turns to me and asks (in Spanish), “where do I write down that I’m Cuban?” It made me laugh, but it was a good question. A question I remember asking myself every time I took a standardized test growing up. I was often forced to choose only part of who I am.
I often think, “maybe I should be filling out black and Latino/Hispanic,” but the American definition of black does not explain my cultural background. The American definition of “black” implies being African American, and filling this out would be incorrect because neither of my parents were born here. The term “black” is often an insufficient answer. We look at Figure 2 on the right, one that acknowledges race and nationality. It makes us question why every form doesn’t include all of these subcategories. According to the Pew Research Center, they are trying to find ways to improve the accuracy and reliability of its race and ethnicity data. A major problem is that a growing percentage of Americans don’t even select a race category provided on the form. In fact, “as many as 6.2% of census respondents selected only ‘some other race’ in the 2010 census, the vast majority of whom were Hispanic” (Krogstad and Cohn 2014). Go figure.
So, what is an Afro-Latina? In its simplest definition, “Afro-Latina is an ethnic identifier that enables Latina women to articulate a political identification with their Afro-diasporic roots,” says Dr. Ana-Maurine Laura, an anthropology and Latino studies professor at the University of Oregon. She adds, “the term makes our Afro-diasporic roots visible and central to our identities, like Chicana/Xicana makes our Mexican hermanas indigenous roots visible and central.” It’s a term that has been coined to label this complex identity, and it’s relatively new. According to a 2016 Pew Research study, one quarter of all U.S. Latinos self-identify as Afro-Latino, Afro-Caribbean or of African descent with roots in Latin America. This number only accounts for those who are choosing to self-identify; this isn’t considering those who are ashamed to embrace this, or don’t even know that there is a significant amount of African descent in their blood. How might we increase the number of U.S. Latinos that self-identify as Afro-Latino? Why might people be ashamed to embrace their identity?
I never had the privilege of meeting either of my grandfathers. They are from very opposite worlds in the Dominican Republic. My dad’s father worked for the dictator at the time, Rafael Trujillo, and grew up in a very privileged white-Dominican family. My mom’s dad was an Afro-Dominican who eloped with my grandmother and eventually made it to the United States. If my grandfather (mom’s dad) were in a room with ten African-American men from Brooklyn who identify as black, I cannot help but think that they would not have much to talk about. Besides the fact that he simply wouldn’t be able to because of the language barrier, there is not a huge cultural crossover. Where collard greens and fried chicken feed into a black stereotype, arroz con gandules, platano and pollo guisado feed into another. In a community where Ray Charles and Nat King Cole are eulogized, Juan Luis Guerra and Fernandito Villalona are eulogized in another. What would bind these men is the color of their skin, and the ways in which this has shaped the way they move throughout society.
This also forces me to question, why shouldn’t my grandfather be celebrating who he is in the same room as these ten men? Black culture in the United States is quite synonymous with African-American culture. We often don’t celebrate it with blackness that extends beyond this, such as in the Latino culture. Often, we don’t take the time to celebrate it, period. It has historically been hard for people to celebrate being black when it has been associated with everything negative and unwanted. Black is the color of dirty coal, stormy skies, unlucky cats and crows or bats that fly around ominously in the sky. But black is also a color that represents strength, power and seriousness. It is elegant, formal and prestigious. It can command a room just as easily as it can darken one. Black is beautiful.
There are Afro-Latinos across the United States faced with this conflict. The arbitrariness of the ethnic category in the Latino community causes confusion from within. For ease of understanding the information that comes with our identity, we are forced into a box that doesn’t quite define who we are. A box that often does not reflect genetics in the same way marking oneself down as “Caucasian” would. It does not allow for us to proclaim the race that is so deeply embedded into our culture. But it’s still about a lot more than taking ownership of a category, and having the census hand it to us. Among the limited ways in which the government has chosen to acknowledge this identity, stereotypes of the Latino identity that do not allow for ‘afrodescendente’ to fit into the equation, and the shame associated with celebrating blackness (which is intrinsically linked to systematic oppression that often pushes this aside), it is understandable why Afro-Latinos have an especially difficult time explaining or celebrating who we are.
What I wish more people understood, especially my monoculture-hangin’ friends, is just because people are from both cultures does not mean they are less of one. To be a black Spanish speaker in Latin America means to see, taste, hear and feel the African heritage at all times in our phenotype, in our food, in our music, in our rhythm and in our dance — to embrace a lot of the aspects that are praised in the Latino community which come from the African influence. Being Afro-Latina means acknowledging my racial and cultural background, so I’d like to continue unapologetically living life on the hyphen. Afro-Latina it is.