The Colour of My Skin

I don't tan. On a scale, I usually go from white to pink to red - often with blisters. And when that starts to fade, it goes backwards on the same scale. Living in a tropical country for over six months has made my skin change its mind and think that maybe it would like to go more of a variety of colours. Upon discussing it with a friend, I decided that despite my excessive use of sunscreen, my skin is what you could call a darker shade of white. Not tan, but like the scale that comes in a box with a teeth whitening kit, a darker shade of white... with more freckles... and subtle "tan" lines for lack of a better term. Regardless of what you want to call the colour of my skin, I am white.

I've always been white. I've known since I discovered that somebody could not be white. Wherever I've lived, I've been a part of the majority - not by choice, that's just how it worked out. Everywhere that is, until Guyana.

Ethnically, Guyana is 30% Afro-Guyanese, 44% Indo-Guyanese, 16% mixed, 9% Amerindian, 1% other which includes Portugese, Chinese and other European. I am in that other category. I remember all the stares when I first came. Don't mind them, Maria would say, it's a Guyanese thing to stare. In areas I frequent, the staring has become less and less surprising to me when I go to a new place. I catch myself staring sometimes now when I see a white person on the street. Like Sesame Street, which one of these is not like the other... A taxi driver laughed when he caught me - now you know what you look like on the street.

While at home for a bit, my first visit to a large restaurant had me overwhelmed by the number of people. I remember commenting to my dad, there's so many white people...

When I say people stare less, that's not entirely true - men never tire of letting me know that they have 'spotted' me with kissy noises, whistles, calls of 'whitey', 'sexy', 'blondie' (I'm a brunette)... calls of chubby or reference to my weight are less common, but still happen which in itself brings memories of childhood teasing though the trait is somewhat desirable. 'Snow Queen' was one of the more recent ones that brought a smile to my face, reminding me of winter and the cold heart that he must think I have for not acknowledging him. I always ignore them. Walk straight by, no reaction - sometimes hide a smile, sometimes curse them under my breath - depends on how the rest of my day has been going. This spurs comments of oh, too goo to talk to Guyanese which hurts, but I know is untrue and so do my friends here.

I learned recently that all this is partly due to when men see me, they see the white girl in the television show or movie who is open to flings and casual sex. We can differentiate that not all girls are like that, it's just a tv show - they don't, it's the often the only exposure to white girls they have. Damn North American media. The rest is in part to women who do come here for x amount of time, away from family and friends, and feel free to act how they choose, with whomever, forgetting or not caring about the precedence they set.

I'm not sure whether it was particularly bad this week or whether I just noticed it more for whatever reason, but I found myself coming home at the end of the day and feeling like a piece of meat. It's a hard feeling to shake.

At the clinic, people usually assume I'm a doctor. You're not? A nurse? Oh. Frown. I can't help but feel like I have been given these professions because of my skin. I was in the ward once and the head nurse wanted to make sure that I knew they needed a sink by the central desk. She pointed out the number of nurses and showed me their existing sink. Well, yes. I understand the need for a sink, I think to myself, but what do you expect me to be able to do about it? But she doesn't see me. She sees the colour of my skin, the foreign organization she assumes I am a part of, and the money that I could potentially direct the spending of.

I let an old woman in front of me in line at the grocery store the other day. I'd already let a man in front of me to exchange an item. It's not that I believed her claim that she only had a few things to buy (I had less). It's because I knew that when she went home, she would not remember the three other people before me who refused to let her cut in, she would remember the rude young white girl. The bag boy smiled apologetically.

I had someone ask me once how my family would feel about a black boyfriend. They wouldn't care, I said, as long as he loved me and was good to me. I asked my mom just to double check - he must be able to make you laugh too. Good criteria for any relationship, regardless of skin colour.

White Girl in Guyana