He said it
in Spanish, but I don’t quite remember how it went. In English, it was
something to the effect of, “You have the most beautiful golden tresses.” At
the time, half of me died inside of awkwardness as I watched a man old enough
to be my father, maybe even grandfather, hit on me. The other half of me
laughed falsely and smiled politely.
There’ve
been others too. The man who said if he were young enough he’d marry me himself
after speaking with me for only seven minutes. The man who lamented that my lunch
break wasn’t right that minute so that I could go to lunch with him. The man
who asked if he could give me his number so that he could remind me when he’d
come to visit me at work. The men who ask if I’m married when they have no need
to know. The men who come to my register “so that no one will think I’m gay.”
When I
remember these things, thoughts swirl around in my head. I’m sad, sad for so
many things. Sad that these comments make me feel like a thing. Sad that I
didn’t know what to say. Sad that it’s happened so many times. Sad that I
thought that if I expressed my discomfort, I would be offending them. Sad that
I’m not the only one. Sad that I sacrificed my discomfort for theirs. Sad that
the “praise” I was given eroded my worth. Sad that these men might not have
even known.
And as I
sit here, sad, I wonder what can be done. I wonder how I can explain what
exactly these comments mean. I wonder how I can respond without devaluing my
legitimate feelings. I wonder how I can encourage the world to see me for more
than my sex.
Before I
ever received any of these remarks, I thought I wanted them. I thought that
they would establish my true value. If a stranger could see that I was pretty,
that I was desirable, then I was something. My worth would be unquestionable,
displayed for all to see.
But when
the comments finally came rolling in, they made me feel smaller than ever. It
was not a problem of the number of compliments, as if more would boost my
self-esteem. It was the realization that in a few short words, one look of the
eyes, I was given a price tag. My value, my humanity, was summed up as “golden
tresses.” I was worth time because of my golden tresses. Or another one I
commonly get: la güera que habla español,
which means “the white girl who speaks Spanish.”
When I
heard these comments, I realized that in the eyes of these men, there was no
room for anything but golden tresses. They would never want to hear about my
ideas for dealing with drug addiction; they would never want to know that I
think I’ve figured out a forgotten factor to why Donald Trump has been so
popular, or why I think it’s important to let kids be angry. All they would
want was a hollow laugh, a shallow smile, and those golden tresses.
