those golden tresses

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.