Woman, Wolfmother

Walking down the street in any major Panamanian town, it’s the same.  Whistles and shouts of “guapa”, “bonita”, “mami” and many other names thrown in your direction.  That is, if you’re a woman, with legs, hair and the general appearance of maybe, you have female genitalia.  (A friend of mine once told the story that he once whistled at a woman in heels, with a great body only to have her turn around and realize, she was not a woman.)  When you’re a white woman, the shouts seem more persistent, men freed by the fact that you don’t look like you speak the language.  They say whatever they want, even if it’s more than inappropriate.

I’ve trained myself to ignore it.  As much as I want to turn around and yell at the offenders, ask if they really think that treating me thusly would work to get into my pants, and see if it’s ever worked for them in the past, I don’t.  I hold my head high and I pretend I hear nothing.  They could whistle and shout all they wanted, but I was a rock, a stone, and nothing they could say would sway me.  I would not tell them to go to hell.  I would not flip the bird.  They did not exist and I was walking.

Then, one day, as I was in my regional capital, I walked out of the grocery store with my hands full – heavy bags of groceries.  A man stood by as I reorganized my load, shifting some to my backpack, and attempting to carry the weight evenly.  I did not look at him, but I could tell – in that way women can – that he was looking at me in that way that meant nothing good.  I stood up, done with my task and he spoke, telling me all the things he would do to me, “if I just said the word.”  I tried to ignore him.  I tried to be stone.  But in reality, I’m more of a tree – needing to bend in the wind or else I’d break.

I told him, in no uncertain terms, to screw himself.  Had speaking like that in the past ever worked for him, because it certainly wouldn’t work on me.  Did I look like a prostitute?  (Fully clad in jeans and a crew necked t-shirt.)  And all of this I said in Spanish.  For a moment, he had the decency to look shocked.  Then he started up again, saying the same things he said before.  I told him to shut his mouth or I’d call the police.

As if on cue, a police officer showed up.  I explained the situation, calling this man lewd, disgusting and a pervert.  The pervert only smiled.  “Well, sweetheart, it’s your own fault for being so beautiful,” the police officer said.  Again, I snapped.  “Oh, I forgot, women get to be treated with no respect because they’re beautiful.  What makes me beautiful to him?  Is it because I have light skin and light hair?  And my fault for being so beautiful?  Last time I checked, I had no control over how I looked, genetically.  It’s not like I’m wearing heels, or even make up.  I did nothing to encourage this.  Are you teaching your daughters they earn this disrespect because they had the misfortune of being born beautiful?”

I stalked away.  My hands were shaking with anger.  The next person who called me mami on the street got a full taste of this American bird.  Did I feel bad for snapping?  Not really – only embarrassed.  I am supposed to be a representation of my country and anger isn’t the best way to present that.  But what upset me the most was the attitude so prevalent in all Latin cultures, from central and south Americas, to Europe in Italy and Spain to say the least.  Women deserve to be catcalled, just because they’re beautiful.  We deserve to be treated with little to no respect, even in professional situations, no matter how much time we put into our degrees, education and everything else.  I was one of the biggest advocates of using my gender to get my way, if that’s dressing up when I need to ask a favor, or smiling pretty when I think it will get my way, in the United States where the gender boundaries are present, but thinner.  But this experience is starting to veer me away from this action.  Before I attempted to toe the line between power bitch and successful woman.  Now I’m coming a lot closer to power bitch – respect me like a professional, or else.

In my own community, I treat the situation a lot differently.  When the men, either a friend or another community member, makes a joke of my gender or my appearance, I make a joke back, then make it clear I don’t want it to continue.  I’ve told them many things, that I did not come to Panama to find a husband, American men are far more handsome (and taller), and that I’d reconsider their offer when they stopped eating rice.  A fifteen year old made it two days before he broke and began eating rice again.

The question, however, remains: how do we, as women, fix a problem so culturally ingrained?  When I complain to the women here, they agree, a white woman who has come in as a professional should not be treated this way.  But what of them?  Should they continue to accept this treatment?

Most of the women want better opportunities for their children – all of them, not just the boys or just the girls.  As it were, it is mostly women, young and old, who are pursuing higher education.  The night classes are made up almost entirely of women.  One of the lone males is there because of his younger sisters.  He is the primary breadwinner of the family, and he wishes to provide a better life for his sisters, so they can go straight to high school and not wait like he had to.  But sexism is still a deep part of this culture.  After I snapped at a former host brother (forty-five and still living with his parents) for asking if, in the United States, women could truly pursue masters degrees, his father explained to me that his son is not a womanizer, and begged me to believe him.  I respect his father so much I did not reply that to explain someone is not sexist, it typically means they are.

I, too, use “mami”, “papa”, “mi amor” and other words that translate best to sweetie or honey – words I use a lot in English as well.  I use them with friends, with the children in the community.  I use Madre or Comadre when speaking to a friend or a woman at stores, bus stops or the like.  It’s easier than trying to remember everyone’s name.  But I would never dream of using these terms with a professional.  I cringe when a police officer on the island calls me Bonita, even though he knows my name.  I know he does not mean it as an insult, but he unknowingly sets a precedent.  The women at the school call me mi amor in the same way.  Yet these people treat me as a professional in everything but the names they use.

How do we change a culture of sexism so deeply ingrained that women expect it?  How do we, as white foreigners, explain that certain words, even though they are meant with care, encourage others to use them with different intentions?  How do we, as women, earn respect and professionalism without losing our femininity or our feminism?