Hey Whitey!

“Miss, miss, hey! Miss!” “Whitey! White girl!” “Hello, blondie.” “Hey, Sunshine!”

These are some of the nicer things called after me everywhere I go. Men sitting in their taxis and fruit stands, or walking down the road yell tenaciously at me as if their lives depended on my propitiatory sideways smile. If I ignore them, they make sucking noises until I look in their general direction. “Afternoon,” I reply each time, with a slight wave and a grimace.

I do not understand the urgency with which these men seem to need my attention. It is as if they expect me to stop what I am doing, even to neglect to steer my bicycle, to respond. Where I am from, saying hello is supposed to be a courtesy, not an inconvenience. Furthermore, though I am unusual-looking with my white skin, I am nothing in terms of beauty in comparison to many of the women of this country. Some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen are Guyanese.

I finally began to understand the importance of looks several weeks ago when Moses, Caroline and I went to Georgetown for the weekend to get our work visas stamped into our passports. We stayed in the house of another two WorldTeach volunteers, a large townhouse apartment with exposed timber framing and hollow-sounding wooden floors. It was exciting to get the chance to reminisce, commiserate, and share a few experiences with fellow volunteers.

That Saturday was my birthday, which made the day feel special despite the lack of any particular celebration. I celebrated by going shopping with Caroline and Zoe, my field director, in Bourda Market, which is one of the two big open-air markets in Georgetown. The other is Starbroek, which we were told it was unsafe for foreigners. I felt rumpled and dowdy in my hastily packed clothes. It was difficult for me to find anything in the high-fashion shops that suited my somewhat simple taste. That is to say, there was nothing in earth tones or without some sort of gaudy embellishment. Although the day of shopping was relatively unsuccessful, being back in the city somehow felt a little like going home.

That Sunday, I awoke, 23 years old and no longer my birthday to make it special. I’m 23. Just 23. Caroline was fluttering around me outside of the mosquito net we had shared, preparing for her day trip to Kaieteur and Orinduik Falls. A little sad I could not afford the trip, I consoled myself by gathering my computer and walking the few familiar blocks to my favorite coffee shop in Georgetown, Oasis. On my way to the air conditioned café, I heard the occasional catcall and felt a few stares. I laughed to myself about the attention I was drawing: I am short and always a bit disheveled. My skin is now a light golden-brown, but compared to Guyanese women, I look sickly pale. At the time, I was sweating profusely and my sunglasses kept sliding off my nose. When I finally reached Oasis, I noticed a patch of sweat blooming out from my navel like a Rorschach blot. I thought about how much I contrasted with the beauty pageant contestants I had seen the previous weekend.

The weekend before our excursion to Georgetown, Caroline and I had gone to the Miss Sari Beauty Pageant at a fairground in Canje, north of New Amsterdam. At the pageant, young girls ranging in age from thirteen to their early twenties were to compete at the skill of modeling those long, intricately embroidered lengths of silk. The atmosphere of the event itself was much like a county fair in Iowa, except there were no rides, corndogs, or livestock. A stage draped with streamers and flanked by towers of amplifiers was set up at the far end of the grounds, opposite the stands by the gate. In the field between were brightly colored tents sheltering barbeque stands, beer vendors, and carnival games.

Unsure of when the event was actually going to begin, we arrived early in the evening, shortly after the gates opened at 7:30. We had to yell to each other over the medley of American pop and Indian rock music thumping from the stage as we waited. In typical Guyanese fashion, the actual modeling of saris did not begin until almost midnight. I stood in the audience, just in front of the massive subwoofers, which blared the same clip of music for each of the eight contestants as she paraded across the stage. One by one, the girls strode by, glittering with gold hanging from their ears and around their necks, embellishing their saris, and even woven into their hair. I was struck by their transformation from young students in crisp white shirts, long pleated skirts, and Mary Janes to ageless golden statues.

Although amazed by the appearance of the pageant contestants, the largest impression was made on me that night by the crowd, itself. Overwhelmed when we first arrived by the mass of people, Caroline and I decided to sit in the stands for a while to observe. Uncertain of whether or not the pageant was going to be a formal affair, she and I had agonized over what to wear. We settled for slightly nicer clothing than usual and were afraid we might be overdressed. People-watching in the stands, we were relieved to find we had nothing to worry about: the Guyanese put a great deal of emphasis on appearance. Rich or poor, it’s impossible to tell the difference. They are all dressed up, all the time.

With image being so highly valued, I have often wondered why out of a crowd Caroline and I, as well as other volunteers, seem to draw so much attention. It isn’t that we’re particularly attractive or even dressed as well as the locals. I have come to the conclusion that it is because we look shockingly different. Where I am from, this idea would have never sunk in properly, as I had never known what it was like to be a minority. However, the other day I was looking out over the edge of a balcony at school when I saw Caroline crossing the grounds with a group of students. In comparison to their uniform darkness, she practically gave off light. We are like those queer fish with translucent skin living at the bottom of the ocean, out of the sun’s reach. When we are seen unexpectedly, we surprise people so that their only reflex is to let out a yell.