GULLIVAR

It's a strange thing being the odd man out. I must admit.

While on the busses heading to our various locations this past weekend, the women were checking my blonde hair with the intensity of Jane Goodall with her primates. I was informed that my hair is far too soft and how much harder it must be before I can be deemed "healthy." I then tried to explain that I have Northern, silken hair in a genetic adaptation to keep me healthy in the cooler climates. My scientific explanation was met with a patronizing giggle, tolerating my "excuse" for my sub par body. Then there was the standard issue "fat" discussion along with the discussion of (complete with gasping hands flown to slack-jawed mouths) at the thought that Western men might actually like my body with its wide hips, strong thighs, developed (for a white girl) ass, small (proportionally speaking) waist and large (by comparison) chest. "Curves are ugly," the women consistently said. "Why do Western men like fat women? Women should look like chopsticks." (I also noticed that no men participated in this piece of the conversation unless you consider the History Teacher's eaves dropping and his Mona Lisa, ambiguous smile a participant. I have found that men who really like sex with women, by and large, simply respond to curves, regardless of the current fashion trend or the fascist, self-inflicted demands of women.) Then there was the unabashed adoration of my eyes, which I find ironic as the blue iris with the yellow halo around my pupil (while rare) indicates the incredibly unhealthy and weak genetic material I have for eyes. Yet, somehow, my weak genetic material is my largest selling point for breeding. There was the standard issue adoration of my death-like pallor deemed so unhealthy in the West but maintained by me by simple fear of my familial history of melanoma and a general disdain for orange colored skin. Again, my genetic shortcomings are a large breeding selling point. My Chinese Angel even took to making fun of me that the night I had the migraine (and a full night of not having slept the night before), I went straight to sleep at 1am instead of not being lazy and staying up to chat with a wake-up call of 6:30 awaiting us. (Like I said, I hate sharing a room with someone who is neither lover nor family; there's always a complaint about my character not chronically being my "usual" cheerful and energetic self.)

But this is nothing new. What's becoming new is how different I am from my Brazilian Angel. We were at our gym last night. I went before her and spent an hour on the elliptical trainer working out my frustration at not having had a day of peace in a while. Hell, I'm even being given a hard time for NOT missing classes. (The students are in the midst of midterms and so when they have a midterm, we don't have class. All the students had midterms all Monday and I was told by one teacher not to come in. So I didn't because when I don't have classes, I don't need to be in the office. So the man who thinks he's in love with me kept cornering me on Tuesday to give me a hard time about the fact that I forgot there might be classes. "I knew there weren't classes. I didn't forget. I was informed." "No, I think you forgot," he kept teasing me in a reminder of the fact that he sees himself as the proper man taking care of the emotionally stunted, irresponsible child by simple virtue of the fact that I lack a socially perceived penis.)

While I was in my homicidal head space at the gym, the trainer just over five feet tall but built like a tank walked by and handed me his mp4 player. He put on an English training video for kickboxing and let me have at it on the elliptical trainer for a good hour. Frankly, being seen as a strong athlete before being seen as a Western, White girl was just what I needed right then. I was infused with such a strong sense of calm that I haven't had in a several days. It liberated me enough to verbalize my stress. I'm usually pretty good at keeping the turkeys at bay but when it's a nonstop barrage of in-your-face criticism and I don't get any time to myself, stuff starts to cease rolling off my back and I start to get mired in the shit. When I get really mired in the shit, I tend to cease vocalizing; I had ceased vocalizing on Tuesday. However, on that elliptical trainer, I started grunting and cheering along with the video. Quite literally, I rediscovered my voice.

When I finished my hour, my Brazilian Angel showed up to do a little cycling. I took the bike next to her and started to talk. I was talking to my Brazilian Angel about my recent few days and then I started kvetching about not having a boy around to flirt with. And she gave me the standard response of every woman who takes her relationship for granted; "Chris, you don't need a man to feel good about yourself. You're in a solitary period right now and you don't want a man to bother you." And, while that's true in the feminist, take-no-prisoners sense, it's untrue in the fact that I spend all day being told by 8 year olds I'm fat, all afternoon defending ALL things Western and all evening surrounded by a community that I am both of and not of. Not to mention, in the realistic feminist sense; it's not true. I'm a fully realized sexual being with needs that extend beyond a cheap fling. Pillars of virtue are nice fantasies but the reality of me is that I am a sexual creature. Granted, it's not that I need a man to define me but that I need intimate companionship that reminds me of all the beauty I have. I need someone taken with my minutia who is willing to fight and flirt with me. I need someone who's not curious about the way my people are but rather, curious about the way I am. That's not to say I need a Western boyfriend but I do need someone whose interest in ME transcends his interest in my culture.

I tried to explain to her that it's a hard thing to maintain a positive sense of one's self under the constant barrage of little attacks when I go home to nothing but me. There's no boy I can call who adores me. There's no real circle of peers for me. She has a man who adores her, needs her and cares for her. She has friends who are in similar situations. I have me and this narcissistic reflection of me on my computer; this very writing has become what allows me to maintain some sense of myself. But, writing doesn't love you back or kiss your navel and writing certainly doesn't challenge you to grow.