I write about race and being a white girl here in Kingston a lot. I hope it is not tiresome. It remains a subject of endless thought for me. This is because almost everyday something racially charged happens. Whether it is someone calling out from the back of a truck “Whitey!” or another incident today (which I’m about to tell you about), having white skin in Jamaica provides enough subject matter for an anthropology doctoral student.

This afternoon, I was at work, sitting at my desk, when Nadine asked me for a picture. (Nadine is the office ‘helper’ at YOU. This is common practice, for an office to have a ‘helper’ and a ‘bearer’, which is basically a courier).

Nadine has asked me a couple of times now if my eyes are real or if they are contact lenses. I have told her that my blue eyes are indeed real. She can’t believe it, she says. A few weeks ago, she told me she needs a picture of my eyes to prove to her children that they are real. Apparently, she has told them about my light eyes and they did not believe her.

So, of course, I obliged. I’m not sure what to make of this. I’m never sure what to make of all these experiences in which my skin colour is the subject of fascination. Here is my white privilege speaking. I imagine that experiences like this are common for someone of a “minority” race. Having traveled a lot and having lived in India, I am not unaccustomed to being the only white person in a situation. However, the level of fascination and attention here still gets to me.

Young girls want to touch my hair. The elderly man at the fruit stand must grasp my hand in greeting every morning as I pass and we must dart away from the crazy guy down the street’s attempt to grab us when we walk by. I’ve been told by a few Jamaicans that some of these instances are people simply being very curious. They just want to touch you, to see what you are like.

For the most part, I am getting used to it, although some days it can be very tiring.