Tag Archives: race

“Are your eyes real?”

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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.

“Your eyes make me boomy”

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These days, I hardly get called “Whitey” anymore. It used to be three or four times a day. I’m not quite sure why, but I think it is because people are now accustomed to seeing me. I assume this because when I go somewhere new, that is when I hear it more. Or maybe my skin has tanned, I do not look so terrified and I kind of know what I’m doing now. It still happens, though. The other day, Brianna and I were in the downtown area, a place probably not too many white people go. All of a sudden, we hear a child cry, with delight: “White people!” We laughed and walked on.

But just because I do not hear calls of “whitey” anymore does not mean I have stopped thinking about race, colour, ethnicity, whatever term you prefer to use. I am reminded of the privilege that white skin provides every single day. This morning, I had yet another eye-opening conversation with a young man I speak with regularly at one of the parks I run at. He has become a friend, as much as we can become friends in a place like this, where uptown and downtown do not usually mix. He is Jamaican, of course, from an “inner-city” community. He is kind and hard-working. He sings Sizzla songs as he rakes leaves.

As we have gotten to know one another, he has kept me informed about his attempts to get a VISA and go farrin (he wants to visit the US- this is the term they use- go foreign, it means.) It is an onerous and expensive process for a Jamaican to visit the US, easier for some than others, depending on their background. My friend has visited Antigua twice, but never the US. He has family in New York, and a girl he talks to in the south. He applied once for a VISA 11 years ago but was refused. He tried again last week and was denied again. It is a big deal to apply- you must fill out a form, pay $15,000 (JMD) and wait in line outside the US Embassy. They only just built shelter from the sun for the dozens of people who line up everyday.

My friend told me that he was nervous when he went for his appointment last week. All the security cameras, the security guards with guns, the white people. “Boomy” was the word he used. “People with your skin colour make some Jamaicans boomy,” he said. He has told me several times that I am the only friend with my skin colour he has ever had. At first, he attempted to sell me something (purses and shoes), then he suggested that we could have a relationship and he could accompany me back home. When I told him I was interested in neither, he backed off, and we have overcome the barriers associated with how we automatically perceive one another based on our skin colour. We are now, awkwardly, getting to know one another as individuals. (As much as we can, given all the cultural and social differences.) Today he told me this: “It is good for me to talk to someone with your eye colour. It is good practice.” He meant that it is good practice for next time he faces a white US Immigration agent. He will be less nervous. He has asked me to help him fill out the form again and practice his answers for when the agent grills him about the purpose of his trip. He wants to visit the US in March, for his birthday, when he will be 31. He doesn’t know how to fill out the form and someone helped him this last time. I will help him if I can, with the ease that comes with the privilege allotted to me because of the skin colour I was born with. There is so much to think about, all the time here. It is exhausting.