“Speaking of Latinas…” I have had the biggest crush on Eva Mendes ever since I saw her wearing that sexy, white, figure-hugging dress in Ghostrider. Damn. The picture on the left isn’t even close to what I’m talking about. You gotta see the real thing. The scene in which she’s interviewing Jonny before he does the 100-car stunt is the only part that makes the film worth watching (besides numerous opportunities to mimic the devil’s deep growl… ‘hmmmm’).

Eva Mendes hasn’t been the only objeto de mi amor. Earlier this year, right after I’d decided to give dating a try again, it seemed that all I did was pick up Latinas everywhere I went. I’d go out with the sole intention of having a good time with my friends (ok ok, and flirting with some cuties), and the only woman that would make me stop dead in my tracks would be Latina. There was one time I got so excited over this Lebanese girl – danced with her the whole night only to find out that she’d lived in Venezuela all her life, spoke fluent Spanish, and identified more with her South American experience than her Arab heritage. She even cursed in Spanish! I decided to call her my “Lebatina,” because she was definitely one of a kind. However, she failed the test to become my one non-latina crush, and I found myself wondering if I had a weird fetish. In fact, I started to freak out. I’m not sure if the average person would think twice about their sexual preferences but, being the socially-conscious-and-commentating, intellectual, iQWOC that I am, I had to question it. Had I become one of those shallow consumers of pop culture that had joined the media and everyone else in exotifying women of color?

I’ve always hated it when certain kinds of white girls come up to me and are clearly only interested in me because I’m a tomboi woman of color, and they think I fit some stereotype; that I’m a ho-baggin’, shit-talkin’, ball-playin’ stud. And, I don’t even look 1/2 as gangsta as homegirl in the picture. Nevertheless, I get ‘profiled’ often enough when I go out in uber white Boston, and the ladies start talking to me funny, ending every exclamatory sentence in “girl!” or worse, try to prove that they know how to wind and grind by thrusting their asses into my crotch in the middle of the dancefloor as if we’re in a 50 Cent music video. Ridiculous. My brother and I ought to commiserate. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to be excited about playing this urban cool part, even though I know deep down that these girls don’t really see me at all. All I am to them is a really hot (ahem!) bad girl who’s going to mistreat them and, ultimately, isn’t going to become anything more than a fling. Ouch. Nah, there’s no way I could ever reduce an entire culture however stereotypical (or, in my case, easy) into a resume of one-night stands. I don’t care what the Advocate says; I know better.

I’ve never hollered “Ven aqui, mami!” ignorantly anytime a beautiful Borequa walked by, nor have I immediately demanded (before names have been exchanged, even) that they “teach me salsa” (since they must ALL know how to do it). I’ve always approached my crushes as individuals in spite of the fact that I saw something common about what had attracted me to them physically. I mean, the dark hair, brown skin, and cuuuurrves (that’s pretty much my type across the board, I don’t care what your heritage is) were especially hard to ignore, but I’ve never let that influence the way interact with them. Or, at least I hope not!

Recently, I caught myself a number of times struggling for something else to latch on to besides the ‘Latina-ness’ of the women I’m accidentally attracted to. I say accidentally, cause really! It’s not like I am attracted to them after they tell me their names or where they’re from or I hear an accent. It is usually from across the room I go “damn!” and then after I get the details, “Of course, you are…” Why else would I have clumsily spilled my drink when you walked by? (I don’t say that part out loud, I’m corny enough). Anyway, I find myself wanting to delve deeper and humanize them as quickly as possible (even under loud blaring speakers) . “What do you do? Where do you usually hang out? Do you like Sci-Fi movies? Otherwise we can’t be friends. Have you always lived in Boston? No? Where did you move from?” And, from that point on, it isn’t hard to connect. It is usually in that moment that I find a person similar to myself.

It all makes perfect sense to me now. I think I keep looking for her, the queer immigrant who has been dislocated from her culture… like me. And, as experience has proven to me, I have a greater chance of meeting her, connecting with her, and sharing with her, when she’s lived in the Dominican Republic, when her family’s Puerto Rican, or Brazilian… or a South American Lebanese girl, struggling to find her niche in Boston.

To be continued…

If have to hear about yet another book, whose title sounds something like “blank, blank, and blank”, using variations of the following words: Race, Sexuality, Gender, Identity, Class and White Privilege, I will most likely shoot myself.

Just the other day, an enthusiastic academic brought to my attention a book she thought was worthy of merit. I believe it was entitled, “My Gender Workbook”, and, as the title suggests, it was in fact a workbook, for the curious reader to ‘work-through’ or ‘figure out’ their unique gender presentation. Naturally, I scoffed at this. I’ve little patience for “academic theorists” (or half-ass attempts at practicality, usually aimed at privileged and elite academic circles that can go on for hours and hours about the same subject using the same bloody buzz words). I’m an MIT graduate, and “mens et manus” (mind and hand) will always guide my thought process. I don’t believe learning should be wasted on concepts or “theories” that can’t be applied practically, or contribute substantially to the improvement of the human experience. I mean, sure, there is merit in publishing non-conformist garble about “blank, blank, and blank” but lately, I’ve become so fed up with all of it. Not only does it exclude me as a westernized “queer woman of color”, it excludes the most important part of my identity; my African heritage and immigrant experience.

It’s no surprise to me that most of the authors of these books are white. Or, even that the relatively small percentage of contributing people of color authors tend to be very light skinned (and with short curly hair). Hence, it should be just as readily acknowledged that people like me – iQWOCs, immigrant, queer, “Women of color” (what does that even mean to me as an African? This, too, sounds very American and twice removed from my own personal, ethnic womanhood) are often completely left out of such discussions. But hey! Before the academics jump in to remind me that the “intersection of race, class, and gender” deals with this issue of leaving “women of color” out of “white feminist thought”, let it be known that I am talking about a more granular level of inclusiveness; I was never a “woman of color” pre-biculturalisation, even though I have always been a feminist. An identity based on geography, and subsequently, discussions based on that identity, fall short of global relevance, which, in my book, does very little to impact the ‘human’ (not ‘english-speaking, american human’ experience in the grand scheme of things.

Sometimes I have to take a step back, close my eyes and breathe because I feel completely invisible in this country, even among my friends, fellow queers, womyn like myself, who are angry about everything. Still, I feel completely invisible. I wonder, desperately, how it’s possible that an activist like myself, who has been organizing “queer women of color” in Boston for almost two years now, can feel so left out of her own work. Perhaps in my quest to ‘connect’ with Americans – being the bridge person that I am – I have lost that firm hold of my reference point (an african value system, 3rd world womanism, afrofeminism) and have left behind some of my culture? It was such a burden to carry it around. Everything offended me!

For example, just a few months ago I was at a friend’s potluck, in a room full of queer women of color. The “blank, blank, and blank”-type discourse commenced almost instantly after dinner, but at least we were chatting like regular people. Connecting. Sharing. On being queer. On being women of color. On the pros and cons of Alicia Keys coming out. On whether Missy should be forced to do so. On family, and what it means to disconnect from it. However, it was when someone responded to a woman, who had just proclaimed strength and individuality through her decision to break away from her homophobic family, by saying, “Well, not everyone is as strong as you. So many people are weak, and don’t have the courage to break free from their families,” that I fell back into a hole again, completely silenced by the statement as I remembered…

I’m in America. Where dog eats dog, it’s every man for himself, and kids actually ‘owe’ their parents money. I come from a completely different culture, where my strength and courage are shown through my consideration of my parents trials during their lifetime. Come out? Come out? Homosexuality is ILLEGAL in Nigeria. If I did, I would be thrown in jail, where I would most likely be killed by other inmates. And if nothing happened to me, my parents would be ostracized, criticized, and disgraced their old age. Why on earth would I come out to my parents? How selfish! My parents went bankrupt to send me here to school, they barely make ends meet, and I should repay them by being ‘out and proud’? Ugh! How selfish!

I understand that it’s real easy to stay ignorant about the social climate of the rest of the world in this country (since it’s really so big and it’s a keystone in the global economy), but the gall of it; the arrogance of it all, like there is ‘one’ queer experience in this ENTIRE universe, just really pisses me off. That, someone would get offended that I don’t jump at the idea of a ‘gender workbook’ when the illiteracy rate of Nigerian youth (included closeted queers who MAY benefit from such material) is over 70%. I mean, really. It just pisses me off so much, that in your most vulnerable, open moments, when you think you’re finally connecting with people who share ‘some’ of your experience in this country, you can get a reaction like that; the kind that reminds you that you’re still a ‘foreigner’ and people have to read books to understand you.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing, organizing for “queer women of color”, American queers. I’ve seen TWO Africans at my QWOC+ events, which means I’m not doing a good job of seeking out African immigrants, who don’t have the privilege (and burden) of navigating the bi-cultural experience. I need to bring my idealist passions closer to home in order to truly see myself as a part of the bigger picture. And I need to be a part of the bigger picture in order to do any work that matters.