Staring Problem

While I won’t say we feel like we fit in, we Western teachers have begun to instantly notice the present of other white people. For instance, last week while shopping one of our gang met some American university students. He said he’d been attracted by the sound of female American accents, and recognized that they were not those of me and Laura, and so he introduced himself and invited the ladies and the rest of their bunch to meet all of us.
They accepted and on Saturday, while we teachers were enjoying beers at one of the two bars here who cater to Westerners, in walked about 10 white people. It became clearer (though not transparent) to us what we stir in the Chinese when we are spotted.
“They don’t look like us” or “Hey, those are Westerners” are some of the sentiments expressed when some French, American and other architects and students entered the 8:30 bar.
(I was not personally interested until I saw the Indian architect. What is the chance I’d meet an Indian architect in this non-Western facsimile of a modernized city? Atop those glorious elements, he is very well educated and spent several years studying and working in Europe; he dresses with distinction, and he and I have spoken for hours about internationally renown architects and landscape architects.)


“S T A R I N G... I can’t stop staring”
The following day was a trip back to reality, though. Walking around this city’s downtown area reminds me that I am and will continue to be a novelty to these people. They stop when I exit the cab. They stare, bumping into one another and halting their own conversation when I walk down the street. They forget their direction when finished in line at the hospital pharmacy to stare at my Ray Ban aviator sunglasses, the reflective lenses of which seem to really intrigue them. Children stop you just to say “Nice to met you” once they muster their courage. Young men turn around from a fast walk with their friends just to practice their “Hello!”
At the grocery some 10 locals stopped and stared at my feet and clothing while I shop with my supervisor’s wife, a native who fancies herself somewhat Western (judging by her procurement of clothing and frequent massages and facials). I had finally had enough of being gawked at like an unintentional celebrity. I stopped in front of the awestruck girls and did a sort of jig, showing off my feet.
“Do you like them? They’re amazing, aren’t they? Look at me. I’ll do tricks for you,” I said, knowing they didn’t understand a word of English.
They are constantly looking at my feet. It must have something to do with the fact that none of mine are made in China and therefore are not flimsy high heels. It’s in my Birkenstocks and my Audrey Hepburn-inspired ballerina flats that I receive the most gawks.
“Why, Belinda? Why do they always stare at my shoes?” She looked down at my black patent leather flats. “They think your feet are cold.” Somehow I couldn’t buy that all of these gawkers were concerned for my welfare; I’ve seen them look indifferently upon a dying man and just as easily ignore people tossed from a high-speed vehicle accident, leaving them to die on the highway. No, it wasn’t out of concern that they were staring.
“I mean, look at that,” I said, pointing to billboard after billboard featuring no-name Western models along the store-lined streets. “They see these Westerners all the time; they watch American television; they read magazines about Western pop stars. They look at us like we’re aliens. ‘Oh my God! They exist! They really exist!’ they seem to say. Do you disagree?”
“Well, it’s just that seeing foreigners in this city is not common,” she replied. She must revel in the sight seers at least somewhat; she is married to one, after all. “Does it bother you?”
I had to admit that half the time, yes, it does bother me. Albeit, my bothers are based mostly on American beliefs that staring is rude. I remember being gawked at in Italy, in India and here (don’t recall it so much in Costa Rica, a country being overrun with Americans). It Italy I made it a point to stare back until people realized I disapproved. In India I had fun with it; dancing jigs and laughing with my onlookers, encouraging them to speak in English with me because they loved it so much. But Americans are not supposed to stare at anyone, not Little People, not your weird relatives, not interracial couples, not the person in ethnic garb, and not the child making a fracas in the restaurant.
Here, though...here they turn around to do double and triple takes as you pass them on the street. What are we supposed to do? Do they expect us to break out in song and dance, a la Michael Jackson (who they still revere, by the way)? To start preaching superiority? To start miming scenes from popular movies?
The incessant staring makes me feel like an accidental celebrity. I’m about the pull a Sean Penn– well, maybe just a Britney Spears– and let the curses flow. Thank gracious I don’t get what my roommates do: the camera job. They are frequently asked by Chinese students to have their pictures taken. These are usually just the kind of “Smile and look pretty so I can show all my friends” required of solo standing shots, the kind you take of boys when you’re a teenager, or celebrities on the National Enquirer.
I on the other hand have not been asked for photos (or signatures). The decade I have on these girls must make some difference to the would-be paparazzi. I am far too private for such a thing; and I believe cameras are instruments of the devil, so I avoid photos at almost all costs.
This morning I relieved some frustration at a gawker.
Standing in line to buy a large container of spicy noodles and vegetables, a military man old as dirt seemed unable to turn his head to face front. After waiting there for 10 minutes, I’d had enough of his stare. He would turn to me, stare, stare, stare..., his eyes not moving, boring into me. It didn’t matter if I tried to hide behind someone else. It didn’t matter if I looked away. It didn’t matter if I tried to intimidate him by my reflective sunglasses. The man’s stare was solid.
“Stop staring at me!” I finally said loudly, a few notches below yelling. It was enough to catch his attention, though, as obviated by his surprise that I could actually form words and direct them at him. His eyeballs grew and he jumped a bit, startled. He looked to his friends for a possible explanation, not speaking any English, of course. Then he returned his gaze to me, where this time my furrowed brows and scowl forced the case closed. He didn’t bother me again.
I like my reflective Ray Bans; they force my onlookers to see themselves while protecting my blue-green eyes from their stares. Perhaps I should buy myself a pair of florescent elevator shoes to give them a reason to stare at my feet. Would any of it matter? Not likely, they seem to be able to detect us Westerners from hundreds of feet away, then gather and wait in groups for our arrival.
Hear ye, hear ye, welcome one and all to the Westerners Minstrel Show. Game for anyone with a staring problem.