My lil Chautauqua

It´s good to have this decompression time. It gives you time to categorize and follow your thoughts. I often take this time after ¨almuerzo¨to lay on my bed and be pretty passive.

What I have been thinking about lately is the interplay of sexuality and power here in Xela. Despite its deeply Catholic culture, sexuality seems to be everywhere. I was watching a TV show (basically latino kid American Idol) the other day with my host family. In one segment, the host of the show a very elegant, tall, voluptuous Mexican woman dressed in an evening gown, was talking to one of the girls who was probably about 6 years old. The host asked her what she likes to do. Suddenly, Latino dance music starts playing, and the girl starts dancing in response. It was the kind of dancing that would leave an American audience gagging at the sight of. My host mom, though, was just smiling, even maybe a little impressed. I think I did a good job of trying to be culturally sensitive, but I was still disgusted on the inside. Why, at the age of 6 or so, does she already feel she needs to sexualize herself like this to attract positive attention?

Why am I sexualized everytime I walk down the street? Why do they whistle and say things to me I can´t, and don´t want to, understand? Why is it that my white skin and long hair is inarguable evidence to them that I want to have sex with every Guatemalan male? If I could some how perceive it as flattery, I would, but I can´t. It infuriates me. I see it as a small part to the whole of Guatemalan gender culture. It´s not just that I am viewed as a sexual object.

It´s that no woman here lives away from her father until she is married (and if she never marries? She lives with her dad). It´s that my Spanish teacher who has a three year old son and his father does nothing physically, emotionally, or monetarily to help. It´s that my host grandmother cooks, cleans, and watches the kids while my host grandfather is never to be seen because he is in his room watching TV all day. It´s that my friend had her ass grabbed because she wore yoga pants one day on her way to yoga. It´s that I walked to my house last night at 7:30, terrified, because I know I could be in danger. I tilt the umbrella so it hides my face. I don´t smile at men. I don´t even look at them. I think about my younger host brothers and am confused as to how such sweet boys might become these men I fear.

This abuse of power, this invisible yet pervasive power, is helpful to no one. Not men, not Guatemalans, not whites, certainly not women. If men could be smiled at without the assumption of sex, if my host grandfather could bond with his grandkids, if a little girl could dance however she damn well pleased to feel important, if I could explore Xela without the ubiquitous fear of being robbed, or raped or worse. If all these pieces fit and people were viewed as people able to assert their freedom and wishes... if gender and societal roles didn´t bind us to our fear- my fear for my safety, his fear for his acceptance, my fear for my body, his fear for his machismo image...

How do I cut my ropes when my hands are not free?