exotic reservation
Three days, 7 missed calls, and 2 voicemails. My mother’s middle name is Relentless. For days we’d been playing phone tag. She’d call, I’d miss it. I’d call back and nothing. She seemed desperate to talk to me and I could sense the urgency. The constant missing of one another created bouts of anxiety in me, although, I cannot say that’s new. After countless failed attempts she finally got a hold of me. Bypassing pleasantries, she started the rant with her favorite opener. “Te tengo que hablar de algo muy serio” she said. What’s new?, I thought. When wasn’t it serious? She’s made far-fetched nightmares a point of serious conversation, how could I expect this call to be any less of a novela?
She began her speech with a story, expressing how she’d been missing me and ventured over to my Instagram profile where she encountered a post of concern. A bikini photo. Apparently, she’d never seen me post one before and was very concerned about what it would communicate to friends and family, but mainly nosey strangers. What will they think of you? she wondered. How provocative of an opportunity for the stumbling man. Truth be told, she was more concerned about the potential for gossip. As a Hispanic woman, and more specifically a Dominican one, appearances are of most high value in our social exchanges. Run a tab on overdraft accounts and falter on payments all you want but the public should never know of your personal struggles. Keep your responses polished with a dose of transparency but never revealing so much that it invites pity. This wasn’t a new issue. It was one of old tradition and I lived under its spell for much too long.
She continued to express her grief, leveraging good ol’ mom guilt to invoke favorable behavior out of me. Unfortunately for her, a fresh husband and a sassy therapist had already unlocked the doors on my cage. I appreciate the feedback, mom, but I will not be taking the photo down. Refusal was not typical of me, certainly not in instances like these, but this time it was fitting, and quite…victorious. For once, I had drawn the line between my person and the expectations imposed on me. My mother was no longer in charge although, still valued. What I realized in this exchange however, was that this wasn’t so much of a mommy issue as much as it was a cultural one.
“We are the butt of ass jokes. The video vixens. The number 1 customers for tummy tuck procedures or, as my family would call it, la tripleta (buche, nalga, y teta).”
We’ve internalized many-a-narratives, one of them being the perpetual story of the “exotic” woman. “Sexy”, “sexual”, “sex symbol”, “morena”, “caramel-skinned”, “voluptuous”, “curvy” — all words used to describe women of color and their features. We are the butt of ass jokes. The video vixens. The number 1 customers for tummy tuck procedures or, as my family would call it, la tripleta (buche, nalga, y teta). The main characters of wild dreams. The reason for adulterous men and culprits of our rape stories.
I once heard a friend share an odd exchange with a white male co-worker who referred to her as “exotic” to which she quipped “What am I, a f*cking bird?” Under the weight of these associations many of us have been taught to exercise modesty and often at the cost of engaging our own freedom. Of course, there’s a balance to everything. Overwatering a plant can suffocate its roots, shy of water needed can contribute to its dehydration and ultimate death.
So was my mother’s ask reasonable? Absolutely not. But if you dig past the annoyance you’d find her response rooted in a history of women who thought themselves to be the root of all evil. Women who were made responsible for defending and protecting themselves against men. Men, who opted out their role as protectors or simply viewed their bodies as objects in their fantasies — their perverse hearts often excused.
“The men you have so desperately coddled with your traditions and inherited schools of thought were already a gawk away from stumbling. They didn’t need help.”
The men you have so desperately coddled with your traditions and inherited schools of thought were already a gawk away from stumbling. They didn’t need help. They got there all by themselves, and happily. We all have a choice in the lives we lead. I will not be bound by men, hide my body in garbage bags, nor live in fear of coercing bad choices or thoughts — anymore. If God was so humorous as to make people in ALL shapes, curves, and sizes, then, I will take that cue to embrace what he’s made, fiercely protecting the mold but never hiding its shape as though it were a thing to be ashamed of.
