I've been stared at my whole life. I've been "the only ____ person" in the room my whole life. I've grown up in places (Maine) and traveled to places (SE Asia, rural west Africa) where there are almost no other brown people around. I've been mistaken for Ecuadorian, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Filipino, biracial, Chinese (yeah I don't get that one either), and an even, most memorably, an albino. I've spent a summer having "hey white man" yelled after me. But all of those were relatively easy, uncomplicated situations---whatever I was in the eyes of the locals, a correct guess or not, I was definitely not one of them. The distinction was clear, black and white, that I was obviously not from there. As such I was treated as any foreigner would be regardless of their race or ethnicity: with curiosity, but also with generosity, kindness and patience.
But Bangladesh is a whole other ballgame. Never before have I had to travel, as an independent adult, in a country where the people look like me. Looking like a local but feeling like a foreigner is a complex and challenging existence.
It started even before arrival. Last year when I was waiting in the Paris airport for my flight to Douala, Cameroon, I spotted a young white woman in the gate area. Being the only two non-Africans boarding, it was almost automatic that we would be drawn together, kindred spirits in our out-of-place-ness. So we struck up a conversation and it ended up that we were going to be with the same organization in Cameroon, and in fact be roommates. I've had similar experiences of befriending a fellow non-local at a transit point a dozen times, in Kenya, Vietnam, Brazil, etc. Its a good way to meet people, hear about their travel adventures, and find someone to split the cost of a cab into town with.
But this year was different. There were about twenty young white people in the gate area waiting for our flight from Amsterdam to Mumbai, most of them traveling alone, many of them women--usually the prime candidates to come up to me and strike up a conversation. But no one did. (And to be fair, nor did I go up to them.) No doubt I was indistinguishable from the other brown faces in line, just another Indian heading home. In contrast, my roommate David, who is white, arrived in Dhaka with a handful of names and contact numbers of interns and graduate students (all white) he had met on his flight from Dubai to Dhaka. This wasn't a big deal, but simply an interesting testament to whom we identify with.
In this same vein I find myself feeling a bit awkward when go to restaurants and bars which are implicitly expat-only. (Local people are usually unable to afford the ridiculously inflated prices at these establishments and know of a better place down the street anyway.) The stereotypical expat in the developing world is white, so my brown face is often the only non-white one in the bunch. This, as we've discussed, is nothing new. But what is different is a sense that I am breaking the "no locals" rule, or people view me (as a Bangladeshi) as having bought my way in to the club. In these moments the phrase "second-class citizen/expat" comes to mind. This may all be in my head, and people may see no distinction between my white friends and I. But I don't know, since I have no non-white, non-Bangladeshi friends to compare notes with.
But more complicated than my relationship with white expats is my relationship with Bangladeshis. Being brown here equates to being a local. (Although there are a fair number of Bangladeshis abroad, seeing me as one of them back on holiday is not the default assumption.) As such people speak to me in Bangla. Not speaking a word of Bangla, and only a mere handful of words of Hindi, I reply (in English) that I don't speak Bangla. This is usually met with one or more of the following reactions: confusion, disappointment, surprise, confusion, mild sadness, and confusion. Then the conversation goes like this:
Bangladeshi: Sister, you don't speak Bangla?
Me: No, I don't. Sorry.
Bangladeshi: Sister, you are not Bangladeshi?
Me: No, I am American.
Bangladeshi: But sister, you are brown like me!
Me: Yes, I know. My parents are from India.
Bangladeshi: Then you speak Hindi? It is same like Bangla!
Me: Um no, I don't speak Hindi either. Sorry.
Bangladeshi: Okay. Hmm, American. I know, Obama!
Me: Yes, Obama. Very good.
If it goes beyond that initial exchange, the conversation inevitably turns to how I ended up in the U.S. and what my parents had to do (which to Bangladeshis means "pay") to get there. The desire to emigrate, which exists in all developing countries, is particularly strong here, not because Bangladeshis don't love their country (in fact they have crazy national pride) but because the competition for resources is so unbelievably fierce--a product of the high population density. And although Bangladeshis are always kind and these discussions never contain overt jealousy or resentment, I sense such feelings must be inevitable. It is a fair question: what have I done to deserve a life of privilege in America when there are so many millions of Bangladeshis slaving away just to scrape together enough savings to even apply for a visa? I have no good answer to this question besides luck, but this is unsatisfactory to all. But what I can offer is an acknowledgment of my good fortune and a sincere promise to make the most of the opportunities I've been given.
Then there is the issue of local celebrity. In Cameroon we would joke that the attention we received walking down the street was as close as each of us would ever get to understanding being at the center of a paparazzi frenzy. Having to shake hands with every child ten times and saying hello to every person who came out of their house to look at you can become tiresome, but its extremely flattering. Here I've traded that fame for the ability to walk down the street anonymously. The only stares I get are because of my gender rather than my race. (I know this because when kids stare at you, as they have everywhere else I've been, its because you look different; when only men (and no kids) stare, its because you're a woman not conforming to gender norms, as is the case with me and my short hair and western clothes.) Although this is a relatively welcome change, there are times when I wish for the celebrity. For example, when we go shopping in the local markets my friends (who are all white) are mobbed by people asking "What is your country? Are you married?" and other invasive, curious questions. I am usually left alone but find myself thinking "Hey! What about me? I'm foreign too!". Vain and bizarre, I know but that's the truth. I think it reflects the fact that to be foreign is "cool" and local is not in the minds of Bangladeshis, and who doesn't want to be in the cool crowd?
Lastly on this front, there is the matter of social norms. Because I might be a local, or at least am definitely from the subcontinent, there are things I can't get away with. I can't feign being unable to eat with my hand in order to get to use a spoon to eat a dish that seems to be 80% liquid--I should know how to do so. I can't wear a tube top under my sari at a wedding rather than a tight, ill-fitting blouse because it's more comfortable, as some of my American friends are doing--I should know better. I shouldn't let my roommate overpay for souvenirs--I should know the price locals get. (Although how on earth am I supposed to know how much an antique bell from a fishing boat is supposed to cost? Seriously?)
Of course, there are several positive aspects of being able to at least partially blend in. First, beggars are much less likely to bother me than they are David, as long as I'm wearing salwar kameez (the local dress). If I'm wearing regular clothes, the odds are even. Second, I can try the "I am your sister, your people; you should give me a better price" thing when bargaining. And if I'm with David or other white friends, the "I am your sister and I brought you my American (translation=rich) friends. You should be good to your sister's friends" thing. This is not a highly effective method of course but it does provide some bargaining leverage and injects the situation with a bit of awkward humor. Lastly, I don't scare babies. In Cameroon babies would either love me and be curious about my unusual features, or burst into panicked tears at the sight of me. It says something about how long I've been scaring babies that when Robi, our cook, mentioned bringing his 2 year old son to visit one day I, panicked, automatically said "Are you sure? I don't want him to get scared of us. Is he okay with foreign people?" which garnered me a blank stare from Robi.
So there you have it. Complicated, messy, awkward, funny. Lots of looks of puzzlement, on both my end and the Bangladeshis'. I guess this situation proves an old proverb wrong. In the new version it would be "If it walks like a local, eats like a local, and looks like a local, you should probably assume its a Scottish-born Indian American short-term consultant."
