Being Gringa

In Chile, I do not say that I'm "American." Or rather, yes, of course I identify myself as being from the United States. I do, and proudly so. But the word I use to describe myself here is not the literal translation of "American" that exists in Spanish.


I think that to say I'm americana while I'm in Chile conflicts with the Latin American/South American concept of identity. In the U.S., we know that every inhabitant of the American continent is an "American." Objectively, we know this. But does it impact how we see the world, or how we live our lives? Judging from my experiences, not really. In South America, on the other hand, the concept that "we are Americans" - that we share a common identity that comes from living on the same continent, together - is an idea that actually lives and breathes. There is national pride - plenty of it - but there is also some sense of solidarity. So to say that I'm americana becomes inefficient - of course I'm American, but what country am I from within America?


And for me, using the word americana also begins to smack of arrogance. Even if it's only my intention to replicate how I'm used to self-identifying in the States, what right do I have to monopolize for myself a term that everybody else around me thinks is collective? And, of course, what I do individually can't help but resonate, can't help but situate itself in a wider context. Do I want to call to mind unpleasant memories (and very real realities) of foreign presumption, intervention, and monopolization? Do I want to be that foreigner, pretentious, proud and ignorant? I think not. And yes, I may be over-thinking this, or acting overly paranoid. But...


...the reality is that here in Chile, the formal and correct way to express that I am from the United States is to say "Soy estadounidense."


There's only one hang-up, really, and that's that estadounidense is a bit of a mouthful - for foreigners and native speakers alike. As such, the use of the word gringo is much more common. Gringo - or gringa, the feminine form - is a word used throughout Latin America, with varying connotations. In Chile, it's an informal, non-derogatory way of referring to people from the United States. It's efficient, casual, and widespread, and I have no problems being called a gringa, or using the word to describe myself or my American friends. (Although I've found that Chileans do find it funny when we adopt the term to refer to ourselves/use it among ourselves).


And of course, for me and my fellow gringos, it's more than just a word. Gringo sets the parameters of our identity; like the other extranjeros (foreigners) here, where we are from forms the essential label of who we are in Chilean society. It means that sometimes we make dumb mistakes, don't understand, and/or stick out like sore thumbs. Sometimes, it's all three at once :).


But I'd like to dig a little deeper on that last bit - about sticking out - because it brings up a part of my being gringa in Chile that's different, that other American friends of mine here do not experience. It has to do with physical appearance. In Chile, society is more or less homogenous, and there's a definite spectrum of "normal" physical characteristics. Some of my American friends can pass as Chilean (at least - and am not trying to rip on their speaking abilities, but it's the truth - before they start speaking Spanish they can). I, with my blonde hair, blue eyes, and very pale skin, do not fit into this spectrum. I can't blend in and I can't pass, no matter what clothes I buy or how I cut my hair. This has been a big deal for me, mainly because...

...first off, I'm not used to being in an environment where my physical appearance is non-majority or considered "not normal." And heck, even if I was used to it it'd still be tough. To study abroad - to immerse yourself in another culture - means to step outside your comfort zone and operate in a world where your human drive to belong, to blend in and "be normal," is constantly thwarted. It's a situation that stresses out your psyche, and the matter of how I look just compounds the issue.

Second, I live in a city of 6 million people. This means that just about every time I step onto the bus or a car in the metro, I am interacting with complete strangers that I have never met before and will in all likelihood never see again. People can't get to know me or get used to my habitual presence, because we're only going to spend about 10 minutes of our lives together. That endless process of first encounters, of having my appearance be a novelty, can get pretty tiring.

Third, staring at people is way more socially acceptable in Chile. If you're on a bus in the States and you make eye contact with a stranger, you have maybe half a second to look away before the other person starts to think you're seriously creepy. In fact, most people duck their heads immediately and pretend like they weren't even staring at you in the first place. In contrast: one day I was waiting to cross the street by my house here in Santiago, and when a car made a right turn in front of me an old man actually leaned out the passenger window to get a better look at me, maintaining eye contact the whole time. As an American, that kind of thing made (and can still make me) very uncomfortable.

So thanks to all the above stuff (plus taking into account my personality), it's taken me a pretty long time to come to the grips with the fact that here, in Chile, I will never be "normal." At first, I just noticed Chileans noticing me. Then I became self-conscious and felt like a freak, like everyone was staring at me all the time. Then I got a bit defiant, staring right back and almost daring people to call me out on how I looked. Nowadays, I cope a lot better and it's become more like water off a duck's back. I don't notice it as much, or I do notice but I decide it's not worth my time or energy to care. I make light of it. I try to embrace it. And jeez, the last thing I want is to give the impression that my life here is some sort of torture. It is most certainly not; in fact, there are several benefits that come with being me in Chile...

...starting with my name. While I adore the English language, it's a complete pain in the butt sometimes, and in the States there are several ways of writing and/or pronouncing the name "Tamara." Thus, most of the time I have to clarify how to pronounce or spell my name. It's Tamara, I've said in countless introductions. It rhymes with camera. However, Spanish is the sort of language where what you see is what you say. And Tamara just happens to be a fairly common female name in Chile! I'm very grateful that I can do things like order at Starbucks (which I've only done 2 or 3 times, to be fair) or be called on by a new teacher without having to repeat the correct pronunciation of my name or spell it out.

Another blessing of my situation is that I speak Spanish pretty well. I've studied it since middle school, and unlike a lot of my peers who slogged through Spanish class to fulfill their requirements, I liked what I was doing and tried my hardest to be good at it. I still love it, and Spanish is currently one of my majors. So while I'm far from perfect, I can communicate well. In fact, I've gotten many compliments on my speaking ability. And I don't have (what I call) the "gringo accent," so while people can usually tell that I'm foreign, they can't tell exactly where I'm from. Which is fun, especially because sometimes I make them guess and then they think I'm European :).


Third on the list is the fact that, while I've been blonde-haired and blue-eyed all my life, it's never been considered quite so special. I've gotten several compliments about my hair, even on days when I felt like a complete mess. I also get a lot more male attention in general - which can be good and bad, of course. My Aryan characteristics make me something of an "exotic beauty" here, which is definitely a new experience for me.


At the end of the day, Chileans will always be able to tell that I'm a foreigner, just from the way I look. At this point - about 5 months in - I've learned to cope with it. In fact, in some ways I'm grateful that it's a part of my experience here. It's something special, and it helps me relate to other foreigners - especially my Asiatic friends - who also stand out because of their appearance. There's only one thing I miss, really, and that's my ability to pass unnoticed, to be just another person on the street. My power of invisibilty, if you will. Which I will probably value all the more when I return to the U.S. :)