“What are you?” Why being called “exotic” isn’t a compliment
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SARA DERIS OPINIONS EDITOR In my nearly 21 years of living in allegedly-multicultural Toronto, I can condense almost every conversation I’ve had with a stranger into a couple of sentences: “What are you?” “You look like Princess Jasmine/Pocahontas/Tiger Lily!” “Are you Italian? No? Oh, Portuguese!
Spanish? Native?” “You’re so exotic!” Then, when faceless stranger finds out my actual ethnicity, the fun really starts: “You’re so regal-looking!” “You look like a desert princess!” “Your people are so noble!” “You’re so lucky you don’t have to tan!” It’s all I can do now not to smack people who say this stuff to me. Being told you look “exotic” isn’t a compliment. Guessing my ethnicity isn’t a game. Calling me exotic isn’t a nice thing to say, and it’s not by any stretch of the imagination harmless. It contributes to the ongoing objectification and commodification of people of colour for the purpose of consumption by the Western world. By calling me exotic, you are telling me that I am not natural, that a white gaze is how I am meant to be understood, and that this is how I am meant to understand myself. With one simple word, I am removed from my actual background (that of a first-generation Canadian citizen) to fit someone else’s ideas about people of colour who step outside of their preconceived notion of a ‘norm’. It reduces me to a character sketch narrowly representing an entire culture. “Exotic” implies that since I am an aberration from the norm, I must hail from a faroff, mystical land where all exotic-looking people live— since the distinction between ethnicities is apparently not as important as identifying that I am unnatural. Guessing my ethnicity by rattling off countries where vaguely brown-skinned people are born is not funny. It’s extremely offensive, not only to me, but to every other “exotic” country on your list. By telling me
I look Latina, or Native American, or Italian you are effectively homogenizing every single non-white country into one “exotic” country. Comparing me to fictional characters isn’t funny either—no, I will not dress up as Pocahontas, Princess Jasmine, or Cleopatra for Halloween. The purpose of my skin colour is not to make costumes “better”. Comparing so-called exotic-looking people to fictional characters also romanticizes our identity and places us in the historical past. By comparing me to Cleopatra, you’ve historicized me, placed me into a history that I have nothing to do with and am not a part of, and implied that my own contemporary personality is irrelevant—that because I look exotic it somehow means I will act like a regal princess or mystical tribal leader. Describing someone as “exotic” is not an accurate way of portraying them. Telling someone they look ‘exotic’ is not a compliment, and you should not expect it to be taken well. Asking “what are you?” is dehumanizing and otherizing. Guessing someone’s ethnicity by rattling off “exotic” countries isn’t cute—it’s annoying and homogenizes “other” countries. Romanticizing “exotic” looks robs a person of their individual character and places them into histories that are not their own. “Exotic” is a lazy word—it does not do people of colour any justice, and stipulates that we may not be beautiful alongside white people. It says that we can possess “exotic beauty,” putting us into a separate category to be consumed by Western society.
AMANDA AZIZ
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Maybe it’s because I’m a first year student, but if someone asks me what’s going on, I’m required to answer with: Oh, just nothing. The usual. No biggie. Whatever, I can deal. You know how it is. Saying otherwise, elaborating on how I feel is not exactly encouraged. After all, there’s a conservative attitude that comes with discussing certain “taboo” topics as a first year, especially mental health. You want to make friends this year, you want to build relationships, not tear them down. So for some reason, there is this unwritten social rule that you don’t talk about how you’re feeling nonchalantly. When someone asks you how you’re doing, they expect you to say: I’m fine. And if you’re not fine, well, get over it. Getting over it—panic attacks and depression. That’s a simple request to resolve something way too complex. So complex that most people shy away from talking about it because they don’t know
much about what mental health is, just what other people tell them what it is. Psychos and attention whores, that’s all you need to know about the type of people who suffer from mental illness, right? Maybe it’s not just about being a first year student, but being a student in a campus where mental health dialogue is still not acceptable. Of course, within the past year, there have been positive changes from UofT and Victoria College. I’m not just talking about professionals, however, I want students to understand other students as well. First year for me hasn’t been as smooth as I’d hoped it would be. My anxiety caused a crippling fear in me whenever I attempted to start an assignment, pick up a book, or even go to class. Soon enough, even doing rudimentary tasks, such as getting out of bed, became an issue. I was a mess, and I didn’t know where to get help, or who to talk to. I had to get extensions, which many of my peers looked down upon. I dropped two courses, which also resulted in people
insulting my intelligence. I lost relationships due to people not understanding what I was going through. Not being able to talk about my struggles freely, I couldn’t relate to anyone, which made things worse. Just a few weeks ago, I was hanging out with some of my fellow students, and all of a sudden, the topic became about getting extensions. “I think they are useless”, said one student. “It’s not that difficult. Just write whatever you need to write, and hand it in on time,” said another. When I came in to defend the necessity of being granted an extension, because common sense: life isn’t always so easy, there was silence. No one wanted to respond to someone who admitted that they had to get an extension due to mental health reasons. Even in university, where progressive ideas and concepts are promoted, there’s still stigma attached to students with mental health issues struggling in school. No, it’s not that easy for someone to write an assignment when it is already
too difficult for them to get out of bed. And no, it does not make them weak if they go ask for help. Give us a fucking break. If it weren’t such an obstacle to talk about your feelings, then maybe students wouldn’t look down on other students who get help. Maybe students wouldn’t isolate themselves from someone because they became less “fun”. And maybe, those of us who are going through a lot right now won’t feel so alone if other people start talking too. So can we do it? Can we talk about how we are doing and not get judged? Can people start educating themselves in order to differentiate the stigma that surrounds mental health? I don’t want to struggle alone. I don’t think it’s fair if other students struggle alone. I just want to talk without having to follow that unwritten social rule. So fuck it— we all deserve to be able to say more than “I’m fine”.
Opinions • 25 Feb. 2013 • opinions@thestrand.ca
“I’m fine” and other lies I tell
EMILY POLLOCK •
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