The Girl with the Mystery Moves

bee and beenie. mystery moves pay off ;)

the girl with the wine.

I may be full of myself. I admit it. But really…everyone wants to know who the girl with the mystery wine is. Yeah, my skin is chocolate like my African ancestry. Yeah, my backside is curvy, like my Sierra Leonean mother. Yeah, I wrap my head like my Madingo Muslim grandmother. Yeah, I stomp as my hips sway side to side like my pretty American princesses. But the wine…the wine…we have yet to place it.

even if i show them my lips, they might still question  my hips...movement unidentified.

To me, I dance like the Atlantic ocean that touches my west African roots, I rotate my hips like the Caribbean sea that surrounds the patois speaking islands, I shake my tumba like the afrobeat in my Sierra Leonean songs. This mixture, this touch, this thing has caused people some confusion here in Panama. They want to know where I’m from. They thought maybe if they stare they might place me. Not. They thought if they heard me speak, they might surmise. Then they saw me dance…and still, they couldn’t. They would never know that I am an American girl, who identifies as Sierra Leonean, who loves reggae, who dreams of dancing in the Congo with my favorite Soukous group, who transforms stares into energy and motivation to give a performance. They would never know that in my head, I am on a stage. On my own stage. Each and every time. They would never know just from looking at me. I would have to tell them.

what they were fighting for. closeness. 

And so on this particular day. They didn’t ask, just yet. They pushed me, taunted me, pulled me, spilled beer over me, called me puta and all. But I didn’t shake. I didn’t move. I simply gave them the space to do all the rudeness they wished since they were determined to make me so uncomfortable that I would move. Little did they know, I was determined to stay in the space that they had once occupied. Hey, as the saying goes, you move your feet, you lose your seat. Lol, well it was standing, but you get my point! And listen here, we all paid however much to get in that VIP Section and if I find an opportunity to get right smack in the middle and in the front, best believe that I will take that opportunity. And that’s exactly what I did. They just weren’t happy with it. They sent their best and rudest to challenge me. She started dancing on me. Wining on me from her back to my side. All in an effort to push me out of my spot or to get me pissed off so I would start something so that the whole crew could jump me. Little did they know, I would not be moved. Enty mi nah salone titi, ah don use for dance pan people dem, so we all go dance. I was chill. I gave a little something but not too much. She kept going and I kept going. They didn’t realize they had met their match. But then the dancing/challenging girl, had a light bulb moment. She must have recognized that mystery wine.

Suddenly, she stopped backing it up on me rudely and stared at me intensely before asking, “I have seen you before right,” in her Caribbean twang. I responded that I wasn’t sure. Then she proceeded to explain where she knew me from. She said, “weren’t you dancing at the Konshens concert, you had a green short pants on, I know you!” I replied yes, smiled coyly, (yes, I’m a little shy when I get recognized for these things). Then she high fived me and said she always wanted to know where I was from. Her crew stared intensely and waited for my response. “You from Jamaica,” she asked. The crew anxiously awaited my response…and then I silenced their curiosity. I was born in Washington DC, to Sierra Leonean parents. I’m an African girl, I said. Shoulders relaxed. Heads nodded. Everyone commenced to dancing again. This time together. The crew was from Bocas del Toro, Panama. All black like their Caribbean grandparents and African descendants. I was no longer the enemy. I wasn’t the mysterious wining girl that had taken their spot. I was just like them. Black, lover of reggae music, African. Same hips, same motions, same passion, same blood.

The 'La Negra' Experience: Part 1

Well, I am L-I-V-E in Panama and who would have thought, that my being black would actually be a thing? I imagined that, since there are obviously people here of African descent, my presence would go almost unnoticed---not.

Lol. A task as simple as walking to the go grocery store for me is met with hollering matches between construction workers, taxi drivers, and quite frankly almost any guy that’s on the street. Yeah, I know what you are thinking---I’m an international showstopper...jk.  But this show stoppin’ deserves analysis. Here, I am called 'La Negra,' which literally means the black girl/woman, black and feminine. Sometimes I get 'morena,' which is brown girl. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

I will say that I was prepared for the 'la negra' experience because it happened to me in Spain and my host mom explained to me that it was a term of endearment. Call it what you want, but I still have some reservations about the deeper meaning of being objectified by your skin color AND womanhood. But, I am in another country and I have always despised when people complain about a country they are visiting. I will live this experience and use it to my advantage by writing about it.

On two separate occasions, I have felt extremely uncomfortable with taxi drivers because one kept purring over how beautiful my skin was and the other kept explaining how much he loved my skin color. The last one even went as far as rubbing his head on my arm…errr?

Yes, people will say that it’s normal here for women of afro-descent to be referred to as ‘negra’ or even ‘morena.’ Yet, I find it peculiar that I have to be referred to as ‘la negra.’ Yes, in the Spanish language they often refer to people as exactly what they are in a sweet (?) way. They might call a cute, chubby little girl, ‘gordita’ or a cute, black little girl, ‘negrita.’ They even call the people from East Asian countries here, ‘chino,’ #straightlikethat. But even in a place where there are others who look juuuuuust like me, my skin is still made to be something exotic.  Something tells me that there is more to this. I have a couple of theories; we will delve into them later on in the journey.

All this to say that, while I expected that my seemingly African looks would stand out a bit from time to time, I didn’t expect the rave reviews that I am receiving from men and women alike. With the men, it is as though I am a forbidden fruit. Or rather, the forbidden race, whether they look like me or lighter. With the women, I can't exactly read all of them, but I have noticed a sense of disapproval/ridicule based on their facial expressions/body language. I am just assuming that it may because of the way I wear my hair, (haven’t seen anyone with natural hair here) or wrap my head when I don’t feel like engaging in a war entitled Hair vs. Comb. One day as I enjoyed my Saturday ritual of ceviche de langostinos* at the Mercado de Mariscos*, a woman asked me why I didn’t perm my hair...that my hairstyle must be an "estilo africano*." She really meant no harm, I guess. The way I look, the way I dress [some days], my style, jewelry, and even that dramatic (but natural) walk that people love to hate... it screams culture...it screams...black...it screams Africa...and I am beginning to think that some folks here, just aren’t ready to open up their ears and hear my silent audio. We shall see…

This topic is one that we will revisit at various times throughout the journey, as I am sure that it will come up pretty often. So don’t worry. Race, culture, travel, and perception--- it’s only right. 

*Ceviche made with Jumbo Shrimp or Prawns

*Seafood Market

*African Style

Up next: Hopping the border to Costa Rica...buckle your seat belts. Yes, it's the law, even here on Bee's Backseat :) Stay tuned for the Carnaval experience!