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Travel | |
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Being
a black woman in Sevilla, Spain, generally got me three types of
reactions. Later
I came to understand their Second, it wasn’t rare for sweet old ladies to screw their faces into hostile frowns as I passed them by. On good days, I smiled and continued walking, trying to be “understanding.” On bad days, I stared them straight in their faces and said “Hola,” in a kind of pointed way. I wondered how blacks had earned a bad name for themselves in Sevilla, and then I realized people may have thought I was from Morocco, which is not Spain’s best buddy over there. As I mentioned, I saw few blacks in Sevilla. Some were students like me—from America, Africa, or Europe. Others were legal and illegal immigrants—most seemed to be from Morocco. And most seemed to be on the margins of society. I never saw a black waiter, busdriver or professional of any kind. None lived in my apartment complex. I didn’t see many dining out or driving a car. The most common scene was an African panhandling on the side of the road. Now the last reaction really puzzled me, but I am a liar if I say it didn’t make me feel good. “Hola guapa” (Hey, gorgeous), some men said to me as I walked to Pablo de Olavide Universidad where I was taking classes. Or… “Morena bonita” (pretty brown girl), others called me. Or… “Hey, black beauty,” said others. I lived 20 years in the United States and probably averaged about one catcall every three years. Then I come to Spain, where suddenly, I am Halle Berry on her best day. Whew! But I realized that all black—and blonde—women received this treatment. We were exotic rarities. I honestly wasn’t expecting that reaction when I boarded the plane for Spain in early September 2003. I don’t know what I was expecting. I am a college senior majoring in journalism, but I love the Spanish language, and doing a study abroad program had been a dream of mine since I was a college freshman. It didn’t really matter where, though I envisioned being in Central or South America. I wasn’t like my fellow study abroad buddies who read books about Spain. Spain was Europe, and I had no interest in Europe. It’s one thing to be applying for the program, applying for a VISA, and taking immunization shots. It’s a completely another thing to be at the airport, looking out the window of the Madrid and wondering “What the heck I am doing?” I did
my study abroad program with Academic Programs International. Months
before You can be a mathematical genius, but if you can’t speak the language, you might as well be terminally stupid. It’s hard to write about seeing the cathedral in Sevilla, where the high altars brought tears to my eyes—and made other students make fun of me for being sentimental. My camera had a life of its own. I look at my fuzzy pictures of unvisible walls now. I was so excited; my hands were shaken. It was all over after seeing the Alhambra. No castle, monastery or Arabic bath could compare in beauty with the rose gardens and lilies that encircled it…Or being in the Alhambra, flowered with fresh rose gardens and lilies and that encircled baths. It
was my first time: The greatest thing I learned was more compassion—I only spent three months in Sevilla. I had helpful, bilingual program directors. I was in a group of students who helped one another. Some people leave and never come out. They leave their family and their customs and their food. I know what it feels like to be an alien. My friend e-mailed me last week to tell me more than 200 people in Madrid, Spain were killed in a train explosion, which is suspected to have been started by Al-Quaida terrorists. Usually when catastrophe strikes somewhere other than the United States, I feel down, but not in the same way as I would if catastrophe struck my family or my friends or my country. I don’t feel the same way I did with 9/11. Well, this time it did affect me personally. Sevilla, Spain, had been my home for about three months in the fall. I knew people there. I had taken the train from Sevilla to Barcelona and back. My mind immediately ran through all the people I had met, known, and come to love in Spain. Were they hurt? Were they dead? My heart sank. |
curiosity,
since Sevilla, Spain, makes the American Republican party seem like
an explosion of rainbow colors. I was an oddity, probably the first
black—live and up close—that most had seen.
I left the US, I received several guide books about Spanish history,
culture, slang, etc. But books could not prepare me for my first
lesson. They speak Spanish. I remember after I finished standing
in customs and waiting at the gate for my program director to pick
me up that I bumped into a lady, immediately said excuse me and
kind of said some pleasantries. She smiled at me confusedly, and
it hit me she didn’t understand a word I was saying.
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