It's a strange source of comfort in my life that even at my sleepiest, ugliest, city-life-sure-has-taken-its-toll-iest, just-ate-a-family-lunch- of-potato-soup-with-a-side-of-mashed-potatoes-iest, there are still creepy old men who sit down next to me on the bus and tell me I have the cara de un ángel and ask me why I've never been in un concurso de belleza.
Also, I am currently embracing my heritage this afternoon by studying for my upcoming theology test and writing a poorly-researched Chilean politics paper (as well as a poorly-thought-out blog entry) in a local Starbucks. There are these two American girls at the corner table talking in obscenely loud English about last night's alcohol-induced exploits. Instead of allowing them to make me embarrassed about being from the United States (which will probably happen in at least a half-dozen other ways before the day ends anyway), I'm instead looking up from my books once every ten minutes or so to shoot them a subtle, mildly-appalled glance and looking around at my fellow Chileans with an "am I right?" look on my face, and they nod in concealed-laugh agreement, and I smile a little bit, because until I open my mouth, which I haven't, or until they look over at the English I'm currently typing in, I'm as good as latina. And if all it takes to qualify as Chilean is humiliation at the behavior of dizty American exchange students, then I mind's well apply for a change of citizenship. Or dual, at least. Maybe it was the potato-on-potato lunch.
My blog has freckles now. The old one suddenly seemed a little surgical.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment