Aleida is from Ocú, Panama, in the province of Herrera. She left her town to pursue a better future in Panama City. Alone, a little scared, and very “campesina” (she described herself), she took a job as a domestic to help finance her educational pursuits.
“Todo el mundo sabía que yo no era de la ciudad de solo una vista. Everyone knew I was not from the city with just one look,” she confessed. No matter where she went, she felt people were always looking at her a little funny, due to her clothes, her accent or her “forma de ser”.
One day she was on the bus when a little girl and her mother sat in the seat directly next to her. The little girl was fixated on Aleida’s hair, a single black braid that hung past her waist. “ En aquellos dias, mi cabello era tan largo. Mas alla de *motioning to her butt*. Casi siempre lo ponia en una sola trenza. In those days my hair was so long. It was past my butt even and I almost always wore it in a braid.” Happy that someone in the city was finally showing her kindness, Aleida smiled at the little girl, and the little girl smiled back. “she was probably drawn to my hair because it was different from hers. The girl was 'afro-antillana' and had ‘pelo de negro’. I don’t think that hair grows as long as mine, does it?”she asked me.
The little girl continued to stare at Aleida’s braid, so Aleida pulled the braid from behind her back and put it over her shoulder to make it easier to reach. As the little girl reached out to touch Aleida’s hair, her mother slapped her hand away and harshly scolded the little girl.
Aleida said she will never forget what that mother said to the girl. “No entendí ingles, pero yo sabía que lo que me dijo la madre fue una crueldad. Siempre lo recuerdo.’ No la toques. Ella es ‘bullchip’’, I didn’t understand English, but I knew the mother said something negative about me. I will always remember. Don’t touch her. She is ‘bullchip’”
The mother grabbed the little girl by the wrist and changed seats. Aleida said she stared straight ahead in confusion. She did not want to make eye contact with anyone on the bus. She did not know exactly what happened, but she knew the mother disrespected her in some way, and in English.
A few days later she asked someone what ‘bullchip’ meant. She was pissed to learn it was “caca de vaca. (cow poo)”
That was her first encounter with English speaking afro-Antilleans in Panama City.
Anytime she tried to suggest I interview a friend or associate of hers, it was never a person of any Antillean heritage. She seemed to take delight in telling me a story (will post later) where an antillano child was much worse off than the family lead people to believe.
I asked if that first experience on the bus has had an effect on her attitude toward antillanos or the animosity that I felt from her stories.
"tu crees? eh. puede ser. que se yo. You think so? Could be. What do I know..."
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