slowly surely + xyz : a journey of (re)discovery

I AM. Morenita

By InspiredJourney


To be frank, I hadn’t noticed him before he rolled up, posting up a foot away from me.

While walking back toward Hostel Should Evaluate If It’s Best We Sell To Someone Interested In Running A Nice Place., I see a few wooden lawn-type chairs lined side by side on the sidewalk.

Seemingly comfortable, a young guy is sitting. Feeling welcomed and thinking this was for the public enjoy, I decide to, as the older southern women might say: sit a spell.

Before I sit, I ask if it were okay to have a seat.

He mumbles something while nodding yes.

I sit.

In front of me are a busy road, a school in session, and adjoining windowless building with men in the top level room on scaffolds tossing what appeared to be a cement slurry on the ceiling.

I see them watching me and smiling.

Taxi after taxi after taxi pass left and right.

I sit.

Through a translation app, I try to make small talk with my new mate.

He’s polite, but seemingly not really interested in the gringo … haha.

I offer a piece of gum.

He accepts.

Several cars stop and inquire with the young man. I wasn’t sure the topic of conversation initially, but after some would stop and point while looking at the furniture, I come to understand they are for sale. I feel bad for having planted myself and using his goods thinking they were a popup seating arrangement meant to be enjoyed by the public.

Enter Hombre.

A scooter rolls up next to the curb and stops in from of me.

He speaks.

We speak.

He’s communicating in Spanish, and I’m assuming he’s asking about the furniture…buuuut then I hear “muy guapa”.

Ohkaaay.

“¿De donde eres?”

At this point, I realize he’s there to speak with me, Only.

Ohkay.

I respond: “États Unis”.

No need in being puzzled. Yes, confused by his close proximity, I mistakenly respond in my limited french.

He understood, or not because it didn’t matter. He was really only ‘hearing’ and interpreting the language of glowing brown skin (insert and remember the effect of my being fruity) and cleavage. Apparently it was inviting him to somewhere to do something.

I apologize, explaining I speak very limited spanish. He didn’t mind, but wanting to know where I was staying, how long I’d been there, how long I’d be there, if I were married, etc.

Where to you ask? One can only assume.

He says goodbye and rides off.

My friend and I continue enjoying one another’s company in silence, until an older guy walks by with this freezer cart of frozen treats.

I motion to my friend to see if he would like something. I felt bad for taking over his furniture, but not as much as I had initially, because I was attracting attention from passersby.

He got a popsicle, I paid the 15 or 20 pesos.

The teens on the schoolyard play basketball. I wonder what time their school hours are.

Enjoying my quiet mind, it’s only about 15 minutes expired before the scooter pulls up again.

The strangest thing is that I never see him approaching either time. He is just there when I look up.

Smiling, he starts again motioning me to get on the back of his scooter again.

I motion naahhh.

We resume our translated conversation when I hear: “… morenita.”

Confused look on my face, I give him my phone, translator we had used to communicate ready. Basically he writes that he loves my brown skin.

At this point, we are both beneficiaries of this. We can thank the hot sun for the current depth of my brown skin, given I’m a bit darker than usual.

He also wanted me to know his wife is morenita. Huh? Yes, his wife. He opts to show me photos of her … haha. She a nice looking woman, but was not brown. I smiled because his opinion and attraction to her is all that matters.

Our conversation slows. He talks with my friend for a few minutes while I resume being quiet.

He had been sitting next to me, but stands next to his scooter and grabs the helmet.

He begins his ritual of signaling me to come get on.

I decline.

He insists.

I ask where he’s wanting to take me. To which he writes a long response that ends with: “hotel jajaja.”

No smile on my face. I frown: UUMMM, NO!

He starts up the royal blue scooter, says goodbye and zooms away.

This was my cue to head back to the place I’m the only morenita. You know, Hostel Disaster, where it happens Magdalene strikes up a conversation meant to display her curiosity and intellect around the subjects of politics, race and oh, feminism of the rad variety.

This conversation only served to emphasize, that in certain capacities, how rad I am and not.

 



4 responses to “I AM. Morenita”

  1. Ramelle says:

    Very intriguing, thanks for the great story

  2. Hannah says:

    I’m not used to seeing writing in this way, but I have to say I really enjoyed reading this! I look forward to looking through your other posts!

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