I am not a James Bond villain girl!
Reflections of a migrant woman
As I biked to work, my attention was drawn to a slogan on the passing bus that read “Dones migrants, Dones Fonamentals” [Migrant women. Fundamental women, in the Valencian language], celebrating International Women’s Day. This brought a smile to my face as my mind wandered toward this diverse community of women who, like me, have decided to make this beautiful city their home.
As I continued my ride, I saw one bus after the other with women from different countries and cultures representing this city. It was heartwarming to see them celebrated for their diversity and the contributions they make. At the same time, I couldn’t help but have mixed emotions. While I was happy and proud to be part of a multicultural community that values diversity, I also felt a certain sense of unease about the challenges migrant women face in our society. So I wanted to share with you my story, just as many other women could express theirs, to start a conversation. Hoping that, by truly listening, we can better understand the barriers we all face and work together to overcome them.
I am just enjoying your accent
I cannot get used to how easily we can find ourselves in this uncomfortable space where people are dropping prejudices into the conversation. The last time it happened was during lunch with an acquaintance, when I was trying to convey my perspective on a random topic in Spanish [not my native language]. Despite my relatively good Spanish proficiency, I got trapped in a meta-linguistic mess, probably caused by my irritating need to combine complex reasoning in one sentence. While I was struggling to express my thoughts concisely, my interlocutor’s face suddenly changed. He tilted his head to the side, and smiled condescendingly. His gaze shifted, and I could sense that his attention had moved elsewhere, as if we were no longer sharing the same conversational space. I felt uneasy. I was perplexed by this swift change and asked, “Is everything okay? I’m a bit confused by what’s happening.”
“Continue, continue,” he said, “I am just enjoying your accent.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand,” I responded, even more puzzled.
“It’s just that you sound like a James Bond girl, you know,” he paused as if that explained it all. The expression on my face probably made him understand that I need some more details. “The James Bond villain. The one with an Eastern European accent, beautiful and Machiavellian!”
I laughed awkwardly to hide embarrassment. At this very moment, I understood what was happening. I could just easily have been talking about the imprisonment of last year’s Nobel Peace Prize laureate, as much as what I had planned to have for dinner that night. The content did not really matter. It was my accent that propelled my interlocutor towards a much more exotic and entertaining world.
The world where a dangerous and Slavic-sounding femme fatale, who probably wears next to nothing, is trying to seduce and kill her enemies. I suddenly felt reduced to my strongly rolling “r” and visible chick bones, rather than being seen as a fully realized human being with my own opinions, hopes, dreams, and aspirations.
“This can’t be right.” I said to myself. “Did I miss something or is my sense of humor in Spanish stuck at beginner’s level?”
I looked at him and asked, “So, if I understand you correctly, when I’m talking to you right now, you’re distracted from what I’m saying by your mind drifting to a James Bond fight or sex scenes with the Eastern European villain?”
“Yes!” he confirmed enthusiastically without even realizing how offensive it might be for me. Instead, he started to explain to me in great detail how anti-hero actors in the 90s were usually dubbed by a person with an Eastern European accent in Spanish movies, while the funny characters were usually dubbed with a Mexican accent.
The conversation ended not long after that, and I had the impression that my lunch companion left feeling accomplished for having taught me something new about the history of Spanish filmography, while complimenting me on my looks. I, on the other hand, came back home with a knot in my stomach. It took some time to digest, although the food was delicious.
We are hardwired to prejudge others by their native language
I am a white, cisgender woman who has been privileged enough to experience only a limited number of incidents of discrimination compared to other minorities. I can only imagine how other minority women feel when people approach them as exotic, mysterious, or eroticized beings based on some aspect of their identity, rather than being perceived simply as who they are: a person with a story to tell.
In a recent article on race and identity Prof. Savala Nolan cites Dr. Stephanie K. Wheeler from University of Central Florida as stating:
“Performing the role of a citizen means having a body that positively and suitably reflects the nation; in the United States, mixed people and our integrated bodies violate the norms of the nation. We therefore “fail” to perform the role of citizen properly.”
In my case, it felt like I “failed” to have the right accent.
It might seem insignificant, but how we speak also represents a basis for discrimination. According to Prof. Katherine Kinzler, a specialist in linguistic discrimination, although we strongly focus on our biases when reflecting on sexism, racism or classism, we often forget that language plays a crucial role in this dynamic. In her research, children as young as five showed a preference for speakers of their native language over foreign-accented speakers when asked about who they want to play with.
As Prof. Kinzler says:
One can only wonder how meaningful conversations can take place between migrant women and the citizens of their adoptive country when the inherent biases are not clearly discussed or hidden under the mask of a compliment that dangerously infiltrates our daily interactions? One could also ask, if not a stereotype of a James Bond villain girl, who am I?
How does it feel to be you?
I could list off an infinite number of my identities. But if I had to find one word that defines me, I would like to cite the last line of Gloria Anzaldúa’s poem “To Live in the Borderlands”. I am “a crossroads”.
I appreciate how this poet, scholar and feminist invites us to remain outside the status quo by living in borderlands or learning how to “navigate the contradictions found in diverse cultural settings, including race, gender, and sexuality.”
I personally believe that one way to inhabit this space is to start a conversation by asking more phenomenological-like questions, not only to the migrant women, in particular, but, to each other, more generally. Something along the lines of: How does it feel to be you? This might be the first step to learn both metaphorically and maybe even literally how to talk our respective languages.
After writing this reflecion and putting my thoughts and emotions on paper, I realized that I was curious about spending time in borderlands with the same man who unintentionally started this whole conversation. So I did. I contacted him, and we arranged to meet for coffee today, March 8th. Funny coincidence.
I felt a bit nervous while walking to our meeting place because, truthfully, I couldn’t guess how he would react. I barely knew him. But I explained him my perspective on the whole situation, and he listened. For the first time, we actually listened to each other, to the best of our abilities. I went home with the feeling that I had gotten to know him a little bit better, and I hope that he feels the same. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate International Women’s Day!
