Gringa

Wherever I go in the streets of Masisea, my presence is well announced by the children of the neighborhood.

“Grin-GA, Gring-GA!” they yell, “Mira la gringa!” they say to their friends.

Look at the white girl.

Usually I will call them out. I will call them right over.

“What is my name?” I ask them.

They always know. This whole town knows by now, especially the kids.

“Ani,” they respond.

“Right,” I say, “My name is not ‘Gringa,’ my name is ‘Ani.’”

They wriggle, they tip their shoulders to the side.

“Okay, thanks,” I finish, “See your later.”

‘Gringa’ is not necessarily an insult. It is a label that we have endured all year now. If you look it up in a Spanish/English dictionary, the definition is simply a slang word for foreigner. Everyone calls us gringos. The students, the adults, the shopkeepers.

And we put up with it. We are foreigners, we are white, we are different.

But how much nicer to be called by my name. How sweet when the kids wave from their porches and yell, “Hola Hermana Ani!”

We might not all be the same color, but we are still brothers and sisters. It’s important to treat each other with respect. I want to learn their names, too.