Irish Pubs

Getting ready to meet friends. After a long battle in front of the mirror to get her eyeliner right, she is finally set to go. Her lips lustrous with magenta, her face under layers of makeup to appear 'natural' and confident, her hair particularly having a bad day, but that wouldn't deter the fun, anyway. 

Before leaving home, a last glance at the mirror, one final chance to give up on the whole deed. No more isolation, she says to herself. I should go out and have fun. Remember, surrounding yourself with people is a good way to keep the ball rolling and away from depression. 

And so she goes, a heart filled with optimism and a mind tainted by hesitation. She knew there was nothing really wrong with aiming to be around people, yet the feeling of inadequacy appeared to be an impending nightmare she was soon to push to the very back of her head. 

At the pub she meets her friends. They talk, dance, drink, have fun. She is not really used to drinking, but the new experience feels just fine to her. As far as she could recollect, she was really young when she'd completely given up on alcohol. Well, the situation has changed, all thanks to Ireland and its Guinness awesomeness. 

The black liquid tastes very strong, but she finds it delicious. She feels way too modest to go for a full pint, though. It's usually little by little, mainly for a reason: as she is not used to drinking, the process is rather slow. And the beer is no longer chilled after a few minutes, so she'd rather have small glasses. People love pulling her legs over those half pints. She feels funny, but never angry, as this is some very light and friendly mockery, after all. 

The lady is always happy when she's around friends. It feels comfortable and familiar. Yet, pubs are those kind of places she struggles the most with, in order to be at ease with herself. There is something inherently sad about this experience, she thinks. There is nothing more fulfilling than being around her dear ones, but nothing feels more awkward than standing here, now. Maybe I should just leave? 

But she didn't. Instead, she's looking around, feeling sort of amused. So many different people who also appear to be exhaling sameness. She ain't bored - no. Trying to find stories behind all those laughters, she begins a genuine appreciation of human interaction. Look, that guy, he looks just like Thomas Müller. Except that he is shorter? Maybe he gets annoyed when people tell him that. He seems to be having good craic with his pal, though. 

Anyway. She is now eyeing a girl's carmine hair. Ain't she fabulous? I love it that many girls here get this hair color. It's not so common in Brazil. I heard it's hard and expensive to maintain, though. As Scarlet moves away from that smoking patio, the lady looks around, trying to find someone else to observe from afar. The general scene feels loud and slightly overwhelming to her. That's when a friendly voice of a stranger cuts through her random thoughts. 

Yer doing it wrong. 

What am I doing wrong? 

Yer not supposed to drink while chewing gum. 

She laughs. He laughs back at her. As he walks away, another voice reaches out to her.

Where are you from? 

Brazil. 

Oh! I am so sorry. 

Oh don't be, she says, and looks around, trying to spot her friends. It's funny how <where are you from> is the first question everyone asks her in pubs. She then gets ready to answer to the next standard query. 

And what brings you to Galway? 

She takes a deep breath. While exhaling, her whole tale of disempowerment springs to mind and the lady, as usual, decides to keep it short. 

Women's studies. 

Interesting. And what do you do in that field? 

She goes on about gender, globalisation and human rights. If only she knew what's to come next, she would probably have kept things even shorter. Like, what brings you to Ireland? English. End of story. Yeah, she should probably stick to language. Better than housewife-ing, anyway. 

He asks her name, and it sounds pretty entertaining to him. I will probably never remember your name, he says. I will remember yours because it's quite simple, she replies, looking around, trying to find someone else to observe. The conversation with the not-so-stranger-anymore appears to be kicking in. 

He seems nice, she thinks, oblivious to the fact that no white man has ever been really kind to her. It usually goes on like: oh, this conversation is very interesting! Up until she starts feeling like a peacock being observed at a zoo. That's when things get a bit more complicated, because she tries to be understanding of the fact that she does look exotic after all. She gets reminded of how dutch men get celebrated in her family, and even laughs at the memory. 

But girl, make no mistake. You may be laughing, but it's not the same thing. The Dutch back home get confetti thrown at them simply because they are perceived as somewhat superior. You, my friend, are a sample of the second sex - prone to objectification - and also a genuine (black) representative of the third world - susceptible to exotification. In the interest of survival, she usually dismisses the reality check, though, and just laughs with people. 

So that night, that's what she did. She laughed, and she laughed. 

Can I touch your hair? 

Well, at least he's asking before touching it. *Laughs* 

Your hair is beautiful. The springs feel so soft, and... obedient. Look, it stays right where I left it! That's amazing! 

*Laughs* 

Your hair is the perfect frame for your face. 

*Laughs* 

You are very pretty. 

Thank you. *Laughs* 

So pretty that I am horny right now. 

Her eyes widen, and words fail her. So she laughs. 

And laughs, and laughs, and goes away. 

In the comfort of her bed, she promises herself, probably for the millionth time, that she will never set foot in a pub again. Someone once said that Brazilians are great craic. Like, they get the Irish pub culture pretty well, and that's awesome, yay! 

Pretty well, she puffs. Way too well. 

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Cultural essentialism is not the answer

I want to start my article by telling my tale about a pubic hair removal technique widely known as 'Brazilian'. As a woman who was born and brought up in Brazil, I've spent a whole deal of my existence wearing bikinis. That fact also implied frequent trips to the nearest salon in order to have my private parts stripped of all hair. I do agree with the argument that it is plain sexism to oblige a woman to get rid of all her body fur in order to be accepted in public, while men can run free with their hairy figures in pretty much all social situations. However, this is not the focus of my text, and I do need to point out that although I don't do it as often as back when I lived in Brazil (because alas, I don't get to be in a bikini every weekend) I still engage in the practice sometimes. The act is not religious per se, but it does feel ritualistic, as it is something my mother passed on to me as a beauty routine, and that was never meant to be 'sexy'. 

With the intensification of global exchanges and my traveling around the world, I realized that the practice had been globalised. I did feel a bit awkward with the whole idea of sexiness that was suddenly being sold under the label 'Brazilian'. In fact, I wasn't even aware the technique got popularized with the same name that gives me a nationality. At first, I sort of marvelled at the fact that we did get dictionarized for some original creation. I even took pride in that, but kept on feeling weird whenever any of my foreign friends insinuated that the method was created with the sole purpose of making women look 'hot'. After all, along with my female family members and friends, I had never thought of it that way. It's something we always did with the 'hygiene' card in mind. 

So I sort of got sad, and even grumpy, with the realisation that so many people were profiting from something that had nothing to do with sex appeal in the first place. How could I make people realize that they were distorting the original meaning of my Brazilian waxing? Well, the answer is simple: I couldn't. I still can't, and I quit wishing to do so. Simply put, I gave up lecturing others because I realized it didn't make much sense to tell other women how they should feel about the practice. I don't know if it's because I come from a country where races are massively mixed, but I do find it easier to deal with cultural exchanges, even when they are deeply rooted in power imbalance. I will never get the visibility of a fit, white western woman in a bikini and, in all honesty, I do not wish to be visible as a sexual object. I have no qualms about white women feeling sexy with their hairless vulvas. I want to destroy patriarchy, not unnecessarily target privileged women. 

I understand the whole idea of privilege is at the core of any cultural appropriation debate. It is not okay to do blackface. It is not alright to wear ethnic outfits as Halloween costumes. It is not fine to engage oneself in the practice of Orientalism, i.e, showing condescendence towards non-white cultures, especially Eastern ones. I get, and agree with all that. However, I do feel dismayed by the avalanche of negative, dismissive and aggressive posts that took over the internet in recent times. I sincerely do not see any point in shaming women for wearing whatever outfit they wish to wear. I think patriarchy already does that effectively enough. I don't just get to tell my white friend who already struggles with body image issues that she is wrong in wearing a bindi on her forehead. I don't feel it is morally right for me to prohibit people from identifying with cultures other than their own. 

Speaking of identification, it is funny that I, as a black latina, have always found these women who are being scrutinized - for wearing bindis, twerking, belly dancing or epilating their anuses - to be the most accessible and open to my concerns as a black woman than their more traditional, bible-carrying, church-going counterparts. The fact that the former are being consistently bombarded with conservative arguments that resemble the latter is quite telling. I cannot fathom why some well-established feminist websites are giving such monumental visibility to articles that are so fundamentalist in nature. The fact that something feels sacred to me is not enough of an excuse to belittle others. 

Moreover, when we talk about cultural appropriation, there is always a grey zone that is usually ignored: human interactions have always been permeated by exchanging cultures. I could give millions of random examples ranging from numbers, to coffee, to a myriad of food items, to sports, to music. They serve as illustrations of how much we can dig if we want to find the 'essence' of things. Why is it that we are suddenly shaming other women for choosing to engage with non-western cultures in a respectful manner? Another question is: how fruitful would that be in our days? I'm sorry, but I'd much rather fight the good fight for equal rights than engage in pedantic quarrels with women who are also oppressed, even though they appear to be better off than myself. 

To conclude, I need to point out that another reason I quit teaching others about the 'Brazilian' is the fact that it is a bit pretentious on me to think that nobody else in the world had the 'brilliant' idea of plucking hair from their crotches, before Brazil got established as the land of bikinis. Furthermore, getting attached to a concept that my mother taught me as correct may end up concealing the fact that many Brazilian women actively fight against its imposition as a rule of thumb for personal cleanliness. Essentialism of any sort hurts us all. I'm all in for fighting racism, but I won't do that by engaging in hostile and resentful arguments. I choose to embrace all women because my struggle, after all, is to free us all.

This is Sheron Menezes and to me, she is one of the most beautiful Brazilian women of all times :)

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