I was reading an essay from Judith Ortiz Cofer, drawn from her collection, The Latin Deli” Prose and Poetry (1993). It is titled “The Myth of the Latin Woman”. This can be found in the third edition of “One World, Many Cultures”, a compilation of works by internationally recognised writers, exploring cultural difference and displacement in relation to race, class, gender, region and nation. This book, although first published in 1992, still is relevant and rings through to the present, unfortunately.
I picked on Ms Cofer’s essay in particular because I could identify with it. In her essay, she talked about how she’s stereotyped as the help because she is a Latina in America. She related how she inspired men to bend their wretched knees and burst into “Maria” from West Side story, “La Bamba” and “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”. Though I have not inspired men as such, I have had encounters similar to that – here, in Singapore. Not surprising to me as I view the people here as “technologically advanced, business savvy but culturally ignorant, not to mention tactless”.
I am brown-skinned. You can see that in my picture here. I have always attracted curious morons who do not think twice to ask the origins of my ethnicity – if I am asked, that is. But most often, it is assumed. This comes out in their body language and speech when they interact with me. Most assume that I am the help. I am divided on my reaction to this. I want to feel insulted – but there is nothing wrong with being “the help”. I mostly laugh it off but at the back of my mind, I am not happy with it yet I cannot go on a crusade and make it my battle to correct these idiots.
I had a western boyfriend. We, along with a friend of mine, who is of mixed parentage, went to Carrefour to get some groceries in preparation for a barbeque at his place later in the evening. As we stood at the checkout counter, waiting for the groceries to be tallied and totalled up, I instructed my boyfriend and my friend on how to pack the groceries and who should carry what. “Ding!” She, the checkout lady, rang up the total and I was taking out my purse to hand her the cash. “Tell sir, if he just add S$3 he can get 1 extra lucky draw coupon.” I was stunned. I asked her, “What do you mean?” and she repeated herself. I then put on my most Singlish accent and told her, “No need, we are not interested”. I thought that would put an end to it but noooooo…she insisted that I “ask sir if he wants to add S$3 – eh, why not, extra 1 coupon, extra 1 chance, you know.” Two of them were oblivious to this exchange as they were busy discussing the barbeque and packing the groceries. I practically shoved the cash into her hand, “No need, don’t want”. Never mind that I was instructing “sir” and “mam”. Never mind that I was dressed nicely.
Later in the evening, during the barbeque, I was also treated as “the help”. The crowd was a mix of locals and expats, but mostly expats. I had people talk down to me, ordering me about, thinking also that I was “the help”. I was treated like a bloody waitress, right there in my own home. Yes, I am the co-host and must be gracious, warm and all those things, I understand that. But there is a difference between asking and commanding. I have never been so out of place in my own home.
I was also at Daiso a couple of weeks back with the same friend of mixed parentage. It was our day off, so we dressed simply, t-shirt, shorts, flip flops. The same thing happened at the checkout counter (what is it with me and checkout ladies?!). “Ah, you can ask Mam to help you stick the sticker.” So aside from being “the help”, I am also stupid. Nice.
I am sick and tired of being stereotyped and honestly, also being asked “what are you?” I am human, just like you, with feelings. It does not matter where I come from. I have no problems, like I said, being asked about my ethnicity but a little tact would be nice.
The presumptuous attitude of Singaporeans at large is appalling. They consider themselves Lords and Kings because Singapore is very much advanced in many ways. It is a fact but we do not need to push the dirt into the faces of “the help”. “The help” who has helped and who are still helping, you to clean the house, bring up the children, build homes and offices. “The help” know that they are poor and their economic situation is not quite like Singapore – far from it. That is the reason why they are working here, neglecting their own families to care for yours. Ironic, isn’t it?
I sat in the back of the cab. He glanced in the rear view mirror. “Oh, from Indonesia. You just finish work is it? Wah...Orchard ah, this time….ya lah…nowadays must work very hard to get money.” He had picked me up from Orchard Hotel, near the infamous Orchard Towers. With that gleam in his eyes, I could see where this conversation was going – down south where I did not go. He continued as he carried me along the scared road towards home. I tuned out, gazing out of the window, hoping that he will just bloody shut up. He didn’t get the hint and continued on his monologue. As we neared my place, “Wahh…you in Singapore, so lucky. Live in a block. Indonesia all kampung kampung. Ah, S$23, miss. Good night, ah.” Need I say more?
So to end it (for now, at least) I am a second generation Indonesian, born and raised, here in Lion City. As I tick that box under “Race” in all my application forms, I nod in agreement of that coffin that is prepared for all inhabitants of this sunny island. I nod in agreement of the lid closing in and of the nails that are slowly knocked in, securing me, in my place, right here, sunny island, Lion City.
Petal P. Rose
