Gente No

Picture this: you’re strolling around, minding your own business. You’re relaxed, vibing with your environment – the rush of the river to the left of you, fresh clean water glistening in the afternoon sun; the vibrantly green trees framing the pathway you’re walking with your best, four-legged friend; the weather perfectly neutral, not too hot, not too cold, not annoyingly in-between. Rocking a new, second-hand hoodie and contentedly running on the energy of your post-siesta snack. Life is good. The world’s a happy place. You bend down to pet your trusted companion when, suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, some random old guy puts his hand on your head, tousles your hair, laughs audaciously as though everyone were in on the joke, and keeps walking as though it were the most normal thing in the world. You look up, bewildered – what the fuck just happened?

My two-year-old daughter deals with this kind of thing on the daily. Gestures that are, typically, innocent enough and mostly stem from a place of love and cuteness-sensory-overload. I get it – I see that little face, those big eyes and those squeezable cheeks and I just wanna eat her up and put her back inside my belly. But I’m her Mama. I’m allowed to do that – when she’s in the mood for that kind of play, anyway. It’s a whole other thing when the whole world seems to be out to eat you and literally voicing it that way, too. The other day, we were in a supermarket the size of our bedroom, in a pueblo that barely matched the definition of a pueblo. The daughter was picking out tomatoes when, without warning, the shop-owner – a overly excited woman who likes to get right up in your face – grabbed the poor kid, and was about to pick her up with lures of chuches and globos. I barely managed to come to her rescue, she’d caught us both completely off-guard.

It felt as though small children are a rare species in this small accumulation of houses, and the sighting of one was going to be announced by the town crier any minute. And while they were all waiting for him to rush down to the (“town”) square, they wanted to use the opportunity to fatten up my little Gretchen with cookies and candy, get her fingers nice and pudgy, make the bite all the juicier. Part of me sympathized with the woman, even though her choice of words as to the feeling the daughter inspired in her were, indeed, straight out of a Brother’s Grimm tale. ¡Que rica!, she kept exclaiming, still not letting go of the daughter’s arm, still trying to bait her away from the tomatoes and turn her on to the candy. To her disconcertment, the bigger part of me – the fierce protector – held firm ground on the situation, simply by following the daughter’s cue and translating it into words for her. Thanks, but no thanks; she doesn’t want to come with you right now.

*

There have been several times when I questioned whether my own response – both verbal and corporeal – to these types of situations (and even toned-down versions thereof) was normal. Like when a visitor, upon literally entering the door, took the very fussy daughter off of me whilst still asking my permission – and ignoring my very loud body-language and muted new-mom-overwhelm – when she was less than half a year old. I stood there, dumbstruck, still kinda rocking back and forth, feeling my heart stretch and follow her across the room, her cries piercing my emotional brain like needles, yet too unsure and polite to say anything. Me, my baby’s spokesperson. And it made me feel miserable, like I was failing her. But through the mist of the hormones and the panicking drum of my heart in my ears, I couldn’t quite ascertain whether my reaction was justified, whether the daughter needed me then or whether it was in both of our best interest to learn how to feel comfortable [entrusting her] in(to) the arms of others.

After all, as soon as our babies are born, we are prepped to detach from them because that’s the way our society is set up. We are forced back to work way too soon after giving birth because we simply do not get the support needed to stay home, and are still being fed parenting advise that led our generation to be raised on doing what we were told and keeping our mouths shut (or else). The belief still being that, if a child is raised on love, warmth and respect, they’ll somehow grow up weak when, in reality, it seems to me that the opposite is true. When I shared these thoughts with a friend the other night, we both recognized how instilled it has been in us to nod and smile in response to every-day incidents that overstep our boundaries and make us feel uncomfortable – especially as women. Grown-ass women, who still receive blatant fuck-yous with a little curtsy and a bow. Whether it be the misogynistic diagnosis and treatment of a gynecologist – who quickly changes his tune when the husband is present – or the unwelcomed touch of a stranger, culturally insensitive comments or being made to sit through uninformed and offensive conversations with blood you’re ashamed to share: we were taught to take it all in our stride. Even if it meant leaving us with a permanent limp.

*

The daughter is very verbal these days. She talks about the things she loves – the spielplatz, her favourite band, donkeys and eintüten – with an infectious kind of excitement that is difficult to fight off even with the strongest of antidote. She has us in absolute stitches with her little stories, random statements and abstract wonders and observations. And what I am particularly proud of – and relieved by – in this new stage of her development, is the fact that she is clearly stating her dislikes too. Even when they happen to be people. The first time this happened, she was having a bad day and wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat – or being spotlighted or touched for that matter, which always seems to be the case when you’re an adorable toddler, regardless of whether you’re open to it or not. After a morning on the town, the husband returned to inform me she had been shouting at people from her tricycle. Her war-cry? Gente no! Naturally, I applauded the honesty. I mean, you can’t make it any clearer, can you? In two words, the daughter summed up a feeling that may be so much bigger or smaller than that, but that simply cannot be misunderstood. No people – not today. Don’t look at me, don’t touch me, don’t interact with me in any way. Just back off.

Overtime, and with the addition of the term vergüenza to her vocabulary, she learned to make a distinction between the two feelings. She will let us know ahead of people coming to visit or approaching her, that she has mucha vergüenza; in other words, that she is feeling shy and is going to need her time to warm up to them. Sometimes, it’ll be a bit of both. Stage fright – and I’m calling it that because, my dog, how we put these little humans on the spot – mixed with a bit of Mama and Papa’s anti-social genes. Other times, just a downright case of nope, not having it; please don’t invade my personal space. And we respect that. Obviously, we’re trying to show her that it’s OK to meet, greet and move on too – no theatrics, no unwelcomed handshakes or hugs, just a friendly (or unfriendly) “hello” and on we go. But all in all, we are letting her decide when, where, how and with whom she chooses to engage. We’re letting her know that it’s perfectly alright not to want to interact with people – especially when their approach crosses the boundaries of her comfort zone, regardless of whether they are strangers or family (yes, of course, even us).

I too am guilty of wanting to squeeze the stuffing out of her sometimes (OK, all the time), gritting my teeth so as to stop myself from scooping her up and smothering her with kisses. But I’ve gritted my teeth through many a moment in life when I was on the unwanted, receiving end of unwanted (physical) attention, even from loved ones – who just happened to have bad timing and an inability to read the room. So, I want her to know that, her Papa and I, we’re no exception. There are no exceptions. If she doesn’t feel like being tickled, she doesn’t feel like being tickled, and that’s that. If she doesn’t feel like welcoming someone into her home – her safe space – with open arms, then so be it. If she’s feeling it and she’s vibing with you, she’ll let you know in plenty of other ways. She doesn’t have to smile just to make herself likeable to you, nor should she be expected to put on any other kind of show just to make others feel at ease. It’s bad enough we still expect this from the adults around us; that we continue to do it ourselves. Let’s raise a new generation free from socially accepted norms that have done nothing other than diminish our free will so as to cater to the wellbeing of others.

*

On our recent road trip, the daughter got so fed-up with people ignoring her gente no warnings and her unmistakable and adamant body language, she took to hiding in doorways and waiting for them to pass by, so she could go about her day, undisturbedly. Sure, there was something funny and certainly endearing about the way she chose to take her stance; but it also saddened me, because it paid testament to the fact that her choices were not being respected. Even though she was clearly voicing them. After the incident with the hair-tousling-stranger, she let it be known, it had really upset her: by repeatedly telling me. So, I gave her two more words to work with in the case her forewarnings were disregarded: “not cool”. We practiced this simple proclamation and the accompanying hand gestures for emphasis, over and over again. With each time, she said it with more conviction and I could sense her confidence growing again. Her opportunity to put it into real-life practice came about the next day, when the husband and I tried to tickle her out of a crankypants-mood – and it worked. We stopped and let her be.

There haven’t been any more incidents with strangers that would have required her to pull this important new phrase from her inventory. After sounding her gente no alarm, she has taken to running up to me, taking my hand and waiting for me to say, I got you. And baby, I do. I may have at times questioned that roaring instinct inside of me when I didn’t know any better, but I know now that, there is no expiration date to my having her back when others are uninvitedly all up in her face. I have no doubt she can stand up for herself – she’s continuously demonstrating that very fact; I’m just here to act as the amplifier for the hard of hearing. Honestly, it’s the least I can do to show her – fist-bump to the chest and all – how much I respect her for speaking her truth and to thank her for reminding me to speak my own.