The Stare Down

My mother and I took a stroll through the Chattel Village in Holetown this afternoon with Virginie in tow.  My mom loves to shop and these little houses are as good as any place to get started.  Virginie loves to come along anywhere she might get to walk around and pick things up and possibly break them sending her mommy into a panic, so it was a win-win for these two.  I went along to give myself a change of scenery after a day spent at home and to serve as a tour guide/security team for the two of them.


After our shopping and much consideration we decided against walking home with the sun directly in Virginie's face and called Didier for a pick up.  Because it was still quite humid outside we ventured into the Holetown gas station convenience store to pick up some drinks and snacks and bide the time in the minimal but cooler than outside air conditioning.  I had never been into this joint after nearly a year of living here but found it pretty typical of gas station markets, lots of drinks, beers, candy, tourist trinkets.  When all selections were made, I put our items on a countertop that I assumed was the check out and waited to be rung up.  There were eight people behind the counter, so it seemed manpower should have been quite strong, but we were getting very little help and not one word.  No greeting.  No, "is that it?"  Nothing but the stare down.


That seemed the most opportune time for Virginie to drop her Cheetos on the floor and my mother, always a good customer and decent patron picked them up from the floor as I asked for a garbage to dispose of the fallen.  We got a nod in an arbitrary direction and our purchases, now rung up, handed to us, all with the stare and a slow blink. 

Barbados is a country of about 275,000 people so it like being in a small US town where the level of pettiness and insecurity can be awfully high.  You see the same people and come to expect the same things from them and are pretty wary of anyone and everything that falls out of the normal routine.  Somehow, in this nation of unfriendlies, tourism is the main trade.  Now of course, not everyone in Barbados is unfriendly, but when we have come up against some small time, small town mindedness, it has been as bad as trying to get a cup of coffee in a small Georgia town at 2 am, except under those circumstances there is usually a racist element to it.

Most, but not all of the tourists and ex-patriots on the island are British, Canadian, with a small spattering of Americans, all predominantly white.  They exist in their own space on the island, either in ex-pat communities or at a wide spectrum of hotels from casual to luxury.  A white person in Barbados will experience it completely differently than a person of color as the Bajans confront whites and non-whites with different tactics (maybe with the exception of white Bajans).  I often felt that the cold, annoying stares were related to being part of a mixed couple, a couple so clearly without ties to Barbados or the Caribbean other than work.  But this afternoon, I walked alone with my mother and daughter, each of us representing various shades of the African-American experience and still felt the bitterness and the loathing.  I use loathe rather than hate because loathing has the chance to simmer in the Barbados steam.  There is anger behind it that leaves bile in the throat or at least a bad taste in the mouth. 

Tell me what you will, but unless you face a day in public with the stare down and constant judgement reminiscent of high school hallways after the bell between classes has rung, you don't understand.  I have heard the whispering, seen the pointing, and asked questions to blank faces.  Once upon a time I would have shrugged it off and smiled nonetheless, hoping my warmth would charm an angry heart.  But when my family is involved, I haven't the time.  Back off.

(c) copyright 2010. Citymominthejungle