Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?

We are having a cultural extravaganza next week, wherein one of the activities is a African and Middle Eastern fashion show. I wish I had my dress from Qatar! But, no I was sure I wouldn't need it so, it's in Minnesota. Damn it. Well the instructor organizing the fashion show has tons of clothes. All the volunteer models, about 20 of us, crowded into a classroom this afternoon to pick out clothing for said fiesta. I will wear all sort of crazy things; I mean I was a Spanish teacher, and you remember how your high school language teachers dressed, right? Well, for some reason the instructor organizing said event was dead set on having me wear the Abaya. "You know the pretty black dresses from Saudi?" she says. "No, I don't know, pretty? To what could you possibly be referring?" I did not say that. Nor did I say: "That is not clothing. That could be a blanket, a bed sheet, or something to cover a dead body on the side of the road. But it's not clothing." I ever so diplomatically refrained from saying all these things. "Oh but the clothes from Africa are so much prettier," said I, holding up the awesome loud patterned outfit from Nigeria. How could she argue, we're in Africa! Yet, she rolled her eyes, appearing to be vexed that a person would have a very strong preference for Nigerian clothing as opposed to elegant Saudi ghost-ware. Sorry, one is culture; the other is erasure. Hijab it up all you want, I can't do the Abaya. So I'm going as a Nigerian, a tad to the North would have been my preference, but it is far superior to anything Saud-related. She went huffing off to push the Abaya on someone else.

I interpreted the little tiff between us as one relating to my dislike of Saudi apparel. I now think she was offended at my effusive praise of all things West Africa. I have inferred this from her behavior with my friend Clementine. Twice this instructor came into our classroom to beg people to participate in said fashion show. Twice Clementine arrived to these little planning parties, and the usthada claims that none of her clothes are right for Clementine. She says this as she stands over mounds of clothing sizes ranging from Parisian to Texan, and made of every imaginable combination of colors on earth. Clementine is from Rwanda, and she tells me that this, i.e. unclear but seemingly racist behavior (well, I guess the woman could also object to Catholic nuns) is not uncommon here. My friend Myriam was so fortunate as to have this person as an instructor in class. She related to me that the instructor made disparaging comments about Tunisian men often. Myriam's father is Tunisian; clearly she did not appreciate the remarks. This teacher told her class that she hoped to marry a French or Italian man. So apparently this women has her "colors" all line up like ducks, Arabs ahead of blacks but behind the Europeans.

It's odd to observe racism outside of America and outside of the context of slavery. Certainly slavery has existed in North Africa, but it does not press upon the collective subconscious in the same way. I couldn't even get my teachers in the winter term to tell me how to say racism in Arabic. But now I can say it properly now, only because we covered Palestine this term. So I now can correctly refer to Israel's "Separation Wall of Racism." Perhaps leaning towards the hyperbolic, but aptly named.

Just the other night I was walking back to my apartment with a group of Tunisians. I was observing that we made a rather attractive group. The two women were both stunning; one tall, thin, gorgeous, long black silky hair, and the other is short, tiny, kind of reminds me of Rosie Perez. The gentleman were handsome as well, if a little less so than the girls. In particular one very, very handsome bald guy (you know, the type, he might look good with hair, but he's so hot bald that he should never let it grow!). Well on our way home from a boisterous night of karaoke, dancing and coffee (I kid not, this location did not serve alcohol!), we were discussing colonialism. At one point, referring to some particularly disastrous error made by white people the hot bald guy makes a comment about how "nous les blancs" have ruined the world. I had not previously thought of him as white or non-white. It didn't really register, mostly I thought of him as hot. When he said it, I realized, oh yeah, he's white. Whereas not everyone in the group could be so-defined. One such non-white member of group, Omar (incidentally one of the best dancers I have ever had the pleasure of partying with. Did I mention that we only drank coffee?), well, Omar and his enormous, gorgeous afro took a warmhearted offense to the comment. He kept repeating, "oooh nous les blancs." It all seemed innocent, but a weird dynamic had been established. Baldy was somehow aligning with me, hence "nous." He didn't say "you Americans," he said "we white people" have fucked things up. I wondered, does he consider his girlfriend (tall gorgeous one) white? She could pass for Spanish, Brazilian, but she also kind of looks like Catherine Zeta Jones. Try defining Arabs on color line, it's impossible. You could be a Sudanese imam from Khartoum, a red headed Circassian from Iraq, or the new Miss America who is Lebanese-American. Don't ask me where to put Shakira or Queen Latifah (hey, her name is Arab!).

I traveled in the southern part of Tunisia in March with a classmate of mine who is Japanese. I was shocked at the comments we got, way worse than when I walk around with Italians or Spanish girls. People were addressing their non-polite comments to both of us, and I realized that I was passing for Asian. This was closer to when I first dyed my hair and it was nearly black. With glasses on, I guess I can kind of see it. And, thanks, I'll take it as a compliment. Hey, my best friend from grade school is Korean and she's one of the most beautiful women I know! Well, unfortunately passing for Asian is not a good thing in Tunisia. It's possible that I heard more "konnichiwas" and "ni haos" over two weeks with Eri than the combined "hellos," "saluts," and chiao bellas" of the past four months. Plus these aren't nice hellos. They are derisive and meant to cause discomfort.

One of my classmates in my Tunisian Dialect class is Hungarian and she is married to a Tunisian man. She told me that she mother-in-law loves her blond hair and seems to prefer her to her sister-in-law, who is Tunisian. However the sister of the sister-in-law apparently has very dark skin and the kids in the family think it's funny to call her the maid. To her face. The whole family finds this funny.

Before I died my hair, I was complimented on it quite often, and usually by women. I met a young college student from the town of Beja while we were volunteering with the nuns, in helping them rescue library books that had been damaged in a fire. While applying a hair drier to moldy copies of Najib Mahfouz novels, she mooned over my eyes and told me she always asked God why he didn't give her blue eyes.

With these antediluvian, yet apparently ubiquitous beauty standards in mind, I'm rethinking my initial objection to the Abaya. I now see some value in removing one's self from this un-winnable game, and hiding under a blanket.