Gringas Facing A Sexist Culture

9 of October

Today in my last class, Quimica, my friend Orlando was pestering me about “what I look for in a guy”. I tried to avert the question from myself by shooting him back with the same question. “What nationality do you prefer?” And as soon as those words were out of my mouth, another boy, Oasis, looked over and said, “Gringa,” answering for Orlando. I burst out laughing and couldn’t stop for the longest time, because now I guess “gringa” is a nationality. No one else could figure out why that was so funny to me, they always call Americans gringos- oh my gosh, I love Mexico.

On another note, I got extremely angry, almost to the point of tears, at extracurriculares sports class today. We had split into three teams, and for the first time, my closest guy friends, and the best soccer players, didn’t put me on a team with them. Instead, they left Kira and I to deal with two notoriously un-athletic kids and a boy with bad legs. I was slightly upset at the obviously unfair teams- the best players made up majority of the other two, and we had two girls and three crappy players. When we walked out on the field for our rotation in, my team out up a good fight- my team was basically Kira and I- but the thing is, you can’t beat seven boys that play the finesse game, like we do.

The boys had a nice vantage point and took a straight shot to our goal, which our goalie missed. Kira and I, invigorated, sat on the bench and waited for one of the teams to rotate out as it began to rain. We stalked back up the field and got ready to attempt to defeat the boys and prove that two younger girls, alone, can smash the best team of boys. Our goalie was still walking to the goal when the boys decided to begin the play; from the middle of the circle, one of the boys took a lucky shot that the goalie should have easily grabbed, but he just watched it sail right past his head- so the other team won the game before it even began.

They kicked us off the field, saying that they scored, fair and square, which infuriated me beyond words. We sat out again, and when it was our turn to go back in, I scored and won the match! But the boys’ team wouldn’t leave the field because the match wasn’t official and we had to play them again. Because my sister and I were the only people playing, as girls, our win wasn’t respected. I balled up my fists and stalked off the field with Kira, marched up the stairs, and stiffly sat down in my classroom, where the guitar elective class was in session. The teacher is one of the student’s older brother, named Poncho, and I always have interesting, snippy conversations with him, as if we want to get to know each other but don’t know how. “Are you ok?” He tentatively asked me; I suppose I looked like flaming daggers. “Fine.” I responded convincingly. Not.

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