Reflections on being a gringo

I never appreciated the value of having a name until I came to Chile. Walking around as a token gringo here has given me a new appreciation for having a unique identity back in the States. That identity is encapsulated by six letters that, pushed together, give me something that more than 99 percent of the American population does not have: my name.

Chileans are not particularly adept at making distinctions of any kind when it comes to foreigners. If you have slanted eyes, you are given the label "chino," no matter if you are from China, Japan, Korea, Vietnam or any other part of East Asia. For that matter, they even describe fellow Chileans as "chino" if their eyes have even the slightest slant. Their lack of interest in distinguishing nationalities extends to white people too; white Americans, Europeans, Canadians and Australians are all branded "gringo."

The "gringo" label, for me at least, has become far more than an adjective; many Chileans -- especially those I only know casually -- use it as if it were my name. It does not help that Chileans have a hard time pronouncing my name because the "ju" sound simply does not exist in Spanish. For whatever reason, I hear "gringo", "gringito" (little gringo), and even "gringo gueón" (something quite a bit stronger than "damn gringo", though it is usually said jokingly) countless times every day. At first, I did not mind; from some people, these names even seemed endearing. However, after nearly four months, hearing them constantly is starting to take its toll.

In general, many of us Americans feel like we are something of a "show" for the Chileans. Just walking down the street can attract attention (especially if you have the misfortune of being a blond female). If we want it, we are never short on conversation with the locals, which is great most of the time. However, you can't help but feel sometimes as if the people you are talking to aren't really interested in you; they are merely curious about what you represent. The young females of the group have all had their moments when they have had to fight off unwanted advances from Chilean men who wonder what a gringa kiss is like. For all of us, the friends-making process here has inevitably involved a weeding out of those who only seem interested in us because we are different and not because of who we are as individuals.

I actually feel lucky when it comes to making friends here; I think that I have made three or four Chilean friends who seem to want to hang out with me because of who I am as a person, and not just because they want to hear Spanish spoken with an accent. However, apart from their company, I often feel like Chileans see my white skin and automatically think they can sufficiently summarize my existence with one word that equally encompasses millions of others: gringo.

Justin Cox is a graduate of Scott City High School and Washington University in St. Louis. He is teaching English in Chile.