That B*!%h Stella

I left work early today. I finished a rough draft of a project I'd been working on for the past two weeks and was just sitting around waiting on a client to bring me some information for the VISA application we are working on. The weather got to me today, so I decided to transfer some money via BofA dot come, do a little window shopping at the mall and then head home.

Posted at the entry of the mall was a doughty Latino gentleman. I recognized his as the owner of one of the shops there. He smiled at me. I waived and smiled back.

With a huge grin, overbite and juicy lisp: I would like to talk with you.
Friendlily, Me: About what?
Him: I don't know. He shrugs with a heavy accent of some sort. You don't want to talk to me? Every letter is pronounced.
I humor him. Sure, what would you like to talk about?
Him: I recognize you from my shop before. You are so pretty. This is not the first time I see you. Do you want to go upstairs to my shop?
Me: Uh...no, that's okay. I'm actually on my way to the bookstore.
Him, hurriedly: Oh...the bookstore...it moved upstairs. His eyes glaring at me, smile plastered: I wrote a book. You can come read it. Please, come talk to me upstairs. I feel nervous.
Me, still smiling, weirdly blushing: Why are you nervous?
Him: Because you are so pretty.


I go upstairs. It's a mall...there are people everywhere so, I'm not nervous. When I reach the top, I see the bookstore and yell to the owner that I'll be right in. That was my intended destination--but I go to the gentleman's shop.

For about six minutes, the doughty Latino man, who I find out is from Cuba, goes on and on about how beautiful I am, how nervous I make him and how I am exactly the type of woman he likes. He says, "I love you," takes my hand and kisses it.

I'm gonna finish this story, but I need to highlight the fact that I have been called "pretty" and "beautiful" more times int he twenty-three days I've been in this country than in the nine years I've been in DC AND I can count at least three men who've kissed my hand. When is the last time you had a man kiss your hand???? How about three in twenty-three days.

There was the Australian gentleman who thought I was famous because of my straw hat and sunglasses. He begged me to tell him who I was. When I told him I was "regular," he grabbed my hand, kissed it and whispered "just for the thrill, tell me you're famous." To say I blushed is an understatement. "The professor" said I was "so fine." And then there's the man who keeps telling me I'm beautiful in a way that makes me giddy and blush like a little girl...deconstructs all my complexes. It's strangely intimate and deliberately sincere. He's got me looking in the mirror in the morning...examining myself for a different ajia.

I don't believe I was a terribly attractive teenager. People would argue that most teenagers aren't, but I'm from the land of beautiful people (California). I was very darkskinned, had terrible skin and was baldheaded (accidentally, not intentionally like today). I can say with enough confidence TODAY, that I grew into my looks and am glad God made it that way. But as I've developed into a woman, I find it interesting that what makes me most attractive to men is the fact that I have African features.



I've gotten more compliments on my complexion, long legs, my bald head and cheekbones. Maybe it's my style that accentuates my features (I got so many compliments on my funky rainboots today). Maybe it's the fact that I'm intentionally baldheaded now (not that my shit just won't grow). Hell...maybe it's just good ass game. I'm hoping, though, that my experience in Belize is helping to shape and deconstruct all my ideas about what is "pretty" and "beautiful" and that I am able to connect with that beauty so much more...with my high cheekbones, dark skin, bald head, wide mouth and long legs.

The rest of the story:

He asks: "Do you believe me?" 

"Si, I do," I say...my further attempt at humoring. He then tells me he will give me anything I want. Anything. In Spanish, I say "Yo quiero dinero," and laugh, halfheartedly (half playing and half serious). He replies, serious as anything, "You want money?"

I wasn't going to take that man's money. Me: "No...no...no neccessito dinero."

That's when I notice the man's wedding ring.

Me: "Tu tienes espousa?"
Him: "That don't mean nahding. If you say so, it can be over just like that.."

He doted on me for only a few seconds more and I skirted off to the bookstore. He caught me halfway out the door to tell me not to tell anyone about what happened; to keep this conversation between he and I.

Regardless...I'm invoking the spirit of that B#*!h Stella. I don't know what exactly I'm getting back, but I'm telling you...it's something.