I Just Can't Win

My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...

Just when I thought I had a place in this society, I was resoundingly put in my place to make sure I didn’t forget where I came from. It doesn’t matter by whose pronouncement it happened; it did.

I was under the impression that by virtue of my marriage to Glen (my good Jewish egg of a husband), I--a gentile, a Catholic and every possible non-Jew name you can call me--was a shiksa. I knew, understood even, what the word meant. What its implications were. By embracing its usage, I thought I was removing its ability to hurt me. It is a slur after all in certain circles. Among Catholics, it would be called self-flagellation but that's okay. At least I'm using my own whip on myself, no one else's.

Except that I don’t look the part. What did people expect? I am the girl from Manila, not Ipanema. Just when I thought I could have a say on how people viewed me by openly declaring myself a shiksa, it turns out that I cannot claim the name for my own. The name simply doesn’t fit. And if it doesn’t fit, presumably, you’ve got to quit.

Ethnic. That’s what I am I was told. This I already know. I can see my reflection through the grimy windows of my home. Back where I came from, that's what we were called. It was also interchangeable with native, as in aboriginal, as in tribal. Pygmy was another one but deemed too harsh and inappropriate in polite society. Eventually, it was dropped from the lexicon of everyday vocabulary.

Okay so I’m not white. Not blonde either. I get that too. But just this once I wanted to hear something I didn’t already know. How hard could that be? Apparently, too hard.