Traveling to The
Orient...
By: Albaloo Pollo
I always thought orientalism phased out with the fall of the British Empire. Apparently not in the USA. Never, ever had I thought that white exoticism still lingered amongst the seemingly sophisticated minds of the educated class. I was so wrong; just because someone studies Freud, hulls an organic chemistry book around campus, or stays up late into the night reading blogs originating halfway across the world, it does not mean they have overcome the most primitive and objectifying of desires.
Yes.People from the Middle East have turned into quite a commodity. Those traits so trite and common to us, like our dark eyes and chafing facial hair, arouse the sexual beast in most Caucasian men. In fact, those curvy, thin black lines, which stream down our bodies like an odious current, more often than not repulse me. Please, don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I don’t like hair, I am just so used to looking down and seeing a cloak of black that I would rather not feel like I’m making out with my reflection.
At first, the white man’s fascination with Middle Easterners felt like a biblical miracle! Finally, Americans were willing to prostrate in front of someone other than Jesus. For about four months, I jumped from guy to guy, trying to milk the most out of my freshman year of college. After hooking up with all and sundry, I learned that turning American men on was way easier than passing those hated and tricky college entrance exams. In high school, in which the majority of my peers had the intellectual stamina of a red brick, neither I nor my Middle Eastern friends were ever desired by our classmates. No one thought twice about us.
Even though this discovery gave me an automatic advantage in terms of college hook-ups and relationships, I realized, the guys easiest to get with were the ones that absolutely disgusted me! Of course, I knew none of this during my first encounters with them. But, soon, a trend emerged. After I started hearing them say things like, “Middle Eastern porn is my favorite,” “I think I have an Iranian fetish” and “Oh my god, Ahmad enijad is really hot,” I realized that these people think of me as nothing more than an exotic commodity.
One day, just suddenly, after I recounted a previous night of sin and debauchery to a friend, reality hit me! What first popped into my head was a book I had read in high school, titled “The Invisible Man.” In it, there is a scene where a seemingly sophisticated white woman practically throws herself in bed with a black male, not for a gentle, love-filled, passionate night, but to indulge in her fantasy of a primitive encounter. The image of sultry, fiery sex in the hot jungles of Africa prevent her from seeing him as anything more than an object, a passport into a world she never intends to learn about.
I had my epiphany midway through the second semester. For about a month, I rejected every guy who showed any sign of interest in me. Suddenly, the juicy American cheese burger I was so excited to take a ravenous bite into rotted into this soggy, gross emblem of ignorance. Fortunately, this mental distaste passed when the warm sun escorted in a battalion of chiseled white men to the pool houses that dot suburbia. Even I can’t keep a little lemonade from washing away the bitter taste of bad experiences.
My hiatus, though, has not gone to waste. Reflecting on my first year of college, I now know to be more cautious with white men. Of course, I will continue playing the exotic card once in a while, but when I see that a boy’s captain is headed for Iran, I’ll just have to jump ship.
I always thought orientalism phased out with the fall of the British Empire. Apparently not in the USA. Never, ever had I thought that white exoticism still lingered amongst the seemingly sophisticated minds of the educated class. I was so wrong; just because someone studies Freud, hulls an organic chemistry book around campus, or stays up late into the night reading blogs originating halfway across the world, it does not mean they have overcome the most primitive and objectifying of desires.
Yes.People from the Middle East have turned into quite a commodity. Those traits so trite and common to us, like our dark eyes and chafing facial hair, arouse the sexual beast in most Caucasian men. In fact, those curvy, thin black lines, which stream down our bodies like an odious current, more often than not repulse me. Please, don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I don’t like hair, I am just so used to looking down and seeing a cloak of black that I would rather not feel like I’m making out with my reflection.
At first, the white man’s fascination with Middle Easterners felt like a biblical miracle! Finally, Americans were willing to prostrate in front of someone other than Jesus. For about four months, I jumped from guy to guy, trying to milk the most out of my freshman year of college. After hooking up with all and sundry, I learned that turning American men on was way easier than passing those hated and tricky college entrance exams. In high school, in which the majority of my peers had the intellectual stamina of a red brick, neither I nor my Middle Eastern friends were ever desired by our classmates. No one thought twice about us.
Even though this discovery gave me an automatic advantage in terms of college hook-ups and relationships, I realized, the guys easiest to get with were the ones that absolutely disgusted me! Of course, I knew none of this during my first encounters with them. But, soon, a trend emerged. After I started hearing them say things like, “Middle Eastern porn is my favorite,” “I think I have an Iranian fetish” and “Oh my god, Ahmad enijad is really hot,” I realized that these people think of me as nothing more than an exotic commodity.
One day, just suddenly, after I recounted a previous night of sin and debauchery to a friend, reality hit me! What first popped into my head was a book I had read in high school, titled “The Invisible Man.” In it, there is a scene where a seemingly sophisticated white woman practically throws herself in bed with a black male, not for a gentle, love-filled, passionate night, but to indulge in her fantasy of a primitive encounter. The image of sultry, fiery sex in the hot jungles of Africa prevent her from seeing him as anything more than an object, a passport into a world she never intends to learn about.
I had my epiphany midway through the second semester. For about a month, I rejected every guy who showed any sign of interest in me. Suddenly, the juicy American cheese burger I was so excited to take a ravenous bite into rotted into this soggy, gross emblem of ignorance. Fortunately, this mental distaste passed when the warm sun escorted in a battalion of chiseled white men to the pool houses that dot suburbia. Even I can’t keep a little lemonade from washing away the bitter taste of bad experiences.
My hiatus, though, has not gone to waste. Reflecting on my first year of college, I now know to be more cautious with white men. Of course, I will continue playing the exotic card once in a while, but when I see that a boy’s captain is headed for Iran, I’ll just have to jump ship.