Stuck in the margins: “Baboon on East Bonita”

Two weeks ago, an elderly white man on East Bonita Ave said to a friend and me: “Gee. Don’t you two look happy.” The exchange took place amidst our Tuesday 7 a.m. latte runs, and while the wording was certainly a bit odd, we replied with a cordial good morning and continued on with our day. 

A week later, we ran into the jokester once more, who expectedly exclaimed, “you guys look too happy, again,” though this time, it was in a mocking tone, like he was scolding a child. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to criticize a perfectly kind Claremont resident, seeking connection along with his breakfast delicacy from Crepes of Wrath. What I do hope to point out is that most women have an allotted amount of time before their joy, or sadness, or excitement, or nonchalance, or anger is critiqued or at least outwardly identified by a man. “You should smile more” is the age-old classic, but there are also countless other renditions. 

Being hypervisible as a Black woman is no novel experience. Early mornings, when Claremont is too coffee-deficient to fixate, are the sacred periods. Then, I can throw on my most disagreeable outfit, messily clip back my hair and migrate to Nosy Neighbors with friends.

Perhaps this is why the relatively lackluster exchange took hold of me. Is there ever a place or time where I’m not monitored? Should joy be denied to me? Or forced on me, considering my privileges? Why am I overthinking a well-meant interaction? From that moment forth, the scarcity has not only been caffeine, but also mental silence.

As such, I offer you this poem, titled “Baboon on East Bonita.”

 

Two dimples, you’re lucky. No dimples, you’re cursed.

Swaying hips I’m perverted, and ready to nurse.

Tired eyes I’m ungrateful. My worldview, deficient.

Wild eyes I’m aggressive, but cause, insufficient. 

 

So let it be spoken, this morning, I’ll bite.

If thrice I hear tune of, your well-meaning croon.

For, dimples, hips, eyes, equip me to affright:

The hush of the forenoon, shattered by a baboon.

 

If you deem the tone of “Baboon on East Bonita” as stemming from a triggered place, you’d be correct. I don’t understand why men’s persistence in analyzing, judging and counseling women’s emotions irritates me so profoundly. I assume it’s because I consider feelings the most natural and sacred part of being a human.

It’s easy to “get used to” men dominating politics, the media and just about every industry, even those directly impacting the lives of women. However, I can’t get used to male dominion over my regulatory sphere, the mental space that ensures that I can feel and survive through a healthy balance of emotions. 

I also don’t mean to imply that I haven’t felt personally involved or affected by the emotions of others. Just this past Sunday, I was on a Laguna Beach trip and found myself on one of their free beach trolleys. I was enjoying the estheticized and manicured “authenticity” of the trolleys, along with the wondrous views of the shoreline, until a group of Orange County’s drunken upper echelons boarded, boisterous and cackling. I found it to be a little early for such expansive extraversion, as they bickered loudly and swayed across the aisles. They’d likely boarded from a brunch of bottomless mimosas based on their colorful, formal attire. All in all, a little annoying, but nothing my peers commented on.

Presumably, referencing how I described the experience in my journal, I involved myself emotionally: From the back of the tram, their hysterics were louder than the air horn, signaling each stop. The color-infested summer dresses, the drunken dance their limbs made as the train gained speed: “whoooo … woah there … ‘cackle, cackle, cackle.’” The occurrence was certainly obnoxious on a few levels, but in some ways, I did involve myself in their wealthy, exaggerated joy — the very behavior I condemn. Even I sometimes resonate with the male emotional puppeteers, extending myself into the lives of others, just to judge what I find.

The difference between me and the crepe-lover on E. Bonita Ave., or the devout-of-love middle-aged “you should smile more” utterer, is that I said nothing aloud. All of my judgments remained inside, where they could ruminate, but seldom affected the joy, ecstasy or mental tranquility of others. All of this to say: If you’re a man and you comment on my emotions, I will likely, in an effort to avoid conflict, simply smile and nod, as I typically do. However, this isn’t something I’m proud of, nor a trait I wish to preserve. I hope to challenge myself, and my readers, to recognize that there are appropriate times and spaces to advise, mentor, or console women — or anyone, for that matter. Sometimes, offering those “recommendations” in public spaces is simply inappropriate and antithetical, even if they’re justifiable in your view. 

We are human, and therefore, of course, we need external support, face lapses of judgement and forget the beauty of life. But there must be boundaries around how much our lives are publicly annotated. After all, we already carry enough notes in the margins from ourselves.  

Zena Almeida-Warwin PO ’28 is from Brooklyn, New York. After years at a tiny Manhattan private school, she has perfected the art of diplomatic self-regulation in the face of awkward social interactions — almost to a fault.