RADOC

WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A GYPSY GIRL

 

In 1981* an article appeared in Cosmopolitan magazine written by martial arts specialist Dave Lowry entitled “What it’s like to be a Gypsy Girl.”  It is valuable only in providing a good example of the kind of widely-read misinformation that feeds the prevailing fantasy Gypsy image.  A clue to the moti-vation for a grown white man to tackle the topic in the first place may be in the references to the “male libido” and “endless erotic fantasies” in the very first paragraph, and while he claims to have allowed “Sabinka” to speak for herself, it’s clear that Sabinka is Dave Lowry, who has gathered bits and pieces for his story from the easily-available sources (prob-ably Gypsies the Hidden Americans and Gypsies in the City, as well as some British publication such as In the Life of a Romany Gypsy, all of which appeared during the previous decade). 

            Evidently Mr. Lowry speaks ‘lilting Romany,’ the original language of Sabinka’s narrative, since he translated it into English for the article, though why this was necessary since Sabinka by her own admission already speaks English, is a mystery.  Sabinka too needs to know that gaje is only plural, and that dukker is not a word used by the Kalderash.  On the other hand she is to be commended for her knowledge of her Hindu origins.  

The liberties taken with describing Romani culture in this article only reflect the general lack of respect shown this particular American ethnic minority, the only one left, evidently, about which (as a lawyer said at about the same time) “one could say anything and get away with it.”

 

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*Number 191(6):180-188, December 1981

 

 

 

What It’s Like to Be a Gypsy Girl

By

Dave Lowry

 

 

Consider the magic of the caravan, its midnight revels, sweetness, mystery.  But do these vagabond delights still exist today? Listen as a real-life Romany enchantress explains her wandering ways.   

 

The Gypsy girl.  Dark, voluptuous, swaying in sensuous, firelit rhythm against a backdrop of circled wagons. Her provocative image has charged many a male libido and figured in the envious daydreams of generations of under-stimulated and overworked women. The Gypsies have persistently intrigued those of us who are outside their veiled society, and their girls, bronzed and charming, are the source of endless erotic fantasies.

                Putting the myth aside, though, what is the young Gypsy woman who lives in America today really like? Does she still lead the carefree life of an exotic wanderer? Or is she tethered by the same routines that anchor us all? For my answers I turn to Sabinka, a twenty-three-year-old, black-eyed Gypsy of the Kal-derash tribe. Here, in her words—translated from the lilting Romany she speaks—is the story of her exotic, but often difficult life . . .

                “Outsiders have an idea, from books or stories, of what Gypsy girls are like. We’re pictured to be very romantic, dancing in bright skirts and flashing jewelry, making a living by staring at palms or crystal balls. Actually, all that is a part of my life, but it’s not the whole story.

                “Gypsies—that’s your English word for us, or for any band of traveling folk. Among ourselves, though, we are the Rom, the people of the earth, descended from a Hindu tribe of street musicians, beggars, and magicians who left India centuries and centuries ago, for reasons nobody remembers anymore. As the old Rom passed through the Middle East and came into Europe, they picked up the skills of blacksmithing and horse trading, and their women added fortune telling and palmistry to the magic they’d learned in India. The tales of the Gypsies’ evil powers were actually launched and fostered by the Rom themselves, for protection in those alien lands. Gypsies stole children, it was said; Gypsies worshipped the devil and could cast spells with only a look. In France, we pretended to be a group of lost Egyptians—that’s how we got the name Gypsy—and in Hungary, the Rom brought forged letters saying they were on a holy pilgrimage for the Pope.              

                “We Gypsies have never stayed put long enough to come under the control of any country’s laws. We don’t keep permanent addresses and it is our custom to keep changing our names. My mother, for example, is called Kera Pulnetshi by other Rom, but in Argentina, where I was born, her passport said she was Mary Salvatore, and in Montreal, where my sister arrived a year later, she was Mary Adams. In St. Louis, my mother is known as Christina Fooso, and in New York, the ticket she got for fortune telling without a license was written to Tinya Kaspe.

                “This has always been the way among Gypsies. We may caravan in cars now, instead of wagons, and we live in apartments instead of tents, but our ways are still those of long ago. We speak to other Gypsies in the tongue of our ancestors, Romany, and we earn our money from the practice of magic. My sister Shusha and I support our family with palmistry, just as my great-great-grandmother kept her kin together by reading the tarot for farm wives in the mountains of Transylvania.

                “Gaje is the word we have in Romany for anyone who isn’t a Gypsy, and these outsiders supply us with our living. Why do the gaje pay us to make predictions and give advice about their personal lives? Because we have persuaded them that we can see ahead and know the past. This is how we make our living, of course. Also, we prefer the gaje to be a bit frightened of our “powers,” so we’ll be left alone and unthreatened. Perhaps a few of us actually can foretell the future or divine the past. My father’s aunt was supposed to have done so. But for the most part, when we are among ourselves, we scoff at the superstitions of our customers and laugh at their worries. Gypsies themselves never rely on fortunetelling and have contempt for those who do. Among the Rom there is a saying: ‘0nly gaje wish to see tomorrow, because they are afraid of today.’

“As soon as Gypsies come to a city, we find a small store or an apartment downtown where an ofisa, or fortune-telling shop, can be opened. My father rents it and then my mother and sister and I ready the room where clients will be seen. We drape heavy, velvet curtains to make the area seem smaller, more private, and put up all kinds of religious or occult decorations. Little statues of the Hindu goddess Kali are set alongside crucifixes; astrology charts and posters show the important palmistry lines. Before a client enters, we light incense and arrange big bowls of flowers. The ofisa becomes a shadowy mysterious’ place, almost spooky, which encourages the gaje to believe.

“Rom girls are taught to dukker, to tell fortunes, right after they start to talk. Shusha and I were four and five when we watched from behind the thick curtains to see how to speak to a customer and how to use our faces and bodies to be more dramatic. We also practiced patterns of laying the tarot—memorizing their symbols so we could explain the cards and learning to make them fall in the order we wanted.

“I started reading palms in my mother’s ofisa at an amusement park in Florida the summer I was thirteen. In the beginning, I was anxious, afraid I’d offend—or fail to convince the gaje. My voice kept quivering and the clothes touching my skin were damp when I took my first customer’s hand. She was a lady in her fifties, the sort who worries more about silly problems than about money—that kind makes the best client. I guessed she wanted to hear about children. My mother had told me that middle-aged women are often sad about having no kids, or else worried about the ones they did have. The lady took a quick breath as soon as I began to speak, so I sensed I’d been right. I asked more questions about her children, pretending I already knew the answers, and she told me her biggest concern was a son, who planned to marry a girl she didn’t like. It was an especially difficult heartache, I agreed, and shaking my head I looked more closely into her palm at the spot just beneath the thumb that we call ‘the devil’s saddle.’ There I ‘found’ indications that the marriage of a son was not in her near future and warned her hot to interfere, saying the romance would break up and he would find another and be happy. When I finally finished that dukkerin, I’m not sure who felt better—the lady, who’d gotten the news she wished for, or me, still shaking from nervousness, holding the first five dollars I made from fortune telling in my hand.

“It’s not unusual for a girl to be working at thirteen, as I did; Rom children are expected to bring in an income early. When I was seven, I played during the day with other Gypsy kids whose families traveled with ours, but in the evenings I sold red paper carnations on the street corner. Playing, watching TV, or selling trinkets—these are the ways Gypsy children spend their time.  They’re forbidden by their parents to play with gaje. It’s feared that this will make the Gypsy children lazy and disrespectful of tradition. Worse yet, they might be taken by the gajo choromos, the ‘gaje’s misery.’ That’s the name we have for drug addiction, which is feared and loathed by the Rom.

“This may surprise the gaje, but we believe you to be a bad lot—Gypsies are terribly prejudiced against outsiders. For that reason, and because we move so often, not many Gypsy children go to school for long. If they do, they stick together, without making any gaje friends. During the years I was at elementary school in Canada, I was always with other Gypsies, and when I went to high school in this country, I didn’t exactly fit in. The first day I came wearing a long skirt and a chambray shirt that was much too big for me. I had on three necklaces made of coins and a man’s sport coat with leather patches on the sleeves. Also, my English wasn’t that clear, and since I’d never been among so many gaje before, I was very shy. I stayed in school off and on until I’d finished my sophomore year and had learned to read and write fairly well. After that, working in the ofisa took up all my time and, anyway, I had other more important matters on my mind.

“At Rom parties, fathers of boys in our tribe began talking privately to my father.  Some of the younger married girls teased me and winked, and I figured that soon I was going to join them. I was right.

“Rom marriages are still arranged, just as they have always been, by the couple’s parents. In my case, the father of a boy I’d known since I was a child came to my father, as is the custom, with a bottle of brandy. They agreed that I’d become Stephano’s wife and in return, his family would give mine eight hundred dollars and promise to keep me from harm. In the old days, the price for a bride was much higher, and it was paid in horses or gold.

“The actual wedding ceremony is different in every Rom tribe. Stephano and I were both Kalderash Gypsies, and the marriage celebration we have, patshiva, lasts for three days. On the first day, over a hundred of our friends and relatives came to a rented hall. The food was wonderful. Whole lambs were roasted in the yard and pots of paella were served, too, along with sarmi—a favorite Gypsy food that’s sausage-stuffed cabbage. Everyone ate plenty and then danced till they tired, and ate again. And drank, of course.

“As the party went on, the men gave speeches about what a good dukkerer I was and how I’d make lots of money for Stephano. My father made a great fuss, saying he should have gotten a better price for me. The kids played games on the floor and the adults were gossiping about absent relatives while the old grandparents sang sad songs. Gypsy celebrations are very noisy but always warm and full of affection. Dressed in a white, ankle-length skirt and a scarlet blouse, I sat by my mother with my head down, embarrassed at being the center of attention. According to tradition, Stephano and I couldn’t even look at each other during this part of the celebration. So he ate with his guests and pretended not to notice me.

“On the second night, I was permitted to join Stephano’s family during the dancing. His mother stayed close when I rested between dances, patting my head and whispering, ‘dordi, dordi’ Romany for “everything will be all right.”

Finally, Stephano and his friends gathered around me, the traditional signal that the bride and groom should depart. But when we were at the door, Pulnetshi men, my relatives, shouted that I was being taken too soon and tried to break through Stephano’s group to grab me back. This, too, is tradition. The bride must then scream and yank herself away from the groom, who tries to keep her close. This shows that the girl will miss her own people and that her husband is willing to protect her. Sometimes the ritual scuffle becomes really rough: The men get bruises and black eyes, and the bride’s clothes are torn away. I liked Stephano, though, so I didn’t try very hard to get away. Together we pushed through the crowd and hurriedly made our escape. Later that night, we slept together, as man and wife.

“The next day, Stephano and I came back to the hall for the last night of partying. My husband’s mother held up the blood-stained sheets we’d slept on so that guests would see I’d been a virgin. According to Gypsy law, a girl must be untouched until she marries—though, of course, not all of us are. We’re just as interested in sex as gaje girls. Sometimes the people in the wedding party wonder where the blood actually comes from, though that’s a question nobody ever asks out loud.

“After the wedding, my hair was braided and covered with a scarf, to show that I’d become a married woman, a rani. I lived with my husband’s family then, working in his mother’s ofisa. Some Gypsy girls are slapped around by their in-laws, made to do all the work, and treated badly. Stephano’s parents were kind to me, but even so, I had many more responsibilities than when I was single. Besides the tasks we all do, like shopping and fixing meals, I had many special chores, all springing from the Gypsy idea of marhime, or ‘impurity.’ In the old days, traveling in wagons and living outside, the Rom had to carefully avoid dirt and sickness, and elaborate rules regarding hygiene came about. For instance, Gypsies believe water for cooking, washing, and drinking must all be stored separately. Also, a woman’s hips and legs are thought to be subject to marhime (that is why Gypsy girls often wear long dresses), so I had to wash my upper and lower body with different cloths.

“According to Gypsy law, a menstruating girl mustn’t wash dishes or cook or even eat from the same utensils as those around her. Once, while my sister-in-law was having her period, she accidentally stepped over a box of dishes that were packed and sitting on the floor. They were quite beautiful, but Stephano and his father broke each one and threw them out. The dishes had become marhime—and no Gypsy would ever have used them again.

“Certain forbidden sexual practices, including contact with the gaje, can also make a person marhime. However flirtatious and enticing we Gypsy women may seem, brushing up against our male customers as we lure them into the ofisa, very few of us would ever voluntarily go to bed with an outsider. To do so would bring about uncleanliness of the worst sort.

“I can remember, when I was small, seeing a Rom woman who was shunned by other Gypsies and who lived away from the rest of us. My aunt told me that she had had an affair with a gaje long, long ago. As far as Gypsies were concerned, nothing would ever make her clean again. She wasn’t one of us any longer. That’s how strong the dislike of gaje is in us, and how powerful the rules of marhime.

“I was Stephano’s wife for two years. Then, when his family left America to go to Europe, we divorced—I didn’t want to be so far from my own people. When girls marry young, as I did, they often separate I and marry again a few times before finally finding the right husband. You suffer no loss of reputation for this. My father gave back part of the price he was given for me and I returned to my family, where I live now.

“Stephano was a loving husband and my experience with him has made men important to me. Having been married once, I can now be alone with a man if I like—without the older people gossiping as they would about a never-married girl.

“I know that I’ll take advantage of that freedom for a while, to find out more about men and about myself. I don’t want to marry again right away. I’d rather stay with my parents for a while, traveling. Last winter we had an ofisa in Los Angeles. And when the weather grew warmer, we came East, to Philadelphia, and on to New York. With the autumn, we moved back West, as far as St. Louis, on our way down to Florida for the next winter.

“So, you must wonder, how do I see myself? What do I think of my Gypsy life? Basically, I think it’s always to be different. Every now and then, a Rom girl gets bored and decides to leave her family in order to make a life in gaje society. But this almost never works. Girls who’ve tried to forget they’re Gypsy have told me they always felt dirty around gaje, and lonely. They’ve grown up depending on other Gypsies for protection and friendship and for company, and the difference between our ways and those of the gaje is great.

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t considered breaking away.  When I was in school with gaje, I glimpsed the greatness of your world, which I have never known. I’ve been to a movie only once—Star Wars—and I have never gone to a theater or a concert, or eaten in a fancy restaurant. These days I dress with the fashion—in jeans and sweaters, except in the ofisa and at Gypsy parties, where I’m still in long skirts. But when I go out, gaje hear my accent, notice my dark color, and they ask if I’m Syrian or Israeli.  I’ll never be the same as them.

“When a gaje girl close to my age comes into the ofisa, I’ll look at her and imagine what it would be like to be one of you. Maybe it would be nice. But then I remember the happiness of my marriage consummated at an age when gaje kids are still in ‘puppy love.’ And I hear my grandmother’s voice, talking about how free the Rom were in the old country, before Hitler and his death camps. Seeing my customer’s hand, so white against my brown one, a Romany saying runs through my mind. ‘The darker the berry,’ it goes, ‘the sweeter the fruit.’  And I think then that I like being a Gypsy; I like it very much.”    

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

The following essay also addresses the fascination white males have with “women of color”:

 

Copyright

The Afrikan Frontline Network, unless otherwise noted.

Contact (205)-389-0062. All rights reserved.

RELEASE: June 19, 1996

 

 

 

Author Boycotts Disney’s “Hunchback” Cartoon

Because It Disrespects Women of Color

 

PHILADELPHIA—Author Shahrazad Ali is not happy with Peter Schneider, President of Disney’s Feature Animation Division, about his planned June 21 premier of their 34th movie-length cartoon, The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

In the midst of Disney’s mega-buck promo for the movie, Ali injects a downer by claiming that “Hunchback” is “Just another mockery of women-of-color and insult to non-white males by showing Esmeralda, a dark-skinned Gypsy woman being wooed and protected by a tall blond haired white man named Phoebus.”

“Ali says that Team Disney tends to claim that their animated series contains something for everyone offending none. Not this time, says Ali, “Hunchback presents the same insidious racism showcased in their previous cartoon-movie wherein another dark skinned beauty named Pocahontas was linked to another wavy haired blond white man named John Smith.”

Shahrazad Ali, an activist and writer, known for her controversial self-help guides filled with recommendations and solutions for repairing the Black family, criticizes Disney by pointing out that “it seems that John Smith who used to go with Pocahontas in America, moved to Paris and changed his name to Phoebus and now dates Esmeralda.” Ali says there are four major characters in Hunchback, three white men named Frollo, Phoebus and Quasimodo (a deformed hunchback), and all three of them vie for the love and attention of Esmeralda, a 15th century Gypsy, loose and flirty who’s also the only one barefooted in the movie, Esmeralda is obviously a trickster of sorts.

Historians are quick to point out that the word Gypsy was a title applied to certain nomadic tribes from N. India who eventually ended up in Europe and North America.. Some say they are not really considered as (Afro)-Black. To this Ali rails “Every child and adult who sees Esmeralda instantly recognizes her as a woman-of-color, as in “Blacky.” Ali says she also wonders why Disney gave Esmeralda cleavage, in a movie designed for children under 10, The best-selling author also reminds Black parents that the three white female heroines of other Disney attractions, Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty were all fully attired in long elegant gowns with neatly fixed adorned hair—and all three of them had white boyfriends as princes, knights or woodcutters.

To date, none of Disney’s white female characters have been mated with Black or non-white suitors, yet the animated women-of-color are exclusively tied to white men, embracing them and ignoring their own races. Is this Disney’s attempt to be inclusive?

Ali says she has several questions to ask Don Hahn, Producer of Hunchback, and the first question is 1) Why does Disney put women-of-color in romantic situations with white men instead of men of color?, and 2) What kind of subliminal message do you think it sends to little Black or Gypsy girls by repeatedly implying that the only hero or savior they have is a white male?, and what about little Black or Gypsy boys who have yet to see themselves in a strong hero role in a Disney film? What about their self-esteem?” Ali says that “Hunchback makes visual a continuing racist myth that every woman on the planet, whether Black or white, has only one everlasting hero—a white man.” Ali denounces the negative stereotypical images of women-of-color in Disney films. We can expect to see dozens of little Esmereldas this Hallowe’en, and another traditional ethnic dress a play-costume along with the witches and Freddie Krugers.

She says little Black preschoolers see Esmeralda and Pocahontas as Black women and may identify with them and seek to copy their dress or behavior.

“We are not barefooted floozies baring our breast to chase after white men,” Ali says, “We have yet to see a Disney cartoon-movie depicting a dreadlocked Black male hugging and kissing a blue-eyed white woman who gazes up lovingly into his eyes.” Would white parents take their little white kiddies to see such a movie? Probably not, and Disney knows this, so they don’t tamper with the formula. It is only women-of-color who are interchangeable in racial roles.

The last reason Ali uses to discourage African-American parents from patronizing Hunchback is by informing them that Blacks represent 25% of the movie-going public which means that they contribute a quarter of every dollar that Hollywood or Disney makes, and for this constant financial support Blacks should expect, and demand that women-of-color be portrayed (especially in cartoons) as dignified and respectful and exhibiting racial pride. Children’s videos and movies impart ideas and lasting impressions are made, images are memorized and opinions are formed. Esmeralda in the Hunchback of Notre Dame is not a good role model for little Black girls to emulate because this movie delivers 86 minutes of an unwholesome lewd impression of a women-of-color, promotes racial denial, suggests the easy elimination of non-white males, and is sexually innuendoed. Disney executives could not be reached for comment.