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" \n I was picking up gross, sweaty, testosterone-soaked towels during my shift as a personal trainer at an Upper East Side sports club when a male gym member approached me and said,&amp;quot;Hello&amp;quot;. I looked up, smiled politely, and said,&amp;quot;Hi, how are you today?&amp;quot; He proceeded to answer my question with an unrelated question of his own:&amp;quot;Where are you from?&amp;quot; I knew what he was asking. I knew that he wanted to know my ethnic background, but it annoyed me that rather asking for my name, or inquiring about my status as a trainer, he showed more interest in figuring out which box I check off on government forms. Being the smartass that I am, I answered,&amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m from New York.&amp;quot; He grinned and said,&amp;quot;No, I mean, are you Spanish?&amp;quot; Not interested being put into a box, I said,&amp;quot;No, I&amp;#039;m not from Spain.&amp;quot; I hoped that he&amp;#039;d get the hint and leave me alone. But alas, he would not go on and finish his set! He sighed and asked, straight out,&amp;quot;Are you Puerto Rican?&amp;quot; Ding, ding, ding! You are correct, sir! Jerry, show the man what he has won! I was a little disappointed that he guessed my ethnicity so quickly, because I would have loved to continue pulling his leg. But I answered,&amp;quot;Yes, I am,&amp;quot; to which he responded with, and I QUOTE,&amp;quot;Oh, nice. I like gandules!&amp;quot;  Cue facepalm!  Ordinarily, I would high-five someone for liking the same food that I thoroughly enjoy, but I don&amp;#039;t know, the fact that upon correctly guessing my ethnicity, his first reaction was to tell me that he liked a kind of Puerto Rican pea\u2014not arroz con gandules, just the gandules\u2014pissed me off. It felt as if he was expecting kudos and a kiss for summing up my entire ethnic background with a small, green pea. We-friggin&amp;#039;-pa! The conversation also annoyed me because it &amp;quot;othered&amp;quot; me. I wasn&amp;#039;t a New Yorker, I wasn&amp;#039;t American; I was other, foreign, exotic. Furthermore, the fact that he smacked his lips and scanned my body with his eyes upon learning of my Puerto Ricaness, fetishized me. In this state\u2014foreign, exotic, fetishized\u2014 I was easier for him to consume.  I&amp;#039;m sure that many of the men who have engaged me in these conversations do not intend to&amp;quot;other&amp;quot; or fetishize me, but they do and it bothers me. It bothers me especially because I can&amp;#039;t help but wonder how a similar scenario would go with a white woman. Would they ask her where she&amp;#039;s from immediately after greeting her or asking for her name? If she responded,&amp;quot;American&amp;quot; would they then follow up with questions about whether she is of Irish, Italian or German heritage? Would any of them exclaim an undying love for Kielbasa? I feel that the likelihood of these follow-up questions being asked are slim to none.  Now, don&amp;#039;t get me wrong\u2014I&amp;#039;m a proud Latina woman and it&amp;#039;s because of this pride that I refused to be identified as nothing more than a fetishized caricature of my beloved ethnicity. So when it seems that I&amp;#039;m giving men smartass answers regarding my identity, I&amp;#039;m not. I&amp;#039;m giving them smart answers. I am a New Yorker, I am an American, I am a Latina, and by the way\u2014not that many of them ask\u2014 I am Tanisha. My personality, my life and my pride are much too big to be stuffed into a single box, so please stop [b]othering me! "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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