Tags: cultural collisions | Prague | sexism

Walking home from work one day, someone dumped a bucket of water on my head from the building above...

A large bucket. The culprit disappeared before I could see them, and when I looked up there was nothing but empty window sills. My immediate reaction was to wonder if my appearance had anything to do with the attack. Was it intentional?

Upon moving to this country, my first reaction was "Hey! Look at all these white people!" My own complexion made me feel conspicuous for the first time in my life. On the metro, I felt like everyone was thinking, "who let the brown woman on the train?"

I awkwardly struggled to look casual, shifting my weight around and forcing a look of nonchalance. Was it because of me that all of these pale, pinched faces looked so stern? Was I invading their territory? I scrutinized them for signs of disapproval, just as so many of them shot me point-blank stares as if I was a specimen myself.

This looking at each other could get complicated. But race was only half of what colors my Prague experience. The other half is sex. My first few months teaching here were painful. I learned to draw careful boundaries with my students, most of whom are millennia away from understanding the basics of first wave feminism.

Any talk of equal rights or respect for women was often met with scornful laughter. Best not to bring it up with these apes. I worked hard to not hear some of the more disturbing comments made by my male students.

But after a while I couldn't keep up the tolerance. I started wondering why I had given up defending my beliefs. I was becoming jaded and resigned like so many Czech women. Fear began to creep back in.

I will never forget my first trip to the doctor. I went by myself to the emergency ward in the middle of the night. The doctor began making inquiries in broken English about my ailment, and before I could even finish telling him what was wrong, he told me how badly he needed English lessons.

He said I was such a nice person and probably a great teacher, and could he have my phone number and call me later?

I squirmed as I obediently gave the older man my phone number. I couldn't bear to look into his hungry, smiling face, and my eyes drifted over to his desk, where I saw his pornographic mouse pad.

Here was a typically inartistic porn cliche laying on my doctor's desk as he scrawled my phone number down with his hairy fingers. He said he hoped to see me privately after professionally examining my body. I shuddered and promised myself to find a female doctor.

I enjoy compliments as much as the next person, but when a student thinks its okay to raise his eyebrows and say "maybe there will be a bed in our private teaching room today," I am not flattered, but disgusted. I want to gag him. I'm not surprised anymore when I walk into offices and see naked women straddling motorcycles on calendars.

I suppose not much can be expected of a society that puts faceless, pubescent female bodies on all fours to sell car wax. I almost understand that Czech males are a product of this bombardment as much as of their traditional peasant ways. They may have good hearts, and there may even be hope for them yet. But change won't come soon enough for me.

I'll be back in Minneapolis by July.