My Super Power: Invisibility

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About 10 minutes ago, one of my co-workers strolled in with an impressive Styrofoam container, filled with something pungent.

“Hey…is that Moby Dick?“, another asked. Seven of us are on this team; we share a decently sized office which is cube-free and thus collaboration-ready.

“Nah, it’s curry.” Â…annnnd my ears are pricked.

“Oh, really? From where?”

“Lunch buffet…place across the street.”

At this point, my eyes slightly bulge. He’s referring to a place I went to once, an establishment which left such an awful taste in my mouth that not only did I hate my lunch, I couldn’t even enjoy complaining about it afterwards, because my then-BF scoffed, “What were you thinking? Food from restaurants named after mausoleums NEVER tastes good. Don’t you know that only gora eat there?”

“Man, I love curry. Wish I had gone there instead of Cosi.”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

At this point, I’m engulfed by weirdness. I’ve mentioned to them in the past that the restaurant in question is blech-inducing. Hmm. Did they not believe me? Wait–is there some issue with my brown credibility? I trust my Lebanese friends when they advise me about which hummus sucks like a Dyson, what gives? I shake my head to clear it, but the discordance is rotting my brain.

The room spins a bit; did I hallucinate that entire conversation with them last week? The one in which we discussed the very difference between these two eateries? No. We totally had that talk. They know I vouched for Heritage India, which is a whopping two doors away from the hole from whence this styrofoam came. I start to feel a bizarre dissonance and I calmly attempt to explore it. Perhaps IÂ’m viewing this improperly. Despite my slight discomfort, maybe we’ve come a long way, baby, if I’m not automatically looked at every time someone utters the word “curry”. Yet oddly, I’m not thrilled. I know. Impossible to please.

This reminds me of Nike’s “Vamp like an Egyptian“-shtick. Is half-assed brown better than no brown at all? I vote “no”. Still, why do I care so much? Who appointed me Ambassador to Brownland? I watch co-worker number two dig in and I almost cringe, I canÂ’t get over my sororal proclivities, my innate bossiness. If he likes to eat sub-par desi food, why should I give a shit? I have work to do, which I attempt to lose myself in, but then…“So how was it?”

“Great.”

“Hey, did I tell you I just saw Musharraf?”

“Who?”

“The President of Pakistan. He was at Brooks Brothers with his entourage.”

At this point, I whip off the noise-canceling-phones which don’t cancel anywhere near enough annoyance to really make a difference and I hold my breath. This is a matter most mutinous. Maybe I can run over and snap a picture, tell him I know Sin, something.

“WHAT?”, I blurt out spastically.

The Mushie-spotter disinterestedly turns my way and mutters, “yeah”, right before showing me his back again.

Co-worker One: “Dude…you should’ve asked him where Osama is…”

Robust laughter. The conversation turns to the Daily Show and how it takes news so much more seriously than actual news programs. The other four people in this room are discussing the Pakistani dicator-in-chief, IÂ’m obviously interested in what they have to say and instead of being included, I’m sitting here, feeling more foreign than I’ve felt in a while. always a dg.jpg

Actually, I have felt like this before. This reminds me of the time I was in college and on my way to a wedding. It was well over a decade ago, on a Saturday morning and I had asked my Dad to stop by my sorority house briefly so that I could run in and check my cubbie for “mail” (as well as for more candy from my big sister). I was expecting something important regarding our upcoming Formal and I hadn’t been able to visit the house the day before, when it had been delivered.

Trussed up in six yards of Kanjeevaram, my earlobes dipping from the weight of bright yellow gold, arms shimmering from the magnificence of all those diamond-cut bracelets Daddy brought me from Dubai when I was six (in anticipation for a wedding which should occur twenty years later), I swept through Delta GammaÂ’s french doors, past three of my “sisters” who were in gym clothes, post-Saturday-morning athleticism.

“What’s up?” they asked, before returning to their MTV. Not a single double-take, raised eyebrow or moment of “hmmm” to be found.

Suddenly very conscious of the clattering of my heels on the hardwood floor, I started mincing about so lightly, I was nearly silent, which is exactly when I was overtaken by the weirdest sort of thought: “now I’m not here at all”. They hadn’t seen me, now they couldn’t hear me, either. I smiled bitterly. I was the only girl to ever walk through those doors in a mantrakodi; what, that wasn’t noticeable at all? I’m not saying I wished to be gawked at, but I definitely wished forÂ…something. These were the days before I was “Brown”, so all those years ago, I just wasn’t sure what it was that I wanted.

I picked up an envelope and a fat bag of sugar tied with our colors and walked out without saying a word. Daddy looked at me impatiently as I gingerly held my pallu with one hand while simultaneously securing my pleats with the other. I got in the backseat gently and off we went. I had never felt so capriciously invisible.

:+:

There’s a middle ground between painfully obvious otherness and invisibility, between being singled out and ignored; it’s a sacred space for me which I rarely get to visit and it’s one of the concepts which inspires me to Mutiny. Partly because of my involvement in our fabulous never-ending cocktail party, I know exactly what it is that I wanted so many years ago and it’s the same thing I wanted 15 minutes ago– I want to be seen accurately, clearly, entirely.

Flashback to1994: bronze, pink and blue ribbons tied lovingly around gifts from my big, hand-made for a pledge with a sailor hat on her hair and angular letters on her shirt– that was me. A kumkum-based pottu, keshava-bordered silk and the same 22k choker my Mother left India with over three decades ago? Also very much me. That strange cocktail remains potent to this day; it still threatens to slosh over my rim. Sorority girl in a sari: even now thatÂ’s my steez, yo.

:+:

Let me pre-empt the flaming comments some of you are arming your bows with right this nimisam– IÂ’m not requesting or requiring that all South Asian-related conversations which occur in my ear space include little ole me. I wrote this post because I experienced a moment of utter, preternatural dissension and I just had to bore you with it. IÂ’m not a twit who couldnÂ’t deal with being the odd kid out—thatÂ’s been my role since pre-school and I relish it, sathyam.

I’m just articulating how it would be nice to be seen for exactly who I am, to have the multitudes I contain be recognized. My iTunes spins M.S. Subbulakshmi more often than the Pixies. The International Delight Irish Cream-flavored coffee goop I brought to leave in our kitchen was accompanied by a jar of hot lime pickle and some random frozen dinner which featured chawal and chole (which got JACKED I might add…someone on the sixth floor has good taste in other people’s lunches). The pictures of me getting carded at Chuy’s nestle next to images of my Mother and sister, resplendent in silk at a cousin’s wedding. My notes from meetings are decorated by a border of squirming, wiggling shapes which are my attempt to scribble “la”, “tha”, “va” and “na”.

ThereÂ’s a dichotomy at my very core, and I may get mocked for stating this, but to have that be ignored stings a tiny bit. IÂ’m not an either or a neither; IÂ’m a both. And I am just as vexed by bad Indian food as I am by jerky, thudding approximations of bharatnatyam.
IÂ’m a sour, slightly bitter drink, I know.

184 thoughts on “My Super Power: Invisibility”

  1. ThereÂ’s a dichotomy at my very core, and I may get mocked for stating this, but to have that be ignored stings a tiny bit. IÂ’m not an either or a neither; IÂ’m a both. And I am just as vexed by bad Indian food as I am by jerky, thudding approximations of bharatnatyam. IÂ’m a sour, slightly bitter drink, I know.

    Here I always thought you were a perfect blend of east and west.

  2. Sriram, if this thread sends your album up the charts with a bullet, the next time I grope you like a drunken frat boy, I expect to be allowed to get to third base for this key assist with your dazzling musical career, mmmkay?

  6. the next time I grope you like a drunken frat boy, I expect to be allowed to get to third base for this key assist with your dazzling musical career, mmmkay?

    Molay, nee enthokkeya ee parayunne!!!! Karthavae, njaan enthu cheyyum?

  7. Now THEM’S fighting words. I’m totally going to have to kick your ass.

    ANNA’s like Texas. No, she’s not a state with a village somewhere missing its idiot. (And while being Texas would also not be a perfect blend between East and West, I didn’t mean that either.) Rather, she’s not to be messed with. Ennis’s ass will soon find that out — off-thread, natch.

  8. It’s been a while since I’ve posted at good ole SM, but this topic has inspired me. I’ve felt the invisible-ness too. The workplace has a weird way of making you feel either really invisible OR holding you up as an authority on all things that are stereotypically associated with your desiness. Two work stories from recent weeks:

    1. Lunch with colleagues at a semi-decent pho restaurant at Loehmann’s Plaza (for you DC/VA locals). Somehow the topic of madrassas in Pakistan comes up. I am the only remotely brown person at the table — my colleagues include three all americans (white folks), a russian (white) and a brit (also white). Apparently the previous night’s ABC special on the madrassa subject got my white female colleague worked up — she says: “we really need to something about all these angry Muslims or we’re going to have a real problem on our hands.” Everyone nods in serious agreement while I wonder: did it occur to anyone that I might be Muslim? (I’m not, but noone at the table knew that.) That is invisibility of a kind.

    2. Today my boss (white guy) strolls by my cube to inform me he has a big bunch of curry leaves, and asks me: (a) can be they frozen and vacuum packed, and if so, how long will they stay fresh, and (b) what’s the best way to cook them. I surprise myself by providing extremely helpful advice (you can freeze them but not for too long or they lose color and flavor, and you can either fry them first in oil and add ingredients, or add them last in a ‘tarka’ as you would to dal). Afterwards I realize this is the opposite of invisibility, but it doesn’t feel too great either.

    It’s no fun being marginalized or tokenized. sucks either way.

  9. You rocked it, anna.

    The school at which I teach has a curriculum with “thematic” semesters; over eight semesters, a high school student ought to go through all the major historic periods (“ancient civislisation,” “the twentieth century and beyond”, renny, &c.). There are a couple of oddities thrown in by the people who designed the curriculum. The first is “Indigenous Peoples” which I think a bit asinine. I mean, why not just say “primitives” and have done? More on that (and more subtlety) at a later date. The other one, which you’re all expecting, is “Asian Civilisation.”

    Yes, that’s right.

    All of Asian Civilisation.

    In a semester.

    Early, when the silliest stuff came out, I was saying things like “thank you come again” in meetings to point out the fetishistic attitude I saw lurking amongst the faculty. Later, we would have extensive discussions on India which I couldn’t get a word into, edge, face, or arsewise. The conversations were dominated by the decidedly non-Asian staff,and I felt this same invisibility – as if my knowledge and opinions of Indian culture were no more significant than that of any of the twentieth-generation Americans in the room. At the same time, it’s not “spook” or any of the other lovely names from childhood. So. . . I guess I’m with you – and again I go back to Phoebe Snow and “either or both of me?”

    Good post, thanks, and having not been to Amma’s, I can shamelessly stump for Anna’s indubitably superb taste in Southie food, and claim it’s easily the best in the District.

  10. Fanon meets Seinfield! Since confessionals of dichotomy are the theme, Manju, I have a love/hate relationship with your posts but I don’t wish you were invisible.

  12. Early, when the silliest stuff came out, I was saying things like “thank you come again” in meetings to point out the fetishistic attitude I saw lurking amongst the faculty. Later, we would have extensive discussions on India which I couldn’t get a word into, edge, face, or arsewise. The conversations were dominated by the decidedly non-Asian staff,and I felt this same invisibility – as if my knowledge and opinions of Indian culture were no more significant than that of any of the twentieth-generation Americans in the room.

    while i wont dismiss your indian-ness, the fact that you were in a class implies that your skills-set and your expectations were in alignment with those of your fellow students. they had no reason to believe you would have gained more or less that they did through the learning process. you may have done well to initiate an opening remark such as, “my grandmother was born in malgudi in 1910. She taught me everything i know today about cooking… ” . this would demonstrate your access to a body of knowledge out of their reach and give you some leverage in the class.

  13. No von Mises:

    Thanks. Right back at you. I think Anna’s post appeals to our inner outsider.

    anandos, late to the party:

    Do you teach at St. Johns College?

    hairy_D

    the fact that you were in a class implies that your skills-set and your expectations were in alignment with those of your fellow students.

    I think he’s a Professor.

  14. anandos, late to the party:

    never mind, i just realized you teach high school. Interesting curriculum.

  15. Fantastic post!

    I had a similar food related experience a while back which oddly enough involved Beverly Hills. I went to dinner with my husband, an old friend from college and the friend’s girlfriend and best friend. I was the only desi in attendance, semi or otherwise. The restaurant, a swanky Indian restaurant near Sunset was chosen by the girlfriend who has (non-desi) british roots. She claimed that her dad and his best friend (also british) said it was the best Indian restaurant they had ever eaten in and that they really knew what they were talking about. Of course, the naan was stale, the chicken tikka kabab was slimy and I nearly cracked my teeth on the bhel puri. I choked it down and secretly pined for idlis and my aunty’s coconut chutney. She spent the entire meal “educating” me about the nuances of Indian food completely oblivious to all of the hints her boyfriend was dropping about me being desi. I totally felt like my brown cred was dropped. Anyway, I still like it when people have a passion for our food, because when it’s good, it’s REALLY good.

  16. Great post. I used to get irritated by the way Americans alternately over-exoticize desi-ness in their desire to be all multi-culti (e.g., insisting my name must surely have a more exotic pronunciation than its fairly simple phonetic one, strangers at a bus stop asking if “it’s a religious occasion” when I wear an Indian-printed crinkled skirt”) and throw desis and other “foreign” groups into a catch-all “ethnic” category that offers interesting things to be consumed but cannot possibly be spoken for by its own or be taken too seriously (e.g. the restaurant review section of my university grad student handbook that has the following qualifier: “A high rating for an ethnic restaurant is not an indicator of authenticity, it just means we like it” – and this in a university that has a disproportionately high desi and East Asian and foreign student population). Difference/”exoticism” is difficult to deal with, and I guess it’s only to be expected that people would swing from one extreme (“You’re Indian? Oh, I love chicken tikka masala!”) to the other extreme of whitewashing/invisibility.

    My friends know better than to talk about “curry” or “curry powder” and they like to go to “good” Indian restaurants with me; but I’ve come to accept that for the vast majority of Americans, the crappy fusion-y blandified-for-goras overpriced desi joints are the way to go – all the more place at the good restaurants for those of us who can appreciate them.

  17. hairy_D’s got it in one. I’m the teacher; I was in meetings with the faculty. My students were actually significantly better than my colleagues.

  19. Anna: I am sorry but for once I will have to agree with my boy. Amma’s food is OK. I know why you like it, as you have explained it so clearly, why? We have been eating at Madras Palace in gaithersburg for many many years. Some guy from Andhra Pradesh (Yakub?)owned it. They had an excellent cook for a long time. Lately though, we do not find food as good as it used to be. They put some hot stuff in everything they cook (Of course except the Desert, I hope!)that makes me sweat, and little dew drops keeps running off my scalp and hair. All in all though it is “Good” – especially compared to Amma. The place is less than ten minutes drive from where we live. If you guys ever decide to meet there for a brunch, lunch or dinner give us a call.

  20. Oh the Invisibility cloak, if only it could stay with Harry Potter and his fellow overly hormonal adolescent friends and stop harassing poor little brownies!

    So know that feeling, and loved the post Anna. (Is that okay or is it officially A N N A? Wouldn’t wanna rain on your identity parade)

    Just to give a bit of perspective though, it doesn’t just happen with a white/non white dichotomy.

    I have a job through uni tutoring and mentoring Pacific Island (Polynesian) kids at low decile schools to help them get to university and most of the tutors are Polynesian themselves – Samoan, Tongan, Cook Islands…my gorgeous Iraqi friend Shalaa and I were hoping for some brown solidarity with the other tutors but often we’re totally shut out of discussions that the other (guy and girl tutors) have.

    Add newbie little blonde Samara with her private school pedigree to the mix and the three of us are like the 3 Musketeers…except…we got no friends except for us! So it’s a Pakeha/European, Iraqi and an Indian all being ignored because we aren’t Islanders. We’ve even experienced sexism too. After being ignored for about 20 minutes one session, when everyone was abut to play a group game, one of the big Samoan guys looked over at us and said ‘Oy, models, over here.’

    Later that day (and this is the most disgusting part of it all) the same guy asked for us to bring him back ‘a big sausage’ wink wink, when we were going to get fish and chips for a feed for our students.

    Thanks goodness brown Indian intelligence taught me to be quick witted, and I said ‘Oh, I think a little cocktail one will do you just fine…’

    So it just depends who happens to be dominating at the time, I think. The worst bit about invisibility is that people aren’t being mean, they’re just being…indifferent. Boo!

  21. Doesn’t racial navel gazing get old after a while?

    Wow – one introspective post by Anna after a long time, and the negativity starts, right on cue. Listen buddy, if you don’t like what we write, especially if it’s a heart felt musings post, don’t read it. It really is as simple as that.

  22. Fanon meets Seinfield! Since confessionals of dichotomy are the theme, Manju, I have a love/hate relationship with your posts but I don’t wish you were invisible.

    Allow me to echo No von Mises in this sentiment. Fanon meets Seinfeld is brilliant — the sort of pop and politics mash-up of which we need so much more.

    Speaking of invisible, whatever happened to MoorNam? I miss that brother.

  23. re: Timepass #58, SemiDesiMasala #65,

    Here’s another twist. My friend who works at an IT company outside Boston has several times found himself in conversation with co-workers who complain, sometimes in verging-on-racist terms, about Indians taking over the industry and stealing their jobs. The co-workers are white; my friend is West African. It doesn’t for a moment occur to them that he might be sympathetic to the Indians. But would they let him marry their daughter? 😉

    SemiDesi, why so polite? Why didn’t you pipe up and give her the business?

  25. I hardly comment here but this is one of the most moving entries I have read, ignore the haters as they are not worth it. It is just bad energy in this lovely space. They are like a bad cold which doesnÂ’t go away. If only they had half the dedication and eloquence of the authors here they wouldnÂ’t be half as negative.

  26. AMFD/Sid write: >>Speaking of invisible, whatever happened to MoorNam? I miss that brother.

    Me too!

    Very busy with work (Investment Banking’s a bitch!) but am lurking every now and then.

    M. Nam

  30. awesome post anna, i thought i was the only one that sometimes had those feelings, nice to know i’m not as odd as i thought 🙂

  31. Allow me to echo No von Mises in this sentiment. Fanon meets Seinfeld is brilliant —

    The credit for that particular mashup actually belongs to Manju.

    Speaking of brilliant, I miss SpoorLam. When the cat is away, his mice don’t play?

  32. Very busy with work (Investment Banking’s a bitch!) but am lurking every now and then.

    Yes, but its a lot of $$$. Glad to hear that you are doing well.

    also great for marriage proposals lol. although not so great for health at least not in early stages I think. but yeah you”re one of the better posters here.

  33. I am not supremely impressed with the food at AMMA’s, but I have to agree with Anna that you’d never get kicked out from there, even if you dont speak malayalam 🙂

    When it comes to SI food, if I like the sambar, then I like it all. So, on the record, I like it all at AMMA’s

  34. IÂ’m just articulating how it would be nice to be seen for exactly who I am, to have the multitudes I contain be recognized.

    Yeah, adolescence can be a painful…and regrettably 30 appears to be the new 13.

    Pessoa’s heteronyms always console me when my spiritual kaleidoscope is underappreciated by my peers, or worse still, by complete strangers. Pick up “The Book of Disquiet” at your local library. It helped me.

  35. anna: i’m hear to defend you from the amma-haters; i was lucky enough to be introduced to the only wonder in georgetown at the meetup and was quite impressed. i’ve been back a couple of times since.

    the rest of ya’ll: where’s the love for saran foods off lee hwy?! amazing food, super-cheap…alas, i can only go there when I convince a friend with wheels. i may have to look into a zip-car.

    anna again: if the place you were mentioning is a certain upstairs dive off connecticut, i second your sentiments. eccchhh.

  36. No offense, but hence the term ABCD. The confusion. Its just an unfortunate fact of life for desis growin up in the States. Hell every desi has felt this way at some point or another in their lives. The feeling of bing a foreigner, but not quite?

    Having lived in the India for 5 of my 25 years (during high school and one year before), I encourage all other here who have not dont so to try it out. The experience gave me a whole new perspective on life. Its like being white in America, if you know what I mean. Except you’re brown and in India.

  37. “Its like being white in America, if you know what I mean. Except you’re brown and in India.”

    India is about 99.9% brown and not likely to change. America is only 70% white and falling. That’s just the average which includes places like Vermont, Idaho and Appalachia where desis rarely venture. In the South, mid-Atlantic, upper mid-west, white is 50% or less. Where I live outside D.C., it’s all sort of brown–latino, black, some desis, various Asians.

    farz food, all of Connecticut Ave. is a dead zone for restaurants because they cater entirely to a captive clientel of tourists, but Udupi is good for dosas. What makes a good restaurant is a base of locals who patronize it.

  39. Siddhartha & Kobayashi:

    Thanks for the kind words. I wish I could reciprocate but I feel like you’ve put a curse upon my head. Good Americans should be busy making money, not spending hours a day debating the nuances of culture like some bohemian. There could be a woman in my bed, but IÂ’m sitting here typing an angry reply to one of Siddhartha’s idiosyncratic posts. And after typing do I go and make love? No! I sit in front of the computer hitting refresh lest I miss his reply. Insanity, I tell you.

    And don’t get me started on Kobayashi. Even before I check my stock quotes I find myself scanning the right side of SM to see if he’s said something, like he’s a freakin’ Swamiji or something. I can’t even listen to Rush Limbaugh anymore. Worse still, you’re both poets, impossible to classify and hellbent on corrupting the minds of the youth. This is why Plato had you exiled from his republic.

    And where is Saurav? He doesn’t hang around these parts any longer.

  40. Bidismoker–you used the best example I could think of. Crabcakes are sacred in the Chesapeake Bay area. Alaskan crabmeat, or the best chef in Chicago’s crab cakes, are absolutely not going to be what they are from the local crabhouse, corner carry out, or my dad’s. I very much like Indian food, but I have limited funds and don’t want to waste my money on slimy, murky curries and underdone masala dosas. Not just Indian–when I go to an Italian restaurant they better not be cooking with corn oil, as one blessedly now defunct place did. In short, I am a foodie. Indeed, I am a foodie gori–gori is new word for me–it’s not the Indian version of the Chinese term “foreign devil” is it? There’s somebody here calls herself Parchesi Gori or something like that, so I guess it’s ok. Whenever my friends and I go to an Indian restaurant, we look for Indians who appear to be approving and regular customers. Admittedly, I am less critical than all of you appear to be about “for sale” Indian food. I even liked Siddhartha’s, a fast food set-up–ah, I fondly recall the announcement, “masala dosa ready m’aam” announed to all and sundry. It closed a few years ago although it was doing very well. I went there with some desi friends one time, and they prounounced it pretty good.

  41. Thanks for the kind words. I wish I could reciprocate but I feel like you’ve put a curse upon my head.

    Now poor Manju has to deal with heightened expectations – everything he says will be duly scanned for wit or brilliance. 🙂

  45. Now poor Manju has to deal with heightened expectations – everything he says will be duly scanned for wit or brilliance. 🙂

    Yes, it will be scanned for other things as well.

  47. Everyone nods in serious agreement while I wonder: did it occur to anyone that I might be Muslim? (I’m not, but noone at the table knew that.) That is invisibility of a kind.

    why should they? if they did, you might wonder why they equate brownness with islam….

  48. “Here’s another twist. My friend who works at an IT company outside Boston has several times found himself in conversation with co-workers who complain, sometimes in verging-on-racist terms, about Indians taking over the industry and stealing their jobs. The co-workers are white; my friend is West African. It doesn’t for a moment occur to them that he might be sympathetic to the Indians. But would they let him marry their daughter? ;)”

    Um, would they LET him marry THEIR daughter?

    Did anybody else see this?

  49. Honestly, no Indian restaurant meets my expectation. The north Indian restaurants all seem to serve the over-fried, over-buttered punjabi wannabe food. South Indian restaurants are better but only slightly and that too only because some things on the menu are not easy to currify. I could eat Indian food everyday and every meal but restaurant Indian food is puke inducing.

    I cant eat out everyday or shove anymore self made sandwiches down my gagging oesaphagus anymore. And I cant convince my mom to move to my city so that she can cook for me : I think she doesnt love me anymore 🙁 She says ” Get married to a nice Indian girl”, as if food is THAT important. And who says Indian girls can cook anyway?(Ducking for cover)

    So, my ever resourceful survival instincts kicked in and I have a solution – Aunties. Yes thats right. You just need to search for ads in Indian websites where nice, bored aunties looking to make some extra cash advertise home cooked food services. Problem though is that you need to give advance notice. But I have learnt to charm them with my Namastes and Ji Ha Bilkul Sahis that now all I need is about an hours notice…. I am proud of myself :|| –> that smiley means smug satisfaction

  50. gori is new word for me–it’s not the Indian version of the Chinese term “foreign devil” is it?.

    “Gori” just means “white woman/girl” (“gora” means “white man/boy”). It’s the literal meaning for white, so it doesn’t carry an inherent good or bad connotation. It all depends on context.