Berkley Center

My first week in Seville, Spain was much like that of New Student Orientation at Georgetown. We were split into orientation groups, led by local Spanish students with the dual purpose of learning the city that would be our home for the next five months and meeting our fellow American students.

We tried typical Spanish food, navigated the city’s picturesque plazas and winding roads, adapted to the unusual Spanish dining schedule, all the while feeling very “Spanish,” as if the language, setting, and Sevillian customs had allowed us to temporarily adopt new identities.

We were touring our neighborhood to learn about the practicalities of living in Seville—where to buy a bus card, pay-as-you-go phone, et cetera—when I started to think more about the preservation of Spanish culture, diversity in Seville and how difference, whether racial, ethnic, religious, political, is perceived.

It was about four in the afternoon, prime siesta time. Yes, in Andalucía the siesta or the afternoon nap is not only encouraged, but it is practically institutionalized. Stores and businesses close between the hours of 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. (sometimes 6 p.m.) as families return home for almuerzo, the biggest meal of the day to be shared leisurely as a family. Thus, as we toured the neighborhood, only select stores remained open.

Our tour guide, Dani, pointed one store out that looked like your average convenience store. He explained, this is a chino it is open all day, everyday. We looked bewilderedly at him, a chino? He laughed and made a gesture imitating Asiatic eyes, clarifying the name. We gaped at him for a gesture that in the United States would be entirely inappropriate and insensitive, but he laughed amicably, explaining we would get to know the chinos when we wanted to purchase something during siesta, or more specifically, buy alcohol after the Spanish stores stopped selling it at 10 p.m..

Unsure whether Dani’s description was his attempt at humor, or reflective of the general Sevillian population’s sentiment towards these establishments, I continued to inquire and listen as I heard other Spaniards discuss these stores. I discovered: yes, everyone referred to these stores as chinos. However, as I understood it, the name was not inherently imbued with negative connotations, rather it was an expedient way to describe their general merchandise and character.

As I thought more and more about the use of chino, I discovered, whether it was people’s intention, the culture, or a product of the evolving Spanish language: the Spanish are incredibly blunt, and there is not much delineation as far as ethnic differentiation goes. Not to say that the Spanish do not value cultural and regional differences—as is evident in the long and ongoing fight for autonomy in the regions of Cataluña and Pais Vasco, for example—but as far as terminology, “Negros are Negros,” “Chinos are Chinos,” and a person’s preferred means of self-identification is not generally factored into the way they are labeled in society.

A conversation with Spanish friends about the correct way to refer to Native Americans in the United States, for instance, revealed a completely different way of conceptualizing difference. While comparing the various terms for indigenous groups, my friend tried to explain the concept of being politically correct. Our Spanish friends looked on bewildered as we tossed around words like historical legacies and self-identification, until one Spanish student tried to rephrase our explanation: “Oh, you mean eufemismos,” or euphemisms. In attempts to clarify the difference between euphemisms and being politically correct, I began to think a lot about how difference is perceived and how language and culture shapes that perception.

Diversity is not new to this country that has experienced Muslim and Christian rule throughout its history, living in both periods of peaceful coexistence and violent conflict. In this way, Spanish culture draws its roots from many great civilizations and societies. And yet, when considering the influx of Chinese immigrants in Spain, larger fear of anything that poses a threat to Spanish culture seems to inform the general disapproval of these groups that I perceived and the conception of difference as something that is black and white. Not to say that all Spaniards perceive or treat these people in the same manner, but it is interesting how one’s perception of difference shapes their worldview and their sense of culture.

While these questions of immigration and assimilation are hardly new in history, I think that the international economy and the force of globalization have added another level to this enduring problem. This is evident, as I thought more about the chinos and talked with more Spaniards about these stores. I found that beyond their convenience, many resented the fact that these stores defied Andalucía culture, staying open midday and circumventing rules on liquor and other products. In this way, the question of difference becomes more complicated in the context of globalization, as these establishments have brought Spain’s rich culture and its weak economy directly into conflict.

When coming to Spain, I anticipated many things, from language issues to culture shock, but I never thought about how something as seemingly simple as how we categorize and perceive difference shapes one’s view of the world. Though I am not totally comfortable with the usage of chino, reflecting on these connections between language, diversity, and difference has helped me to see there are times to be politically correct and there are times to let these terms fall to the wayside to get to the larger issues at heart.