There's a negative way of looking at it. Val says the women in Miami dress like prostitutes. That's the catty joke among white girls - and though it's not specifically directed at Latinas, there is a thin line between sexy and trashy, and Latinas have been known to cross it. (I can imagine what they say behind closed doors about gringas: Stuck-up soccer moms who could use a good, uh, balling.)

Latinas show off their bodies. They aren't afraid to play the temptress. They dress both for men and for women. My friend Emma - a Cuban-American - says a Latina wants to be the best-looking woman in the room. She doesn't mind arousing the ire of other females.

White women dress for women. "Nice girls," our mamas tell us, don't call attention to their bodies. They don't threaten another woman by trying to captivate her man. Our biological imperative to attract men gets squelched by the social imperative to have the approval of women. I am from Mississippi, the heart of the Great White South. Visit my hometown, Northeast Jackson, and you will see what happens when white girls band together. (Cookie-cutter blondes. Too much makeup. Madras shorts.) If these women moved to Florida, they would head to the Snappy Turtle in Delray Beach and load up on capris, knit polos, pale pink Keds and slacks made from fabric that could double as patio furniture slipcovers. They are spiffy. They are smiling. They are achingly devoid of allure, and - to the toes of their canvas espadrilles - non-threatening. To see this firsthand, go to The Breakers in Palm Beach. Or just pick up Town & Country magazine. Every white girl subscribes.

Turns out, there's a reason all white people look alike. It's the magazines.

When I look at Glamour or Vogue, I want to look like the models. I try to pay attention to the clothes - what shoes had she put with that kind of skirt? How had she accessorized? But instead I get drawn in by her arresting eyes, which she directs sideways at me as if to say, "Actually, I am part-cat. I lounge around the house all day in my loose, white oxford shirt. Later, some friends of mine are coming over, and we're going to eat tapas and plan our trip to Bali. Don't you wish you could be this happy?" Or she is in the park, sharing an ice cream cone with a man who has gorgeous hair and who wears a navy V-neck tee that shows off his fabulous tan. They are not aware of me; they are laughing hard at something he just said. They touch each other in a way that is intimate and happy, so instead of taking notes on what she's wearing, I decide I want her life. I look nothing like her, but maybe with a little help . . . just a few changes. Perhaps if I had her sheer berry lipstick or her purely porcelain face. I want, I think, but it's not so much a thought as a visceral desire. I want. And this is precisely what the advertisers are divining for. I want to go to The Gap.

If you are a woman of color reading this, I know what you are thinking:

"We've had to look at your honky ass on the covers of magazines forever. Where do you get off?"

Yes, the white woman has been the standard of classic beauty against which all others are judged. But this isn't true anymore. You'd have to bury your head in the Palm Beach sand to believe that. Now, white girls are adjusting to not having what shouldn't have been "ours" in the first place. Living in Miami is the quickest antidote. Every white woman should have to do a residency here. It's damn humbling.

I teach a class once a week at Florida International University in North Miami. The students are mostly women - from Argentina, Venezuela, Chile, Puerto Rico, all points Caribbean - and, always, there are one or two male students who look stunned the first day and spend the entire semester sneaking furtive looks at the females.

The only reason I'm able to muster the courage to show up week after week is that I'm invisible to these women. College instructors are expected to bulge in all the wrong places, have no hair or be missing an eyeball - like a child's favorite doll.

In Miami, men pay attention to exotic women. It's all about dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, dark mystery. White girls can't compete. If we look like soccer moms, it's because that's the best we can do. At a party one time, a hot guy struck up a conversation with me by asking whether I had kids. When I said, "No. Why do you ask?" he told me I looked like the perfect mom. Seeing my reaction and sensing he'd said something wrong, he backpedaled. "I meant that in a good way. A pretty mom."

Being a white girl here does have its perks. We fly under the radar, unimpeded by approaching males. We are nothing if not efficient. All over South Florida, you can see us running errands, our hair in ponytails or under baseball caps (why bother?), our eyes down, our bodies canted forward in momentum.

A pretty white girl can accomplish a lot if so inclined. But a pretty Latina can have it done for her. To paraphrase Kafka, the world rolls in ecstasy at her pedicured feet. I have seen it happen.

I was whining about this to Emma the other day as we walked on the beach. As if to illustrate my point, a beautiful Latina walked past us going the opposite direction. She wore body-skimming jeans, a silver, spangly belt and a bright yellow half shirt. Full breasts. Sleek abdomen. Hips that could maneuver a mean merengue.

As she passed, Emma and I swiveled around to view her from the back. We weren't out of earshot when Emma wailed, "She has my body!" She said it as if the woman had swiped it from her, and for a minute, I thought Emma might chase after her and wrestle her to the ground. Instead, she turned back to the path and said, "I swear that was my body, five years ago.""But did you dress like that when you were that age?" I asked Emma.

"Fuck, yeah."

Even though Emma is Cuban, she walks around in a baseball cap, a hoodie and jeans most of the time. She doesn't fit the stereotype. (You do understand that this essay is all about stereotypes?) Emma and I are both in our late 30s. We have noticed the beginnings of laugh lines around our eyes. We are discovering cellulite where there once was none.

But unlike me, she plays in a band. When she's on stage, she wears a mini-skirt and go-go boots.

My friends Jay and Kristine had a baby a year ago, and my husband and I went to visit them in the maternity ward at Miami's Jackson Memorial. Abby was having some routine newborn tests done, so we sat and talked to Jay and Kristine.

But on the way out, we swung by the nursery, hoping to catch a glimpse of Abby. We scanned the big open room, where two dozen infants batted the air with their chubby arms. This being Jackson Memorial, each baby was a different and beautiful shade of olive and brown. They could have been the future delegates of a U.N. summit. In Mississippi nurseries, babies look like mini-Winston Churchills.

Abby was easy to spot. The only white girl in the room, she was so pink that she appeared to be plugged into a light source. The wispy hair on her head was Andy-Warhol white. She slept peacefully in her big white diaper.

"Don't look now, Abby," I thought. "But the niña beside you has her ears pierced already." Tiny diamonds were twinkling from her small lobes.