(no subject)
The doors in my house are very seldom locked. More than once have I entered to find a friend sprawled out in my living room, white socks contrasting with the warm brown leather of the couch, eating my food. This is how hospitality works for us. We have no guests, you know where the glasses are, grab yourself a drink, welcome to the family. Things are different in Mexico. I am the guest. I do not make my own food (unless pouring milk in my cereal counts, and even then I rarely get the milk out of the fridge). I do not change my own sheets. For the first week I did not even put my own dishes away. It felt like a terrible caricature. The middle class white woman sits in the dining room (away from the riff raff) and the little dark skinned girl sets food in front of her, they smile awkwardly at each other and the girl skitters away. My shoulders were constantly trying to push themselves through my ears when I walked into the kitchen. I was trying to be smaller smaller smallest. (I am not intrusive; I don’t want to take up your time. I’ll grab my own food. Please don’t get up) I realize now and I realized then through the guilt and discomfort that I was not being intrusive, that I was very welcome and that helping me was my host family’s way of telling me that. Magdalena showed us how to get to school, gave us a tour of the town, and continues to patiently explain things to us in Spanish as many times as it is required before the light bulb ignites. She is more than welcoming. However, between the barriers presented by being the “ guest” and the natural barriers caused by my toddler’s knowledge of the language I was feeling extremely separate. As time has passed I’ve found ways to breech the barrier. If I ask in time I may set the table and I helped chop up the lettuce for soup on Independence Day. I can accompany Magdalena to the grocery store and help carry back the bags. If I linger after cena I can talk (or attempt to talk) with Magdalena and her Granddaughters. We have in jokes. The girls danced through the kitchen with us the other night as we all laughed playing invisible saxophones while we set the table. Some things don’t need words. Even in our strange outsider way we are starting to fit here. We are not, however, the first set of guests and will never be part of the family. Everyone knows that we will leave in three months. I often wonder what it is like to grow up in a house with an ever-revolving set of strangers. How do the girls see the world? Is it smaller for them; are they more patient than other little girls, will they be more understanding as adults? It is an interesting thought, though not one I’ll be able to finish. I’ll be gone before the final results are in.
The welcome I’ve received extends beyond my generous host family. It extends to the people I’ve met in my service work, to my teachers, to the strangers on the street, and as a general rule the welcome has been warm. (Even though I do not always understand why.) People are generally kind and patient. There have been exceptions. For the first few weeks whenever my supervisor at Acortar Distancias tried to speak to me she gave up a minute in, turned around and just relayed the information to someone else. It was frustrating and it smarted, but she was essentially the only one. The teacher I work with is willing to go to extreme measures to help me understand, and now that my Spanish is getting better she talks to me about things outside of the activities we do in class. She asks me about home, and tells me about hers. The other day she even gave me a ride to my bus stop, which I’m fairly certain was out of her way. I’ve never mistrusted the welcome I’ve been given, though at times I’ve felt unworthy of it, or silly and obtrusive, because it is difficult to mistrust such blatant kindness.