Day: November 8, 2019

By Alex, Tufts 1+4 Participant

When thinking about what to get as a gift for my host family, my mind immediately went to peanut butter. There may not be any food condiment more quintessentially American than the creamy golden colored substance made from crushed peanuts and sugar. Peanut butter just doesn’t have the same tang anywhere else. It is the United States’ crown jewel: whether you are a Skippy or JIF fan, peanut butter forms a common bond between Americans. While American cuisine may be lacking, we can proudly call ourselves the founders of peanut butter. I knew I wanted my Indian host family to experience its deliciousness and get a taste for my childhood, as I had grown up eating peanut butter.

So 8,401 miles later, I finally gave my host family the prized peanut butter that had fortunately not been confiscated during customs. We arranged to have a formal taste test on that Thursday, and that morning, I eagerly woke up early and took my usual seat at the dining room table facing the window’s swaying palm trees.

I’m not a great cook, but I can proudly boast about making mean peanut butter toasts. As I began to lay out my ingredients, my host mom started to make her everyday chai. While I added cinnamon and honey to the peanut butter, my host mom added masala chai spices and ginger to her teapot. While I chopped bananas, my host mom poured steamed milk into the chai mixture. Finally, when I finished preparing plates with peanut butter and jelly, and peanut butter, banana, cinnamon, and honey, she added two spoonfuls of sugar each to five cups. Together, we crafted a breakfast I’ll always remember.

One by one, each member of my family came downstairs and enthusiastically grabbed pieces of toast before I could describe what I had created. As they took their first bites, I could see surprise turned to pleasure on their faces while I explained to them that this was a typical American snack. My host father jokingly told me that Indians typically didn’t eat sweet things for breakfast while I replied that sadly Americans did. My host sister Pritti declared her new love for peanut butter and stuck her finger into the jar, reminding me of one of my grandfather’s old habits. Pranoti added some ghee (a quintessential Indian condiment) to the toast, making it her own. While we continued eating our meal, I realized my role and my host family’s role reversed. I had been the one trying different foods daily and discussing the differences or similarities between Indian and American meals. Now, for the first time, they were getting a taste of how I had been feeling.

Food bridges cultures. My host mother’s careful preparation of chai, the staple Indian drink, paired with a classic American meal exemplified this notion. Through the taste of her masala chai, I am in India. Through peanut butter, I am in the United States. With both, I am on my bridge year.

By Darby, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Surrounded by churches and cathedrals, blue domed, white trim, ornate gold detailing, pastel colored statues of the saints, in Cuenca you can’t help but think of God. Whoever or whatever that may be. A man? A woman? I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think I ever have been. I know what I’ve been taught and what I’ve been told. But I don’t know what I believe.

I was baptized as a Christian before I could speak or even think and a confirmed Catholic since 2014. However, in recent years I’ve been distancing myself from the Church and its potentially dangerous rhetoric regarding the rights of women and those who identify as LGBTQ+. Arriving in Cuenca reminded me why I felt called to Catholicism in the first place.

It was our first day here. A Monday. A few of us decided to leave the hostel to get some fresh air when we stumbled across the many churches, essentially one on every corner, that Cuenca has to offer. But we only actually stepped foot inside the last church we saw, Santuario Mariano del Carmen de la Asunción. It’s situated in La Plaza de las Flores, across the street and overshadowed by La Catedral de la Inmaculada Concepción.

On that slow and hazy Monday morning, as I was kneeling below the pew, I could hear the faint sound of the parishioners singing, praising. Maybe it was a choir? I was very far back in the church, not wanting to disturb what was happening before my eyes, almost like a museum exhibit or ballet performance, taking it all in as quietly as possible. I could feel the the powerful, looming notes and phrases bouncing, vibrating, echoing off the walls. I made the sign of the cross, the father, the son, the holy spirit and prayed.

I prayed mostly for myself, as selfish as that seems. The exact opposite of what God calls us, encourages us to do. And as much as I hate to admit it, I needed help and I didn’t know who else to ask. Since landing in Quito, my first time out of the United States, I felt like my world had been turned upside down and I couldn’t get a grip. I prayed for the ability to make it through the next second, minute, hour, day, week, month. To have patience with myself and with others. To have courage and be kind.

Right as I said, “Amen,” under my breath, an elderly woman approached me. She gingerly reached out her hand to me, sliding it softly against the wooden church bench. Still kneeling, in her short stature, she was eye level with me. I was hesitant to embrace her. Possibly a larger metaphor for my apprehension about living in a foreign city, miles away from all I’ve ever known.

Her hands were wrinkled and peppered with age spots. Signs of her life lived. She wore a gold ring, a plain wedding band of sorts. And she had something covering her hair. A short black veil? She said something to me in Spanish that I couldn’t fully grasp the meaning of, but be assured that I was hanging onto every word. She was beaming with a maternal pride. I knew she was glad I was here. It was the first time I felt welcomed in Cuenca.

It was our religion, albeit varying in degrees of commitment and devotion, that united us. The motion of my kneeling, praying, signing the cross, it said more to her than I could ever convey in a sentence, let alone in Spanish. Maybe it’s by the grace of God, my strength and determination, or sheer luck. Who knows? All I know is that so far my prayers have been answered. And that is the most comforting fact of all. That someone or something is listening and for the first time in a long time, I am being heard.