Author: Mariam Aghayan

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Simple Days

by Dominique, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I was seduced by a heavenly concoction of light, warmth, and aroma in Anitápolis… I walked towards the fire slowly, the soft glow spooled over my skin. I took a deep breath. I stood at a distance, watching the fire climb. It moved quickly as it entranced me with its erratic dance. Every now and then it would shoot up flakes of light that would swirl up and mirror the cosmos in the dark sky. “There’s something so artistic about fire,” Tiago told me, “if you give it air, a reaction occurs, triggering a response that then results in a larger flame, but if you give it too much (air) the fire goes out.” I pondered this for a moment. Fire made the delicious soup that the community was enjoying inside. Fire brought these people together. Fire is a form of art. It can trigger change, it can trigger a response. It can also destroy. The branches leaned over and crashed—sending a stream of stars into the clean air.

I stood there, completely in love with fire. Completely in love with the moment.

Existing here, immersed in another environment, culture, and country allows you to see elements of life in a different light. There are days that we do extraordinary things that I would not be able to do back home but there are also days that are so simple. Days where I am riding the bus and notice how people interact around me, days where I feel the hot wind pick up right before a storm, days where I notice people speaking in English on the street but they slip away too fast before I have a chance to talk to them. These simple days are not insignificant, rather, they still change how I see the world. Simply living abroad has forced me to constantly keep an open mind. Activities so mundane seem to have a significant meaning, like looking at fire.

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Consider the Chuchu

by Jonas, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I think Americans take for granted the fact that all of their food share the same texture. Regardless of whether the food is whole or in pieces, cooked or raw, moist or dry, it all does the same thing in your mouth: it mushes. Now imagine eating a fruit with an identical appearance to a melon, and finding that after twenty seconds of vigorous chewing it has broken down into dozens of miniscule, dry pieces of fibre. This fruit–called chuchu–is native to Mexico and is included in everything from omelets to lasagne, despite it having no taste. The only reason brasilieros eat the fruit is because it contains minerals that benefit your immune system. Last Tuesday, chuchu found its way into my largest meal of the day: lunch.
Continue reading “Consider the Chuchu”

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Papas

Audrey and her papas

by Audrey, Tufts 1+4 Participant

“You need to speak slowly to Audrey please, she is not stupid, only learning Spanish. We are very proud of her.” This note, scribbled in Spanish, was given to me by my host father after my first day of work. I had arrived to his house in tears, frustrated that I could not understand my boss. Milton Serrano had dropped everything to help me, writing a note for me to give to mi jefe. For the first time, I felt the ‘father’ part of my host family.

My dad is one of the most important people in my life. From him I get my height, my stubbornness, and my sweet tooth. He taught me how to ride a bike, cook creme brulee, and use a chainsaw by the time I was 9 years old. He has always given me rides home no matter how late. When I was young, he would play fairy tea party with me, braid my hair, pack my lunches, and he walked me home from school every day. Upon deciding to move to Ecuador and live with a host family, I knew that my host father would have big shoes to fill (size 13, in fact), and I was nervous that my standards would be too high. The idea of calling anyone else “papa” made me cringe, and I figured that an assigned father would pale in comparison to my real one.

However on the first day I was pleasantly surprised to find that, in room full of host mothers, Milton Serrano had come to pick me up. Standing just below my collarbone at 5’5, he insisted on riding the bus with me every day to school so that I would not get lost, and riding the bus to accompany me back. He explained to me, slowly and with the aid of a battered English dictionary, not to go home with strangers and not to cross the street when there is traffic. I later found out that he (a carpenter by trade) had hand-built my bed specifically to be long enough for me, something that my father (also a carpenter) had done for me at home. And when I stayed late at a concert, he was there to pick me up on the curb, my real father’s voice echoing “always call for a ride” in my head.

Nobody could ever replace my dad, but I am realizing that nobody has to. The families that I find in my life can have more than 4 people, all playing different roles. With the odd, adorable bonding of Milton Serrano, I am learning that nobody needs to “replace” anybody, that I only need to make room in my heart for more families. My host dad rushed to help me on my first day of work, wanting to solve my problems just as my real dad would. As their similarities pile up, I am accepting a new family, and all because of a short Ecuadorian man in a blue fleece onesie.

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The Healing Sickness

by Linnea, Tufts 1+4 Participant
Ever since graduation this spring, I have been struggling to accept that my childhood is over now. I am so lucky to have had such a positive life growing up, that I have been having a tough time letting it go. Diving headfirst into another country seemed like the most abrupt path into adulthood that I could imagine. I have to work like an adult, take care of myself, walk around the city by myself, go shopping by myself, etc. That really terrified me. However, as like most expectations, this has been (pleasantly) shot down. I’m not reliving my childhood, but I haven’t had to completely fend for myself in a forest of vicious adults by any means. 

Just when I was feeling lonely earlier this week, reassurance of the presence of helpful people in my life unexpectedly came in the form of a fever and a cold. I was feeling absolutely miserable because I didn’t know what to do and I just wanted my mom to sit by my bed and take care of me. Unfortunately, I’m a little too old for that kind of service, but I was surprised that everyone around me took care of me in their own ways. Our in-country staff member called and texted me to check up on me and took me to the clinic. She offered for me to sit down when there was only one chair and held my purse while the nurse did tests. After the clinic visit, we could have walked two blocks to get to a bigger street, but since I looked a little bit like I might crumble if the wind picked up, she hailed the taxi from right outside the clinic. When I got home, my host mom made me hot soup and made sure I took my medicine. The other fellows texted me to see how I was doing. My host sister (age 6) made sure that the fan was always pointed directly at me and even gave me a princess sticker. A few days later I felt better so I stopped by Brenna and Nadia’s houses, and both of their host families asked if I was feeling better. When I returned to Spanish class, the teacher gave me a recipe for a healing tea. Those gestures were nothing grand, but they were exactly what I needed. Nobody offered me a flippant “feel better!”- instead they did whatever they could to reassure me that I am not alone. Much to my pleasure, I wasn’t a solitary inhabitant of an island. Being sick wasn’t the most fun way to feel the strength of love around me, but it definitely was effective.

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The Big “Cuyeast” and Soccer Challenge

by Max, Tufts 1+4 Participant

It was like I was at home again. Today felt oddly similar to a laid-back Sunday with my American family. I relaxed in the morning, enjoyed a delicious barbecue lunch, and played some sports in the evening. This sense of familiarity made the day even better.

11:00 AM:
        After a nice breakfast of eggs and bread with my host brother, Jhonatan, I spent the rest of the morning in my room. I caught up a little bit on news from the U.S., wanting to do something both productive and comforting in my alone time. I needed that time away after a busy and tiring Saturday, which was spent with the other Ecuador fellows in our first AMIGOS (in-country organization) workshop.

3:00 PM:
        In the afternoon, I headed to Max Whaley’s (another fellow) host family’s house for some cuyes (guinea pigs). No, it was not to play around with them as if they were pets. Instead, they were the main part of our cookout. When Max’s host dad called us to the grill to cook, each of the three of us lingot a chance to spin the spit and then enjoy some cuyes. I felt really torn while I was churning the guinea pig in circles. Although the smell of it was really rich and savory, especially after Max’s host mom applied some special sauce, it looked as if I was roasting a rat. Then, my growling stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten in five hours, and I knew I had to keep spinning away. Even though I had already tasted it once before since I arrived in Ecuador, I was still a little hesitant to eat what is seemingly a pet to me. Pet or not, I was reminded again of why I should eat the cuy: I’m a big-time meat eater. Also, once I took my first bite, it didn’t matter to me that I might have been eating a pet. Most importantly, my teeth happily gnawed through some crispy and flavorful flesh. Despite my discomfort in situations like this, I enjoy these constant opportunities that push me out of my comfort zone and get me to try new things that I usually end up liking. Max’s host family generously offered me a country delicacy. The least I could do was accepted their cultural offering with an open mouth.

6:30 PM:
        As I have grown up with ice hockey and track as my main sports, I have never considered myself to be much of a soccer player. So, when I played with Henry and his host brother at a park called Plaza del Arte near their apartment, I had to do the best job of pretending I was. Without a lot of natural soccer talent, I used some of my hockey senses to make smart plays with the ball. Playing with them felt similar to my experience speaking Spanish during the bridge year so far. While my foot would roll off of the ball and my ankles would nearly break every time I touched the ball, the others dribbled, passed, and shot perfectly in whatever direction and speed without any problem. To make matters worse, the embarrassment I felt from my countless mistakes while we were playing made me just as embarrassed to try to explain myself in Spanish to my teammate. I got the baby treatment while I was playing with my teammate who kept giving me the softest, easiest to handle passes possible, which I desperately needed. I soon realized these kiddy passes are the only way I’m going to develop my soccer skills. Just like with Spanish, when someone speaks a little bit slower than normal to me, it lets me pick up words here and there and ultimately helps my Spanish skills improve.

While I am sure I will not be playing like Messi any time soon, I am glad I had some quality competition to force me to play my best. Also, with Henry saying he wants to play once every weekend, I will have plenty of opportunities to improve. My language skills are undergoing the same training except that it is daily, beginning once I step outside my room into the Spanish-speaking world.
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Stories About My Time In Nicaragua: In 2 Parts

by Nadia, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I have been having a hard time, lately, in deciphering how I feel, why I feel that way, and dealing with the inevitable aftermath. This experience has given as many valleys as it has mountains. I’ve teared up thinking about staying a whole other 8 months as much as I’ve teared up thinking about eventually having to leave. As a result, I have had to fall back on various coping methods I know well. Some have worked out fantastic, and some have not. Some cost money, and some are just better decisions than others. One of the methods I keep using without even really trying to do so is that of expressing myself through written word.

lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely,
sugar sweet soft skinny sickly suave
honey yielding tender flesh
baby doll glass-eyed twinkling
sparkle                *        !

are you busy? are you going?
can you answer?

girl come back
girl come
girl is you hungry
girl is you wanting
girl is you is you is you
will you will you will you
are you are you are you
smiling smile mine

touch
me, dream come true, sit awhile
i can show you God
Destroyer of Worlds, Sin Punisher
i can show you sharpened teeth

who will i who will i who will i
all the coins are silver
and in the broken mirror, shine
blood
the drip drip drips on my shoes
but you can spit shine those
you can be my payment
you can be my sugar, neighbor,
have you any sugar
for me

for me the law is resold
bought with empty pockets
show me your claws girl

girl don’t close your eyes

girl i want my pound of flesh
and this tongue is the scale

come a little closer
stay a little longer
walk a little slower
smile a little wider

Buenas is my middle name

estoy bien señor
sugar sweet sun-burnt sap
silence
silence
silence

g o n e

welcome home
alone                living?                here                viva jodido

aquí soñamos con la fuerza
de nuestra Madre, Esa Señora,
si Señora, nuestra ave, nuestra Dama,
la lluvia

lluvia
llueve
llora
llore
y en la distancia viene todo-

la vida crece solo por crecer
square feet by square feet
plastic do confine this land
fences do not call themselves fences
but it alright

the sand is soft

we name our disasters the names
we might call our daughters
and shut our eyes so tight
we cannot help but see
the ocean rolling-

sweeping expanse of froth
at the mouth, no one does that
with a frown

(ain’t you heard, the first
sign is always a smile-
pointed glint and you
too proud)

something cursed happened here

if you stand too long here
there are souls pushing, scratching,
digging their way back to the Heaven
that was denied them
and you.

you still
you silent
you looking
you gate fence
you daughter’s name

something cursed, something powerful happened
here is a curse, here it happened
curses happened here, this land be
here not a curse but this an alphabet
we don’t decipher

enscribed painstakingly
pain
staking
ly
by…

i don’t think it was the claws that did dig
and my feet do look monstrous in this light

how funny every church face West
yet I wake up East
going South
looking North

walking backwards into the arms
of snapping, wailing winds I cannot see
and my eardrums hollow

promises color the walls
and Names echo,
smiles, frowns, glints, sparkles

this not a story I know
this not an ending I predicted

what i mean to say is
i would like to think that
Land Like This
would be littered with Old
Stories, Promises, Tales, Names-

none of them mine
and i think that might be

an omen

—
There’s nothing wrong with giving into your inner poet sometimes and spilling angst on a page, whether it be ink or pixels. To bottle it up is the only wrong choice here. This that I’ve uploaded is a fraction of what I’ve written. Imagine if I hadn’t written anything at all and instead had chosen to keep it locked up in my chest. I would have exploded into a mountain of purple prose by now if that was the case. Few hear it, so let me be the one to remind you: poetry’s main purpose is to let go of the garbage you’ve been holding. Let yourself let go.