suecke01 – Page 7 – Tisch Global Jumbos

November 12, 2018April 1, 2021

The Importance of Listening (and Telenovelas!)

By Arlyss, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Traveling to Ecuador where I don’t know anyone or the language? Bold. Sharing my feelings and experiences on the internet for anybody to read? Bolder. Basing the whole experience on one thing I learned at Tufts? Boldest.

So what did I learn in my week at Tufts? Active listening. But what have I learned from speaking almost completely in Spanish for the past month? How to do it. We spent a lot of time discussing active listening, defining it as listening to understand, not just to respond. Communicating in Spanish forces me to listen to understand, because if I don’t, I won’t be able to respond, much less comprehend what’s being said. With English, I know the language well enough that I don’t always need to be paying full attention, but with Spanish an entirely different level of focus is required. I need to pay attention to body language, tone, and all the non-verbal markers, because even if I can’t understand the words being said, I can at least tell whether I should smile or frown, laugh or nod solemnly.

I’m usually the type of person to listen intently in a conversation, but every now and then I zone out, letting my mind wander or thinking of my response. Let me be the first to say, I really, truly cannot do this here in Ecuador. If I zone out for even a brief second, I’ve missed a part of a sentence, a whole meaning. (Although it’s likely that I didn’t know what was being said anyway.) I need to understand every bit of information I can to piece together the whole idea, because missing one part may mean missing the whole story. I am forced, for the better, to prestar atención if I plan to learn, or even understand, anything.

I’m used to doing a lot of the talking, but not here. I’m sitting here, I’m hearing words, but what are they trying to say? Am I supposed to respond now? How do I say that in Spanish? I feel both more and less present. More present in that I am so much more actively involved in trying to interpret what is going on around me, but less present in that I do not have much of a part in what is happening. I feel less important, but in a humbled way. I’ve always loved hearing stories, and now as I’m constantly listening, I always have that opportunity.

What are some of my favorite stories to listen to regardless of the effort needed to actively listen? Telenovelas, of course! At dinner every night, my Ecuadorian family and I sit down to eat at the kitchen table, where an old-fashioned TV with an antenna sits above our fridge. Together we watch telenovelas. My American family is not too supportive of my addiction to dramatic and reality TV, so I could not feel more welcome here watching those shows! As we watch the Ecuadorian shows, I ask about words and concepts I don’t understand and my family willingly fills me in on what’s happening, bringing us closer through our love of the drama and expanding my understanding of Spanish.

Together my family and I have lived through a woman stranded on an island, men disguised as women trying to hide in jail, and—the most crucial part to any dramatic show—the affairs, engagements, and everything in between. There’s no better way to bond than obsessing over overly-staged, melodramatic, life-altering events of other people who are completely fictional. Not to mention, my family and I are growing closer because with every episode, I learn more Spanish, and our language barrier shrinks just a little bit.

While it’s definitely not easy living every day immersed in a different language, I’m going to be an absolutely amazing listener by the end of these nine months (and hopefully a much better Spanish speaker!). For now I am not dismayed by the long path ahead of me to fluency, but excited for the quality time I will spend with my family listening and learning Spanish, and the telenovelas that will bring us closer, one dramatic event at a time.

November 9, 2018April 1, 2021

The Source

By Zach, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I found a fountain last week. No special fountain or anything like that. I was just a fountain. Three tiers, stone color, nothing new.

But for whatever reason, the fountain became the immediate center of my attention. It was surrounded by a perfectly landscaped garden. The red shrubs and green hues encroaching upon it— their sole purpose was to draw the eye to the center of the garden where the grey chunk lay. I saw the fountain and wanted to photograph myself next to it. But the closer that I got to it, the less that I wanted to divulge into my own individualistic temptations to take a photo. I wanted to sit next to the towering sculpture and listen to it.

So I did. I sat right in front of the fountain and looked up to it. It shadowed over me: a sturdy giant which strained my neck to look to. I listened to its pitter-patter. Immense waves of tiny drops unifying to make a fragile and strong noise. I looked into the basins. Each was uneven. Imperfect. The water spilled out crooked and unequally from each leaving half of the fountain completely dry. Regardless, I remained frozen on the dusty ground completely transfixed on it.

When I was small and everything was different, I used to go to the bank with my dad. He had made friends with the tellers there and would make excuses to cash a stray check or take out a twenty from the counter. Each time—bored out of my underdeveloped mind—I’d get on my tippytoes to grab a blue lollypop from the counter. I would stand by his leg and convince myself that the candy was sufficient to keep me entertained while my dad talked with the bank lady until his breath ran out.

But after seeing my eyes glazed over with boredom, my dad would take me to the fountain outside of the bank to make it up to me. Again, this fountain was nothing special; it was made of an ugly and coarse stone. It always looked dirty and was known as being a nuisance to many. But we’d go outside and my dad would reach into his ragged wallet to pull out whatever change that he had left. We’d take it and toss it into the well, making wishes that we swore to never tell anyone.

And so every bank trip, I would go to the fountain with my dad and stand there captivated by the ugly brown mass. It wasn’t until last week that I felt the same sensation that was once so common to me— the feeling of complete attention for the fountain, listening to the unyielding drip-drip while watching the water pour out from the top. I was always so intrigued by the fact that the fountain could just take the old water and make it into new water. It seemed like it could go on forever.

So when I saw the fountain last week, by instinct, I had to pause to watch it. I had to sit by the grey monster and watch the same water trickle down the dark stone just to rise back up it again. Something about it just felt special— I get the feeling that something about it will always feel a little special to me. I just happened to find a little comfort in the fact that Ecuador has fountains too. Ugly and uneven fountains just the same that I used to watch with my dad.

November 5, 2018April 1, 2021

An Average Day at Turner Elementary

By Michael, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I was surrounded by a crowd of six-year-olds, shouting, whining, throwing everything in sight, and generally not paying attention. It was nearing the end of the day and at this moment, none of them seemed to be thinking about anything that even resembled math. My head spun as hand after hand shot into the air. Few students were asking for help, most sharply pointed their index fingers at me, which directly translated to, “I want water!”. Frantically I sent some of my most trustworthy students out of the room to get water. I then began shouting out every callback phrase I knew, attempting to calm the hurricane of first graders pouring down on me. I was new to the classroom and still learning how to lead the students. As a result in this moment my stress was building to a peak.

Despite my incredible frustration and the lack of focus in my corner of the room, there was something very endearing about the wild nature of the children around me. Because for all of the “not learning” they were doing, I could still see how much they tried. Even if they were struggling to pay attention, it was apparent that they were trying to solve the problems put before them. When you’re six years old it’s almost impossible to understand how truly important learning is, yet all these kids were naturally curious and eager to tackle challenges put before them.

One small girl kept grabbing my finger, alerting me to her most recent attempt at an addition problem. She looked up at me with anticipation in her wide eyes. While I told her that her answer was incorrect multiple times, she would eagerly dive back into her work each time, despite all the distractions around her. With every problem she attempted, I could see her brow furrow and wiggle, which always meant that the gears in her brain were turning. I couldn’t help but smile.

As frustrating as it was to see students struggle over and over, I found it heartwarming to see kids be kids. For all the problems they faced inside and out of school, they still maintained a basic desire to learn. Yet still, this wonderfully goofy group of first graders was out of control. I stepped away for a moment, turning around to look out the window. I was almost blinded by the magnificent sun perched just beyond the tree line. No wonder these kids couldn’t sit still. I closed my eyes briefly, preparing to regain control of the class. I turned back around, raising my voice in steady increments, trying to brush off any and all frustration. I brought a single finger to my mouth. Pursing my lips, I sucked in a deep breath of air and loudly shushed the kids. Their voices sputtered and came to a staggering halt. Silence at last. Well for a moment anyway…

November 2, 2018April 1, 2021

Inside the Enclosure

By David, Tufts 1+4 Participant

“David, let’s go to the zoo.” These were six words that once foreshadowed afternoons of pure joy during my childhood: a time when I excitedly zipped around from cage to cage, an adventurer in search of exotic beasts.

Animals were my childhood passion, my first love. National Geographic magazines and Planet Earth documentaries were staples before bedtime. My very first Christmas gift was a pair of binoculars, for wildlife watches. When most kids concerned themselves with dolls or monster trucks, I busily kept a little zoo in my house with insects found in the yard (my parents quickly shut that down). Ask six-year old me and I would for sure say that my greatest dream was to work with wildlife.

I would have never anticipated that twelve years later, this dream finally came true. It just seemed that all of the pieces, one by one, fell into place, as some fate awaited me. First, I selected to do a bridge year before jumping straight into university. Second, Global Citizen Year sent me to live seven months in Brazil, which happened to be the most biodiverse nation on the planet. Finally, third, I got assigned to a wildlife rescue park, where I would directly care for everything from parrots to penguins, toucans to tamanduas, and owls to ocelots. On paper, I had everything I could have ever wished for.

Yet, in real life, I truly had no idea what was in store. Up until now, I have engaged with wildlife in the way most people have: outside looking in, secured by distance or a chain link fence. Yet, nothing was more surreal than being inside the enclosure on my first day. For the first time in my life, there was nothing between me (besides a hose and petty squeegee mop) and the beast. And knowing that this would be the reality of my next seven months.

Whether it be a flock of aggressive Amazon parrots or a troop of crazy capuchin monkeys, I learned quickly the need to tread carefully or be attacked. After a cage’s worth of cleaning, feeding, and not-getting-killed, I am covered in fruit stains, fish guts, or animal feces. The animals don’t seem to be impressed with my work, carelessly dirtying up the enclosure I had so arduously cleaned. Forget the rosy image of blossoming human-animal friendships. As a newbie on the job, my main goal was getting out of there alive.

AMAZON PARROTS AT THEIR MOST DANGEROUS TIME: FEEDING

As funny as it is to describe my first working week, in the moment, it was one filled with cognitive dissonance. It was one when I constantly questioned my commitment and passion. Had I been disillusioned in my passion for wildlife? Why does reality feel so wrong when on paper it felt so right and destined? Can I even survive seven months cleaning this many cages? As I continued to obsessively question myself during the first weeks, one particular Chinese parable constantly popped up in my head. This parable perfectly represented the worst of what I would discover out of my experience:

There was once a man who loved dragons. He loved dragons so much that he hung images of them in his home, wore them on his clothes, and dreamed about them at night. He loved them more than anything in the world.

The man’s devotion to dragons reached the ears of the Dragon King, who decided to pay him a visit. He snaked down from the heavens to the Earth, curling himself around the man’s house, awaiting his arrival.

The Dragon King expected a grand reception upon the man’s arrival home. Yet, he could not be farther from the truth. Upon seeing the dragon’s serpent-like body, his golden fins, and the wispy grey smoke exhaling from his breath, the man screamed in terror and fled for the hills.

It was too late that the Dragon King realized that, in reality, the man only liked the idea of dragons. However, to meet one in person just became too real.

I saw myself as that the man, fascinated by the dragon of my life: this opportunity I have in wildlife conservation. I have always loved its concept, enough to devote an entire year to its cause. Yet, I feared that once I discovered its truth, it would become too much for me.

However, looking back after a month on job, I am certain it will not turn out like that. Despite each day’s “terrors and toils”, I only feel more exhilarated to come back the next day, returning to confront the next set of challenges. I accept that it is not the idyllic experience that people make it out to be, because it represents something so much more: a higher goal with a deeper meaning, one that I can feel but have yet to discover it fully. I have since rejected that parable, instead, choosing to remind myself to embrace the discomfort of my new life and purpose. Because now, with more time and experience, I know where the gain and growth lies: inside the enclosure.

October 30, 2018April 1, 2021

My Journey to a New Shell

By Cecilia, Tufts 1+4 Participant

The majority of the energy I’ve acquired from the copious amount of rice and beans I’ve consumed this past month has been channeled towards my effort to adjust to my new surroundings in Cuenca, Ecuador. The experiences that have accompanied this cultural shift remind me of one of my favorite books from my childhood whose message has stuck with me for years: A House for Hermit Crab, by Eric Carle.

This story documents the journey of a hermit crab who has grown too big for his shell and is forced to abandon it in search of a new one that can better support him. He faces the discomfort of vulnerability as he travels through the ocean—shell-less—but finally ends up in a place where he not only discovers joy but eventually develops a sense of comfort as well.

As many children’s books do, this story contains multiple layers of moral guidance, but there is one lesson that has always stood out to me above the rest: the concept that no individual can experience growth without facing vulnerability. We must expose ourselves to what we fear—as the hermit crab did during his journey through the ocean—in order to expand our realms of understanding. Similar to the way that the hermit crab searches for a new shell out of necessity, it is essential that we allow ourselves to grow as individuals to generate both personal and societal benefits.

As I familiarize myself with the culture of Cuenca, I have kept in mind the concept of embracing vulnerability to remind myself that the discomfort I face on a daily basis is worth something. In fact, I know I am doing something right when I notice discomfort—it means that I have pushed myself to explore what exists beyond my ‘shell’.

There are plenty of awkward situations that I encounter on a regular basis, including those that arise from living in a new home with a new family, speaking an unfamiliar language, and attempting to adjust to new cultural norms. The way I see it, each of these obligations is like a vast ocean, full of strong currents and predators. Within this ocean we exist as hermit crabs, in search of a home that can accommodate our growth. We are presented with two options: either we leave our old shell behind and make the journey across the ocean floor—despite the risk of danger—in pursuit of the benefits that await us, or we stay put in our safety zone, never to discover what lies beyond our small, confining, and all too familiar shell.

When I encounter these situations, I push myself to embrace the expedition across the ocean—even if this entails abandoning the comfort of my ‘shell’—because I know that my failure to do so would leave me stuck; we will never grow if we restrict ourselves with a shell that is too small.

In my daily life in Cuenca, these situations typically show up as minor determinations. Do I leave my bedroom to spend time with my family or stay put in the comfort of privacy? Will I ask this stranger for directions or just try to figure out how to get there by myself? Should I enter this establishment on my own and risk being embarrassed by my inadequate knowledge of Spanish? Although these decisions may seem small and insignificant, the practice of confronting vulnerability is still valuable.

Instead of enduring the displeasure of confrontation, we always have the option to hide. We can convince ourselves that we won’t benefit from taking a risk as an excuse to back out of it. The only issue with this intention is that the feeling of incapability that results from it only decreases our motivation to take chances, which eventually leaves us stuck in a rut. A cloud of negativity looms over us, releasing droplets of guilt, failure, and incompetence from which we can’t hide. We have no umbrella or place to escape to; no way to console ourselves. We end up spending the majority of our time in a state of discomfort and insecurity.

Based on personal experience, I believe one of the most difficult aspects of adjusting to a new culture is the frustration that results from this long-term discomfort. When we endure the adversities associated with culture shock, our natural response is to retreat to a safe place where we can rid ourselves of distress. ‘Home’ is a word that many of us associate with comfort, warmth, and security. It’s our safe haven, where we can freely express ourselves, make our own choices, and follow our own routines. It makes perfect sense to want to return to this setting when we feel out of place; there’s nothing more comforting than familiarity. But, when there isn’t an option to return to the home that we know, our only choice is to make a home out of our new surroundings. Of course, this is easier said than done, but, at least in my opinion, the benefits of seeking out comfort in an unfamiliar setting outweigh the discomfort of the vulnerability it takes to get to that point.

The aspect of homes that I find most beautiful is that they are not limited to physical spaces. A home is a home because of its ambiance. Of course, spending time in a familiar location can be consoling, but it is the people, the comfort, and the sense of belonging that constitute a home. Therefore, it’s important to recognize that just because we have left one home behind, doesn’t mean we can’t cultivate a new one abroad. We can find comfort almost anywhere, it just takes time and patience to develop. This process of shifting homes—as the hermit crab exhibits—results in a beautiful cycle of growth; the more we practice it, the easier it becomes.

What makes this cycle so valuable? The fact that it will never cease. As we step out of our comfort zones and into the unfamiliar, we grow bit by bit, until we can no longer fit into the‘shell’ or ‘skin’ that we once occupied. By simply embracing the vulnerability that awaits us, we are allowing ourselves to grow in more ways than one: primarily on a personal level, but also on a level of perspective—a seemingly minor experience has the potential to change our perception of the world around us. The more we expose ourselves to discomfort, the more we grow, and the more we grow, the happier and more confident we feel about ourselves and our purpose. As individuals, only we have the power to determine the course of our growth. Whether it be a journey to a bigger shell in the ocean or to a new home abroad, it is our willingness to embrace vulnerability that makes us stronger.

Some photos of my new home: