Learning to Laugh at Myself

By Cecilia, Tufts 1+4 Participant

a drawing from my sketchbook

At the age of four, my worst fear was arriving late to preschool. Being late meant attention, and at that time in my life, there was nothing more unbearably mortifying than having all eyes on me. I vividly remember standing outside the doorway to my classroom, butterflies swarming my stomach, attempting to build up the confidence to walk into the room. A teacher or fellow student would usually find me before I mustered up the courage to enter, leaving me with no choice but to confront the discomfort of being in the spotlight. When the door finally opened, and all heads turned, I wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and disappear. I would regularly beat myself up about my lack of courage and consequently had trouble motivating myself to grow my small bud of confidence.

I can’t count the number of times I have turned down opportunities out of fear since my years in preschool. My parents, who constantly radiate positivity, encouragement, and support, would regularly present me with new opportunities throughout my years in school, excited for me to try them out—things like work and community service opportunities, classes, extracurriculars, and other ways to get involved in the community. I would turn down these opportunities most of the time with a heavy heart, full of guilt and self-hatred, even when a part of me wanted to pursue them. To this day, I regret not taking those chances, and have trouble forgiving myself for turning them down. I can’t help but wonder how different my life would be if I had accepted those challenges rather than hiding from them.

For a long time, there was some inherent fear that existed inside of me, like a bright red stop sign that showed up out of nowhere every time I was presented with the opportunity to take a risk. I was so afraid of embarrassing myself or being judged that I avoided every situation that had the potential to make me feel bad about myself—in other words, every social situation, ever. But, somehow, here I am today, thousands of miles away from home, speaking a different language, living a completely different life, and embarrassing myself countless times on the daily. I still wonder: how on earth did I make that jump? 

My shyness has been on a steady decline since preschool, but greatly dampened my confidence all the way through my sophomore year in high school. Until then, I absolutely dreaded public speaking and avoided conversing with people all costs. I had a very hard time getting over my mistakes, especially those related to embarrassment. Any time I stuttered, answered a question wrong, or had an awkward conversation, I would play the moment over and over again in my head, lingering in the embarrassment, and would shame myself for not doing something differently. At a certain point, something shifted; I was tired of spending so much time regretting my actions and feeling disappointed in myself, and decided it wasn’t worth it. 

While ordering coffee at a café a couple of years back, I decided to put into practice the method that I believed would be the most effective in recovering from embarrassment: laughter. After I placed my order, the barista asked, “How are you today?” Due to a combination of my subpar hearing and the background noise, I couldn’t make out what he had said, so I assumed he had asked for a name for the order. I responded confidently but immediately knew I had done something wrong when the barista answered with a curious and slightly judgmental look and the words, “Um… I actually asked how you are doing today. But okay, hi, Cece. Nice to meet you, I’m José.” A hot flash of embarrassment immediately flooded my body, but instead of shutting down, I began to laugh. When I thought about the situation and ignored the fact that I was involved in it, it was simply funny to me. The tension immediately lightened, and the barista responded with a smile. I teased myself, apologizing for my bad hearing, and moved on with my day. It was that simple. 

My world grew enormously once I learned how to laugh at myself. I have been able to spend less time worrying and more time living. There is no purpose in lingering in our moments of discomfort—they will all be forgotten within a matter of time. Failure is such a regular occurrence, but in our society, the open discussion of it is taboo. From a young age, we are taught to hide our failures, and only disclose our successes. What we don’t recognize is that failure has such a tight relationship with growth—in fact, it isn’t possible to grow without failing—so why should we hide our mistakes?

By embracing the fact that failure is inevitable, I have been able to involve myself in various activities here in Cuenca that I have always had an interest in but have been too afraid to pursue. I have been attending kickboxing classes two or three times a week, and yoga once or twice a week. I’m learning sign language online, spending more time drawing, getting more involved in music—specifically violin and guitar—and learning more about Buddhism. These are all interests that I have been wanting to pursue for years. 

The boxing gym I have been taking classes at

Sure, I can think of plenty of times I have embarrassed myself, not only in the practice of these activities but in my everyday life here in Cuenca as well. I’ve had innumerable awkward encounters with the cheek-kiss greeting, have managed to create many uncomfortable situations through various forms of miscommunication, and often have to repeat “¿Mande?” an embarrassing number of times when I don’t understand somebody—just to name a few. I even accidentally kicked my kickboxing coach in the face once and have mistakenly punched him as well. In these moments it feels like nothing could get any worse, but when I take a step back and review what happened, I ask myself, “Who really cares?” Nobody should care more than I do, so if I choose not to care, there should be no reason for me to hang onto the embarrassment. 

Through the practice of laughing at myself, I’ve learned that every chance I take is worth something; it either results in a success or a learning experience, which both have their own benefits. By embracing the possibility of failure, I can freely pursue my interests rather than hide from them in fear of discomfort. I am no longer hesitant to allow my confidence to blossom; I’m choosing to grow risk by risk and failure by failure, because I refuse to go through the rest of my life regretting the chances I never took.

Autosuccess

By Jamie, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Auto Rickshaw Captured by Sofia Alfaro

Tuk Tuk, Auto Rickshaw, Rickshaw, Auto. One of the first things that pops into your mind when you think of a typical, Indian street. They’re (usually) the cheapest way to get around. They’re the most fun to get around in. They’re an essential part of the Indian experience. However, when you don’t speak Hindi and you don’t know the city geography well enough to explain where you live, then it’s really hard to hail one. This is a story of the first time I successfully hailed and bartered an Auto home.

It was a typical day. I had taken Ubers all day long and I was feeling a hole burning in my pocket. I looked longingly towards all of the auto rickshaws that passed my way, but shook my head knowing that I would never be able to do it. Later that same day, the Team Leader in Hyderabad gave some of the fellows tips on saving money on transportation. Her first recommendation was to make multiple stops on Uber instead of taking a straight shot to the destination, her second was taking Ola or Uber Share, and her third was taking an Auto. I asked her the best approach to hailing and negotiating a price and it all boiled down to speaking Hindi (something that I have no particular talent in). Defeated, I booked an Uber with my friend, Ashley, with the intention of lessening the cost of going home. I planned to book another Uber from Ashley’s house to my home, but something went wrong with the app and I got extremely frustrated and my defeatedness turned into determination. I looked at Ashley and said, “I’m going to try to hail an auto.”

Initially, her face exuded a deep apprehension about my ability to do so, but she said, “Okay, I’ll wait with you while you try to get one.” I knew that the average price from her house to my house in the evening time was around 80 rupees, but I knew I had to low ball first. I waved my hand towards an auto and got one in about 10 seconds. I repeated Pannipurra, Subzi Mandi until he began to understand that my accent distorted his native words. He nodded and I thought to myself that that was much too easy. I squinted my eyes and said the word “rupee” hoping that he would understand I meant “how much”. He must’ve been well versed in foreigners and quickly said 100. My eyes widened with disbelief and I quickly said “Nehi,” the Hindi word for no and “50.” He said something I couldn’t understand in Hindi and I thought it was over. Luckily, there was a naan bread shop owner who was watching the whole interaction and decided he should step in. He said, “hello,” and I asked him if he could translate what the Autodriver was saying. He replied that he wants 100. I showed him my Uber screen and I explained how there was no fathomable way I would pay 100 rupees when it’s only 80, and to ask him if he would do it for 60. I watched him explain in Hindi and the driver was almost disgusted with the request. He looked at me and said 90, 90. I threw my head back and laughed with such confidence like I had endless transportation options. I shook my head no and said “70,” and began to walk in the other direction. The Naan shop owner exclaimed, “Hey, he agreed to 70!” After profusely thanking the shop owner and smiling wider than you can imagine at Ashley, I hopped in the auto and made my way home.

When I got home I told my host mom, I texted my sister and mom, I even texted the entire Hyderabad cohort what I had achieved. You may be thinking, well. . . it was really the Naan shop owner that really did it, but I would argue that it was my initiative to do so and teamwork that made my hope come to fruition. If I had never tried to hail an Auto I would have never met the shop owner who negotiated for me. Finding the courage to do something that I had very little confidence in succeeding in and actually succeeding in it was a great feeling, but doing it in India where everything is a little harder made me feel on top of the world.

Viewpoint from Inside an Auto by Ashley Trejo

The Perks of Always Getting Lost

By Christine, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Found a rainbow on my walk home from the bus stop
On the first day of my internship, I allotted myself an hour time slot for a trip that would take 30 minutes. I was not trying to make a good first impression by being obnoxiously early, but rather account for the inevitable loss of direction that I would experience. To no surprise, I used nearly all of the extra half-hour to find the building. It’s safe to say that navigation is not one of my strong suits.
Anyone who knows me is well aware that I lack an internal compass. Even with Google Maps telling me exactly how many steps to take before my turn, I am incapable of comprehending the simplest of directions. I’ve always thought of this as a personal limitation and was often scared to go to new places alone. It’s especially daunting now that I’m in a foreign country where I can barely speak the language. Although the absence of my mental grid can be extremely inconvenient in situations with time constraints or potential danger, I am slowly coming to appreciate it more and more. 
Last week after work, I decided to meet up with some friends at a local park. As a result, I was forced to stray from my usual route back to the bus stop. I knew myself well enough to not even attempt to find my way alone at dusk; even with the help of a companion, I still found myself disoriented and unfamiliar with my location. I commented about how interesting the street murals were and how I wanted to visit the café we had just passed. I was intrigued by this new change of scenery—only to be informed by my friend that we had walked this road in the other direction about four times in the past two weeks.
For the most part, I had been able to avoid situations of disorientation at home in Pennsylvania. I lived in the same small town for 18 years and knew the area like the back of my hand. Driving to areas outside of my 15 mile radius of comfort, however, was a different story. Luckily, I had been gifted 3 car GPS systems for Christmas that could guide me down every road. I missed my turn more times than I can count, but the stern GPS voice reprimanded me as soon as I made a mistake and instantly rerouted itself. Unfortunately, I don’t have the same technology in Cuenca and my brain is not exactly equipped for rerouting. I don’t have my GPS and can’t use Google Maps, so I’ve been forcing myself to become more geographically sound.
It takes approximately five visits to the same location before I can begin to recognize my surroundings. This seems a bit ridiculous, but I am lucky in the fact that everything always seems new and exciting. I could walk through the same park three different times and still feel a sense of amazement and wonder upon each new visit. Besides my naivety, I have also been making a conscious effort to take mental notes of where I am, in hopes that I can learn to improve my navigation skills. This has allowed me to find places that others may never have noticed, such as hidden cafes or stores.
When I am finally able to get places without relying on a navigation app or another person, I feel a sense of accomplishment and independence. This new sense of independence can be extremely challenging, but it also comes with great reward. It is comforting to find spots of familiarity in such a new, foreign land. During the unavoidable situations where I do find myself lost, I’m forced to practice my Spanish in order to get directions. Putting myself in these positions of discomfort has granted me the opportunity to talk to new people and get one step closer to achieving language fluency. 
These small victories and moments of excitement make every day more positive. I also have an excuse to invite friends along to new areas that I want to explore. My directional incompetency makes life more enjoyable, and allows for great stories!
La Comisión de Gestión Ambiental offices— the building I could not find on my first day of work

Learning My Role

by Sam, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I stood nervously before 40 sweat-suit clad middle schoolers. All my attempts to get through to them had failed, and their faces were all colored with looks of confusion mixed with mild disinterest. Panic began to creep over my face as I thought to myself, “Oh no! What if I won’t be able to teach these children to form sentences using simple past tense verbs about my trip to Ingapirca this weekend?” Then I took a second to actually think about what would happen, and I slowly came to my senses.

I’ve now been working at the Unidad Educativa Mileno (UEM) Sayausi for over a month now, and my days have been filled with watching, helping, and leading English classes for students ages 12 through 18. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been taking my job too seriously. So what if I can’t get the students to conjugate some past tense verbs? If all else fails, the trained, professional teacher in the room will step in and get the class back on track. I came into this volunteer role expecting myself to have immediate success in not only teaching English, but also managing forty rowdy children at a time. Clearly, I set myself up for failure. After getting to know the students, teachers, and my own limitations better, I have completely changed my outlook on what I should expect of myself.

My job isn’t to be an English teacher. Not only is that a far too vague and difficult goal for me to set for myself, but it would be a disservice to the students to have an untrained and unfamiliar 18 year old try to teach them a foreign language, while not having mastered their native tongue. I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by capable English teachers who know what they’re doing. Instead, my job is to be a role model for the kids. Be respectful, kind, and engaging to everyone I see, always pay attention to what the teacher is saying even if I’m not the one supposed to be learning, and every now and then lend a hand with grading, pronunciation, spelling, or anything that the students or the teachers may need. I’m not going to fundamentally change anyone’s life, or challenge anyone’s way of thinking, but I think in this way I can help reinforce good life habits in the students, and help make everyone’s life a little bit easier. 

I Need a New Watch

By Laura, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Time is different in Brazil.

There are many reasons why – I went from British summer time with the sun setting at 11pm, to it setting here at 6:30pm. We eat lunch anywhere between 1pm and 4pm, and tea just before going to bed. The buses can come up to 20 minutes before or after their scheduled time. At my apprenticeship, a four hour shift can be considered productive even if we just sit and chat the whole time.

Despite all this, on Monday my timing was actually wrong, even for Brazil.

My alarm went off ready to go to my apprenticeship working in environmental education at Comcap – the waste management department of the city council. I rolled out of bed bleary eyed, having stayed up too late the night before spending time with another fellow at Café Cultura, and forgetting the irregularity of the buses on a Sunday night. I had my normal breakfast of granola and fresh Brazilian bananas in the quiet living room; my host parents work from home and my host sister works in the afternoon so I rarely see them before I leave. The sky was clear outside and I laughed at my change of lifestyle – I used to scrabble to find all my A level folders before leaving for the bus, now I dig through my bags to find my sunglasses. 

The bus was later than usual – I whatsapped the fellow who lives near me as she was planning on getting the same bus as me that morning, to let her know that she could still make it. She still wasn’t there when the bus eventually arrived. 15 minutes into the bus ride my phone vibrated in my bag – she had replied seemingly very confused. “How has it gone if it’s 7:16?”.  I turned my wrist to check my watch, forgetting that it wasn’t there.

After a couple more confused messages we established that the time on my phone was an hour ahead – I was fuming. After all, there is nothing you learn to prize more than sleep when it’s so exhausting living in a space where you don’t speak the language. How on earth had my phone just jumped ahead an hour? And why had no one else’s? Why had I been sat at the bus stop at 7am?

I realized that I don’t normally wear my sunglasses at the bus stop because the sun isn’t normally that low in the sky at that time. I realized that the neighbor who normally gets the same bus as me wasn’t at the bus stop. And I remembered that I do normally hear one of my host parents showering during breakfast even if I don’t always see them. 

Annoyed at myself, I slumped off the bus and went to get a pão de queijo to pass the time – I now had the choice of arriving at my work an hour before everyone else or sitting at the bus station for an hour. With a surprisingly good bakery and an eBook on my phone, I chose the latter. I messaged another fellow to see if her phone had done the same thing, it hadn’t but she said that “it’s Temer’s fault”. At, what I now knew to be 7:30 on a Monday morning, I was too confused and delirious not to believe this, and I googled what President Temer could possibly have to do with my phone’s clock.

It turns out, in one of the most random pieces of legislation I’ve ever read about, President Temer decided to change when the south of Brazil would change between summer and standard time, and also alter which states used summer time. Apparently my phone provider didn’t get the memo, and jumped forward an hour two weeks early. Still grumpy over my lost hour of sleep, I was reminded that I’d have to do the same thing again in a fortnight.

Lots of people at home have been asking what Brazil is like. This is a hard question to answer, but I guess this experience gives you some insight: more sun than I’d ever seen at home, questionable public transport, a relaxed pace of life, unbelievable politics and unpredictable days. Oh, and technology doesn’t work very well. My watch broke a week after arriving and I’m now skeptical of my phone.

This morning it was very sunny again. As I reached into my bag to put on my sun glasses, I caught myself and glanced at my phone. Not again my friend.

My bus stop view

Home Is Where the Dog Is

by Olivia, Tufts 1+4 Participant

The very first day I moved in with my host family, they warned me not to be scared of Osa when she barked at me. The street I live on is comprised of many little “gated communities”, which are just 7-10 row houses with their own gate that requires a key. Osa is the large German Shepard that lives in the very first house of my “gated community.” She sits behind the gate to her own house all day long, lying on her step, waiting for passersby. She is a moody dog to say the least. 

With my host family’s warning in mind, I was expecting the worst for my first arrival home alone. I had heard Osa’s booming bark before when it had been directed at others, and I was not looking forward to bearing the brunt of it. But when I came home from Spanish classes on the first day, she didn’t bark at all. When she saw me come through the gate, she simply got up from her step, and came up to greet me. So, she likes me, I thought. And I prided myself for the rest of the night on my amazing dog skills and the fact that all dogs love me. However, the next day when I returned home from classes, I got a completely different response. The second my hand touched the gate to push it open, I was greeted with the most ferocious noise. Not only did my heart jump, but I physically jumped back and then immediately ran by her house to escape the threatening bark. From that day on Osa has been very inconsistent. Some days she sits quietly on her door step, some days she walks over to greet me, some days she barks the moment she hears me coming, and some days she doesn’t start barking until the gate is closed, and I think I am in the clear. 

It wasn’t long before Osa’s reactions began controlling my mood when I returned home in the evenings. If I arrive at the gate happy but she barks at me, I feel just a little bit sadder. If I arrive upset but Osa comes to greet me sweetly, I feel that much better. I desperately want Osa to like me. I want her to be used to me. I want her to think of me as another member of the community that she knows and doesn’t have to scare away. Every time she barks, I feel it is a reminder that I do not belong. 

Last week marked the first week that I went 5 days straight without Osa barking when I returned home. I’d like to think of this as a symbol of my progress in settling in to my community. I still don’t feel entirely comfortable in everything I do – I get nervous that everyone is staring at me on the bus when I do something dumb, I get embarrassed if someone notices me quickly change directions because I am often lost, and I feel bad and slightly resented when my Spanish fails me in a store or on the streets. I can’t say that Cuenca feels like a community of my own yet, but I do believe a house becomes a home when the dog no longer barks at your arrival.