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The Language of Laughter

By Christine, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Every pore in my body was sweating profusely as I nervously attempted to communicate with my host family for the first time. Our supervisors organized a fiesta at the hostel for all of the participants to meet their new families. My eardrums rang from the sound of what felt like 1,000 excited voices introducing themselves to one another. Because I could hear absolutely everything in the room, I couldn’t hear anything my new host family was saying to me. I blame my lack of understanding on the loud noises around me, but the communication barrier was more a result of my inability to comprehend Spanish.
Although I could only understand one-sixteenth of what my family was saying to me, I understood their hand gestures to get my belongings from my room so we could go home. The combination of nerves and excitement hindered my coordination and I tripped up the stairs after three steps. I’m sure it gave my family a lovely first impression of me… I turned around to a bunch of gasps and my new family members all asking if I was okay. My face was definitely bright red but I just laughed it off and continued my way up the stairs. I heard my family’s giggles from behind and for some reason, I felt relieved.
Last weekend, all of the families and participants got together for a barbecue. When I first arrived to the picnic, I found my host family and sat down next to them. We carried on a basic conversation with the other people around us for about 10 minutes, and then it got awkward. Everyone was silently twiddling their thumbs and waiting around for something to do next. Another Tufts fellow and I decided to go to the middle of the room and start doing the salsa in order to ease some of the tension. We were terrible and had no music for awhile, but other people eventually started to join us. Some host siblings attempted to teach us more moves but we just laughed together at our subpar dancing abilities.
Some nights I’ll be sitting in my room doing homework and my host mom will come in and sit next to me. We’ll ask about each other’s days and our plans for the next. I know those questions pretty well and don’t have much trouble answering them, but things get tricky when she strays away from the surface level. I often won’t understand her and have to ask her to repeat herself numerous times. She’ll start acting out words and I end up laughing at our game of charades, rather than comprehending the message. Regardless, the laughter we share together seems to bring us closer than the questions we answer.
Throughout the past month, I’ve learned that laughter is the best response to all awkward and uncomfortable situations. Not only that, but I’ve come to realize that laughter has no language. Humor has the power to bring joy to others and has allowed me to form relationships with people that I cannot even speak to.
Offerings from the spiritual ceremony that a host mom held to welcome us to Ecuador
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Forks

By Kamil, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Journey. What does that word mean anyway? A voyage thousands of miles away from home? Hundreds of hard won steps towards an ultimate goal? A dozen chance encounters or a handful of impactful relationships? Maybe it’s a combination of all the above, or something else entirely.

One thing for sure, A journey marks change in our lives. The hero leaves their comfort zone, overcomes trial and tribulations, and brings back a hefty reward. 

Our journey lasts 9 months, from conception to fruition. It’s one thing to imagine coming home altogether changed after growing as a person, and it’s another to take steps to ensure it happens day by day. All too often, people drift through life expecting to reach an end goal, and are often shocked at “where it all went wrong.” 

Where does it all go wrong? Why does everything seem easier in hindsight? What fork in the road separates success from failure?

There are levels of knowledge and heroes. Plenty of things out there could enrich our lives if only we knew them. Some of us feel confident after managing to leverage small bits and pieces of information to our advantage. We grow complacent. Comfortably fixed in our ways, because they “work” in the now. We forget to analyze our actions and their implications on our futures. We not only slide off the path of success, we forget where the lines of it are drawn.

Through chance blessings or hard won efforts, some of us realize there is a never a point at which we know “enough.” Any master in a field understands there are lifetimes to dedicate in study of the infinitely complex world. However, an altogether common arrogance replaces this bittersweet pill of reality in favor of a more romantic fantasy.

Sometimes, the smallest of tasks proves itself the most complex.

In Cuencan meals, I’ve always been handed a spoon with a smile from my host mother. At a first glance, it’s all too normal. Soup is served with every meal. Yet few people bother to change to a fork once they transition to a more physically involved meal such as chicken and french fries. Innovation, human laziness, or simple reduction of redundancy in eating utensils? One thing for sure, the silverware trend does not stop there. A plate of corn popped in boiling water, and fried pork, are yet again served with spoons. Forks aren’t forbidden, in fact all too common in most households, yet they grow dusty with disuse. 

Perhaps it’s pure utilitarianism mocking my American rituals. 

Perhaps the people here subconsciously avoid such harsh and direct approaches to situations (such as violently puncturing and piercing in order to reach a goal, in favor of roundabout guiding).

Perhaps it itself is a ritual resulting from a culture that values soups (or is crafty and uses every scrap of food possible). 

Perhaps we’ll never truly know the reason for sure.

This maddening development haunted my dreams and meals. Even silverware was not sacred across cultures. And yet, moments of clarity arose from my haze of a foreigner’s perception. 

We often take for granted small things in our lives. For most, we do the things we do because we do them, without a clear reason. However we cannot arrive at a new destination if we follow the same old roads. Most good things are forged off the conventional path through intentional actions and exertions of willpower. Still, rarely do we exert such a careful (or tedious) attention to the minute details of our lives, our forks, until they are taken away. 

This year abroad on the 1+4 program is a golden opportunity to recognize all of my founding influences and how they present themselves in everyday life, through a shocking immersion in a new culture that does not hold the same base assumptions as my community does.

Can we ever pinpoint and grasp a successful life if we cannot justify our “simplest” actions?

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A Letter to My Past Self

by Faizah, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Dear Faizah,

I remain connected to you through our memories. I re-envision the nights we spent lying in bed past 1 AM, thinking about those college applications that we really should get started on but can’t bring ourselves to do. I can still feel my stomach sinking as anxiety sets in and you wondered, “What if I don’t get into any of the colleges that I’m applying to?” Well, here we are now, 10 months later, in a place you would have never imagined for yourself to be in.

Firstly, thank God for the doors He has opened and will continue to open for you. Secondly, thank you for persisting through the rocky, at times unforgiving, road and for maintaining hope that things will turn out okay. Persevering was worth it. Today, you get to work with kids who have the brightest minds and the most colorful personalities. They are curious and brave, speaking their minds as they ask questions that are harder to answer than any college application you have faced. Their energy will motivate you, and put you on an emotional roller coaster everyday.

A day as a City Year is long.

Getting to and from your assigned partner school in Washington DC’s Ward 8, Moten Elementary School, is its own journey. As you travel north to south, you find yourself traveling from DC, into Washington, and back into DC. Witness the change in demographic of the passengers on the train – people in formal attire stepping off at L’Enfant Plaza and Navy Yard, and hordes of young school children clad in collared shirts boarding the train at Anacostia, crossing the river every morning in hopes that the other side may offer something better than the neighborhood that they live in. Step off into the dimly lit station, where the bus that passes Moten Elementary will come every 20 minutes, and at times, never at all.

Working at an inner-school is everything you expected and so much more. The back table is Ms. Faizah’s table, where kids will come for a quiet moment or when they struggle with focusing. The socio-emotional stress that consumes our students on a daily basis is subtle, but present. At the back table, I focus on keeping kids preoccupied with learning, turning their attention to complexly worded 4th grade math worksheets. I watch them light up once the standard subtraction algorithm registers in their minds; together we celebrate, and for a moment, all worries have flown away. The next morning is a reset. Perhaps Khamari will come in with a big hug for everyone, or we’ll see a fight break out as tension from events at home accumulates at school. I’ll never quite know what exactly my kids go through, and sometimes not knowing becomes overwhelming.

Then there is your partner teacher and the school administration, and the relationship between the two. You learn to get accustomed to different communication styles, last-minute field trips, and listening to passionate rants after dismissal. There is the school City Year team: a strong support net made of some of the kindest and most considerate individuals who never fail to bring a smile to your face. And lastly, there is self. The self that falls asleep on the Metro and jolts awake upon hearing “Georgia Ave.”, and the self that is slowly learning to forgive herself and keep moving.

But so far, each day has been worth it. Thank you for trusting the process, for taking risks, and never losing sight of the bright side. There is so much that is yet to come.

Sincerely, Faizah

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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.

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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.

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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…