Tisch Global Jumbos

By Finn, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Some of my earliest, happiest, and most dismal memories stem from “the Beautiful Game.” Soccer has been a part of my life since the time I could walk. Ever since a ball was put at my feet I have never been able to satiate my desire to play, learn, and compete. From the moment that I was accepted in the Tufts 1+4 Bridge program in Cuenca, Ecuador I knew that I had to get a taste of the flare and passing of  the “tiki taka” futbol of South America. So naturally as soon as the first opportunity presented itself to play in a “cancha sintetica” I eagerly took advantage of my invitation. All week I anxiously awaited the weekend and my dream fulfilling match. Finally the day came and upon my arrival to the netted tuft field I was introduced to a large group of friends and family that had all turned up to play and watch. Saludos were exchanged, lots of kisses on the cheek from the women and a mix of fist bumps and handshakes from the men and everyone began getting ready to play. We sat in a loose circle lacing up shoes and hiking socks, banter, laughter, and stories were flying around the group in rapid fire Spanish. This itself was fine, I sat silently picking what I could from the conversation and piecing parts together, however it did not take long for the attention to shift to the unfamiliar face in the crowd. Naturally this meant that I was bombarded with question after question in Spanish and found myself completely and utterly incapable of responding to a single inquiry. For those that know me this would not be a surprise as my Spanish skills are far from proficient. However despite my acknowledgement of this fact I began to become increasingly frustrated and downtrodden. Here was the moment that I had looked forward to all week and I remember thinking “I’m miserable” .

Fortunately everything changed as soon as we divided into teams and began to play. The first half hour was a whirlwind of trying to keep pace and settle into an almost entirely new way of playing soccer. At our first break I bent over, hands on my knees, feeling every inch of the 7,233 extra feet of altitude. Slowly though I began to fall into the rhythm of the game. I realized that everything was principally similar but fundamentally different. The game had transformed with the introduction of tighter quarters, play was more rapid, challenges more frequent, skill of the individual more important. As time passed my confidence began to grow and it was at this time that I came to an incredible realization: despite my lack of skills in the Spanish language I felt right at home. This was at first odd to me because up until this point I had been held back utterly and entirely by the language barrier. However this was not the case on the field. With a handful of words I fit in, was comfortable, and truly was enjoying every second. For the first time I was truly playing the “World’s Game” and buying into the principal that soccer is a wordless language that transcends borders and is spoken in feet not tongues.

By Sam, Tufts 1+4 Participant

For the first time in my life, I truly feel like an outsider. As a straight white man in suburban America, I’ve enjoyed the privilege of almost never having to truly feel out of place. And although I’ve done my best to both acknowledge and use my privilege to help those who lack it, it has comforted and supported me since birth. My experience in Cuenca has been a different story. Instead of being a pillar of society, goofy white boys such as myself are looked at funny, generally unwanted, and thought of as stupid until proven otherwise. Obviously the prejudice I’ve dealt with is child’s play to most marginalized groups in America, but I’ve felt it significantly nonetheless.

While everyone else has to bus, taxi, or carpool to and from Spanish classes every day, I have the blessing of being able to walk. Walking by yourself is a truly unique experience in that it’s something everyone has to do. I feel like a full blown gringo when I’m sitting in Spanish class, browsing the market, or buying food, but when I walk the big red target on my back seems to go away.

I’ve found in life that everyone has to walk. Life simply can’t go on without it. You can be the richest person in the world and you still have to walk from your king sized bed to your monogramed elevator every morning. When I walk through the streets of Cuenca I feel a connection to those around me in a way that my identity normally prevents. We may not like or even know each other, but we’re forever bonded in that we all have to walk to get to where we need to go. In that way I’m just another face in the crowd, with the same immediate purpose as those around me. And although the Cuencanos may never understand my reason for being here or want me in their city, they can at least understand that I too have a purpose, that I too am bound by obligations and the regular necessities of life. On the other side, although I may never belong here, when I walk I can feel raw and instinctive empathy, as opposed to manufactured and observational sympathy for the people around me. For that, I am extremely grateful for the need to walk.

by Ashley, Tufts 1+4 Participant

There is a little game I enjoy playing with myself; it’s called “Let’s see how far back we can remember.” A little game that I like to play occasionally, but over the years the game has become more of a way for me to reminisce on old experiences and re-live them. Thankfully, India has gifted me many more memories to use for my future reminiscences. 

Week One, India. The idea in my mind was “exploration” and I wanted to truly embody it by exploring my neighbor in hopes of becoming familiar with my new environment. By foot.  This detail is crucial as I had not yet had the ability to walk with the Indian traffic. I had to check left, right, up, down, and sideways —multiple times — to be sure that I would not be met with a rickshaw, car, or motorcycle!

Once I had been able to successfully cross streets, I began to look around, and what I saw was breathtaking. As I turned corners and walked down alleyways, I saw people walking around, buying produce at local stands, animals around the trash and walking along the roads. Even though I had seen this happen in my own town, the other places I had been, there was a “newness” to it. Soon enough it became apparent that I was not from around there as the stares began piling up as I continued aimlessly roaming around. 

I was very content being lost. Little did I know that the little alleyways would take me to more little alleys that would lead to a dead end. As I looked around my surroundings, I realized that I had collected a few friends along the way. There were approximately 20 small children around me who were all talking at once and shouting “Didi” to get my attention. The commotion brought out adults and then they began to ask me questions in Hindi, to which I had no way of understanding. I decided to return the way I had come from. By that point, I was overwhelmed, sweaty, and tired; the idea of exploring seemed good in my mind but my body had other thoughts. Now, looking back, getting “lost” was an adventure and being able to experience the “newness” of everyday things was magic.

I find that every moment we live through has a touch of that magic; something that we cannot find in any other experience because it is so unique to each one. It’s this magic that has the tendency to lessen as time goes on. Sure, we take pictures and look back at them every so often, but it seems that everything we do, in the hopes of remembering these moments, is futile. I constantly wish that there was a way to capture the moments the way I lived them- the emotions, the smells, the sounds. Time has a way of taking these details and twisting them around.

While time won’t do the moments justice, they are a part of me and so is the magic they carried when they happened. I do not know the next time I will get “lost” or the next time I have to relearn traffic but knowing India there will be more surprises in store. There will be more time to experience and even more time to look back at these moments throughout the course of my life. Even when the memories are a little dusty, that will be alright.

By Ameya, Tufts 1+4 Participant

There’s something very unnerving and strange about the dichotomy between the extra-ness, flamboyance, and allure of bougie New York City and the blank walls, repetitive buildings, and overheated, overdue, long bus rides to East New York – where sweat stained uniforms, bad school lunches, broken pencils, and badly-drawn genitalia on desks reign supreme. As weeks have gone by and days have started to merge together, I’ve found myself often arriving at the front doors of IS 364, asking myself “did I ever really leave?” My repetitive, I leave my house before sunrise and leave as the school at dusk. Nothing but experience can quite prepare you to work in an urban school. At the same time, nothing could’ve prepared my sporadic artist/student lifestyle, chaotic brain , and chronic lateness for the 360 culture shift to a regulated, predictable year-round schedule,  strict, full-time job with 10 hour work days, minimal (and I really mean minimal) pay, hour-long commutes, frustrating children, a lack of social time, personal time, and independence.

Earlier this month, I had a friend walk in his first fashion show for NYFW at the Barclays Center in downtown Brooklyn. I somehow snagged some last minute tickets to surprise him, rushed home after a day’s work, tossed my sweaty, grey toned clothes onto the floor, threw on a fit a little more fitting, smeared on some intense eyeliner, and then sprinted to the train. I walked into the stadium, passing influencers and photographers, flashing cameras, brand-name backpacks, fur coats, shaved heads, chains and glitter – and an overall exclusive and predictable NYFW spectacle. In time, I found myself sitting in an arena across from Lil Kim walking through a smoke machine in a neon yellow latex jumper. And yes, I got to see my boy walk. But that wasn’t what shocked me that night or what made me really *really* think.

What made me think was  the overwhelming focus on status, show, and merit that the event suggested. What made me think, sitting in that stadium, under the fog and flashing lights, surrounded by insecure teenagers, twenty-something creatives, and viral influencers, was that less than two hours before I was in a classroom in the projects on the outskirts of the city teaching thirteen-year-olds how to add exponents. I felt my privilege, but I also felt in my bones, the drastic, echo chamber of disconnect between the communities that I had moved through in only a couple hours. How do I exist between the two? What is my place? How can we work to close gaps similar to this? How can we create opportunities for students to experience, question, and explore their lifestyles and different ones that exist only a (long) metro ride away? New York City is small, but the number of lives you can live here is vast.