Tisch Global Jumbos

by Sophie, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Like many homes in Nicaragua, my host house is littered with rocking chairs. Made from dark wood and wicker backs, some have permanent spots while others appear to multiply as my host mother arranges and rearranges them. On my first night I decide to trust in some orientation advice and take my book out of my room where I fold my legs into an oversized rocking chair. When my host sister joins me and asks something in Spanish, I twist my eyebrows and give her an awkward I have no clue what you said smile. On top of the Spanish, my mind was still trying to digest the fact that this 13 year old girl – irrefutably the scariest demographic – seemed to be being . . . friendly?

She laughs and repeats the question more slowly. In this way we pick our way through simple conversation for nearly 2 hours; rephrasing and miming and rocking and laughing out no entiendo after no entiendo. When she pieces together my thought, she spits it back in the correct grammar. I try to fit the words back into my own mouth, though they feel like square pegs in round holes, and she laughs and slows down.

She tells me about how she hates English class and about her volleyball team and listens to me talk about New England winters. We laugh at how she can’t pronounce Connecticut and at how I can’t pronounce almost anything. We talk about our families and our friends and our schools and where we want to travel and what we want to do when we’re mas grande. The whole time I speak in broken present tense, waving my arms in front of my to show when I’m talking about the future and pointing behind me when telling about the past, but this doesn’t seem to bother her.

It’s not raining but I watch thunderless lightning fill the whole ceiling, because in Nicaragua you’re never really inside, least of all when you’re in the center of your house. At the end of the night I smile because we’re 4 years, 2,000 miles, and a language apart but we both still agree that school is usually boring and that we really hope to see Paris some day. I think every house needs a few rocking chairs.

by Brenna, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Today, I bought a plant.

Every day on my walk to work I am surrounded by organized chaos. Here in León, Nicaragua, I pass by camionetas overflowing with people, groups of little boys playing “quitball” ( a version of baseball using arms instead of bats), and little old ladies who sell fresh tortillas on street corners. There is a small pulperia that sells various plants in anything that could be used for a container. Coffee cans, milk jugs, and plastic water bottles house the assortment of plants that change daily. Seeing the greenery amid the craziness when I walk past Pulperia Marielos, I can’t help but admire how these plants thrive. As far I can tell, these odd containers of old milk jugs, buckets, and bottles make excellent homes for plants.

On this walk I think to myself, I want to buy one of these plants and be able to see it grow during my time here. In León, there is constant sun and it rains often enough that I would not have to worry about watering it. Despite the cannon that goes off at 7 am every morning, the random fireworks, and constant noisy parades, a plant would just grow. Seeing it outside my room every morning would be a reminder that something from this land belongs to me and will grow alongside me.

Even with the nonstop traffic, and the afternoon heat, I carried my new plant home smiling. It has small round leaves and lives in a recycled soda bottle. This plant is perfect.

This purchase cost only 10 cordobas ($0.33) but it’s worth goes beyond that. I am going to be living here in León for 9 months and this plant is the first personal touch I’ve added to my room. By putting this plant outside my door I have transformed the space into my own, made this home feel like my home. It is also one of the first choices I have made about the life I want to create here. Day by day I am creating that life, going to yoga, going to the beach and reading the books I finally have time for. My new plant is the small green home base that I can build around.

On its own the choice to buy a plant doesn’t hold some great significance, however, I am learning to relish in the little things. It marks one of the many choices I can make in deciding what life I want to create for myself. During my time here I want to travel and see as much of this country as possible, and I can. On every available weekend, I have taken trips to sleep on active volcanoes, swim under waterfalls, and see beautiful sunrises. I am beginning to see myself thrive here in Nicaragua, the oddest container I could have imagined.

by Elizabeth, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Rafaela, my host sister, is four years old, blind and a drama queen. In the beginning, I assumed that she would be the most difficult to bond with because much of my early integration involved me silently listening to conversations and simply being present. Since she couldn’t see me sitting there, none of this meant much to her. But we have managed to connect in other arguably more important ways. Her world revolves around sound and touch, so the color of my hair and the brand name on my clothes means much less to her than it does to the rest of Ecuador. In Rafaela’s world, I am just a nebulous physical presence with a foreign sounding voice that sometimes makes weird smelling food. But for some reason, we get along.

If it’s been more than an hour since I’ve talked to her, she will repeatedly shout my name at the top of her lungs. If I don’t answer, she will ask the nearest person where I am and what I’m doing with slowly increasing volume until someone inevitably breaks down and responds. Sometimes, she tells me that she is “in love with the sound of my voice.” Other times, she tells me that I talk like a gringa and should learn Spanish already. Multiple times she has asked me why I’m from the United States and not from Ecuador. My follow-up question of why she’s from Ecuador and not the United States caused her somewhat of an existential crisis resulting in an extended period of silence, but I think that is when I truly earned her respect.

She is one of the most eager learners and teachers I have ever met. Right now, she is learning how to open doors herself. This involves a few minutes of banging her hands on the wall until she finds the doorknob and flings herself into the room, often completely naked and usually before 6 in the morning. She walks to my bed with arms outstretched, feels to make sure I’m in it and then leaves. It’s part of our morning routine. An unexpected side effect of this experimentation with my doorknob recently resulted in her locking us both out of my bedroom and my neighbor having to come and break down the door. Just another day in the life.

Learning English is also one of her current projects. We can spend hours together with her asking me how to say random words in English (“jug” and “cool” are her favorites). And while other people worry about hurting my feelings, she is the only one I can truly count on to correct my pronunciation and help me learn. She will randomly call on me to read to her from whatever book her hands land on and then ruthlessly mock the way I say each word until it is up to her standards. Her tough love has been the best Spanish teacher I could have hoped for.

I have never been an older sibling; even all of my extended family was older than me. Because of this, I am incredibly fortunate to be in this house with this little girl. She has taught me so much about dragonflies and percussion and shamelessly playing the recorder at full volume no matter who is sleeping and how to always get what you want (pro tip- just scream until they give it to you out of desperation). Although the barrier of age and language is too great right now for me to express this in a way she can understand, I really do love her. And maybe one day someone can read this to her in English and she can remember that weird interim family member that taught her how to say “jug” and “cool” and didn’t kill her when she banged on the walls at five in the morning.