by Abigail, Tufts 1+4 Participant
Every morning I walk four blocks to work.
I walk out of the little sidewalk that leads to my house. Most often I’m greeted by tricicleros shouting “¿nos vamos?” because I’m pretty sure they think I must be lost. I usually ignore them, although one time the triciclero was someone I knew and I kept walking, until they yelled “A BEE GA IILLL.” It was embarrassing to say the least. When I walk I think a lot. I think about the day ahead of me, I think about the months ahead of me, I reflect on what’s behind me.
I’m filled with lesson plans and Ruben Dario and the hot topic of “who’s hotter, Maluma or Zayn?” I try to remember the Spanish word for mascara, the word that I always forget. Sometimes I see kids (who are running late) on their way to Las Tías, sometimes I walk with them. I look into the doorways of houses in the mornings, women mopping, children playing on the floor, grandmothers in plastic chairs pulled up to the doorway. I feel like I’m peeking into something secret. There are a few houses I’ve picked as my favorites, and I know that sounds weird, but I’ve done this. There’s one that has the shiniest tile floor I’ve ever seen, and a hallway where the morning sun slants perfectly. There’s a skeleton of a building that used to have flags hanging inside, flapping in the wind and glowing in the sun. I took a picture of them one day, and the next they were gone. Sometimes I’m walking and I wish I didn’t have to turn the corner to work, I could walk forever. Everyone here is always wondering why foreigners like walking so much. Guilty. I think about going home. I want to go home. I don’t want to ever go home! Depends on my mood. I like it here. I feel weirded out being in large groups of foreigners other than the other Amigos vols. I’ll miss my family, my work. Probably not the heat. I worry about going back, my friends won’t be the same as when I left, but I guess neither will I. I think about everything I could be doing better, I’m always thinking like that. I want to make a good impression. I’m not sure I belong here. I don’t think Nicaraguans need “help.” I’m confused about where I stand then. I’m praying that we do bachata songs at Zumba tonight because bachata days are the best days. I’m trying to remember the words to an old favorite song. Certain songs from my 16th year still make me cry, which for some reason is comforting to know. I’m trying to remember other old memories too, sometimes it hurts. I’ve already left home, and I’m not really ever going to go back for more than short visits. It’s sad, really. I talked about this with Gloria, my Spanish teacher. She understands that kind of stuff. I’ve learned how to speak really honestly while being here. I don’t like hiding my feelings anymore. I’m walking and I’m learning to shed my worries. I call to mind every hug my host mom has given me, I think about forgiveness, I work to never underestimate people. The “cultural adjustment curve” that they showed us is true, after all, because things just make sense now. How easily the Spanish flows from my mind to my mouth, the r’s rolling off my tongue, the subjunctive form that used to get me every time at school. The dish soap’s not weird. I have a newfound love for sorting beans (you’re welcome to laugh). Haven’t I come a long way?
Walking is good for the soul. I treasure each morning’s four blocks of thought time. I like to keep moving, it pumps my heart with new energy, it keeps me loving and smiling and sane. Two months isn’t a long time. It’s all just a walk now, and I’m approaching the corner I must turn into the next part of my life. Like some mornings, I’m not sure I want to turn just yet, I want just a little more precious time to straighten things out in my head. But the good thing is, I’m always surprised by the goodness of the day ahead of me when I do turn.
