Blog # 8: A Reflection. . .

  I am sitting on the roof, “el techo”.  As the moon shines brightly over the hazy mountains, sirens echo in the distance, and voices float through the open kitchen window into the night.  With the strong sun gone for the day, the air is cool and crisp.  Stars twinkle in the sky above, and I can see the big dipper, same as if I were looking out my bedroom window at home. And yet, as my eyes scan the sky and come to rest on the lights of the horizon, I am reminded that I am not at home.  I am thousands of miles away in a Spanish-speaking city, living with a Oaxacan family, using the “lavanderia” rather than the Shippee Hall laundry facilities, eating tortillas and quesillo rather than UConn dining hall fare.  Every day, I walk past walls covered in ironically beautiful political graffiti on my way to school, mumbling, “con permiso” as I pass people on the narrow sidewalks.  I eat nieves in the zocalo, have tried chapulines and have become accustomed to the perennially spicy Mexican salsa that is served with every meal, including breakfast.  I am living and learning in la Ciudad de Oaxaca.  In just two days, however, I will leave this city.  I will board a plane and return to Connecticut where the roofs are covered in snow and are not suitable for homework in even the best of conditions.  As I sit on this flat roof, leaning against cinderblocks, I look up at the plethora of stars that dot the inky black sky.  The stars are tiny and too numerous to count.  Here in Oaxaca, I have experienced many new things – a new environment, a new language, new people, new food. . .  As I survey the seemingly endless sky, I reflect on all that I have learned in this city. 

 

“Me llamo Sarah”, I said two weeks ago as I introduced myself to Sra. Clara, my host mother.  “Lo siento, pero no entiendo,” she responded, “Por favor escríbala en este papel.”  I wrote my name clearly in large letters on a piece of paper and handed it to her.  “Ah,” she exclaimed, her face lighting up with recognition, “Su nombre es Sara.  Bienvenidos, Sara!”  And thus began my adventures in this Spanish-speaking household.  Over the next two weeks, I listened carefully to my host family’s conversations, eavesdropping only to see if I could understand.  At first, I chatted with Rafa, my host mother’s two year old grandson, discussing Spiderman and the rules of “escondidos” (hide and seek).  Within a few days, I had begun to help my host mother in the kitchen, talking with her as I ripped quesillo into strings for soup, cut avocadoes or puzzled over how to properly squash chile peppers for salsa.  During meals, I spoke with Sra. Clara, asking her questions and telling her about our daily activities.  As I ventured out of the house to the lavanderia, to cafes and to mercados, I began to put my Spanish into practice.  When the woman at the lavanderia told me that my “calcetines blancos” would not be ready until forty eight hours after the time written on my receipt, I negotiated a way to get the rest of my much-needed clothing before the socks were ready.  When I purchased items in the mercado, I “bargained” in Spanish.  When I spoke with members of my host family, our communications were exclusively in Spanish.  After two weeks in this Spanish speaking city, I leave with the confidence that, “Ahora, puedo escuchar, hablar y comunicar en español”.

 

As we sat in the airport in Mexico City, waiting to board our plane to Oaxaca, Jose expressed the hope that we would leave Mexico with many “this one time” moments.  He hoped that we would make memories and have stories to share of our adventures in Oaxaca.  Two weeks later, I have many stories of cultural exchanges, of misinterpreted language, of new and unfamiliar experiences.

 

“What marathon are you running?” my friend joked, as I walked quickly up the hill on our way home from school.  I enjoy walking and always walk quickly.  Even so, when I first arrived in Oaxaca, I was not entirely comfortable with the city environment and my usually fast pace quickened to a trot.  As a girl from a small Connecticut town who prefers the sounds and smells of the UConn cow barn to the noises and odors of the city, living and learning in an urban environment was an entirely new experience.   As I walked down the streets there were people everywhere – chatting on phones, walking to work, building and painting on the sides of the road, selling tamales and quesadillas at little stands.  There were dogs – “Toby”, the yappy Chihuahua who lived next door, and the big stray dog that we passed every morning and named “Leo” for his auburn, lion-like fur.  There were sounds – the honking of impatient drivers, the screech of tires, the screams of sirens and the chatter of voices.  There were smells – the strong odor of car exhaust, the occasional whiff of smoke from an outdoor fire and the pungent aroma of fried food on the side of the road.  It was all so different, and yet, within just a few days, it had become familiar.  Now, I can navigate my way around the area of the city near the Becari School and the Zocalo.  I have walked around little marketplaces and have traversed the streets near the Zocalo, stopping to look at shops and even visiting the La Biblioteca de Oaxaca.  Now, although I still walk quickly, I don’t train for the Boston Marathon as I walk home.  I walk comfortably, always aware of my surroundings, but not anxious about walking on the streets of this small city.      

 

It was nearly eleven o’clock on New Year’s Eve, and I sat with my host family’s relatives, chatting about their home in Mexico City and discussing our favorite Mexican dishes.  “Me gusta guacamole”, I exclaimed, explaining that the thick green side dish was not a staple of the American diet.  “Oh,” exclaimed my host mother’s niece, “En los Estados Unidos, ‘guacamole’ es un juego que los niños juegan a los carnavales. ¿No?”   Puzzled, I watched as she moved her hands over the table as if she were hammering something.  And then, as realization dawned, I started to smile.   The woman was referring to “Whack-A-Mole”, a traditional children’s game played at fairs in the United States.  This miscommunication made us both smile as we attempted to show an understanding of and appreciation for the other’s culture.  Seemingly unimportant, yet amusing exchanges such as this helped to create some of my strongest memories of this culturally and historically diverse city.

 

I am in Oaxaca City.  I am in Mexico.  I am far away from Connecticut, from UConn, from my family and friends, from everything that I have ever known.  This two week journey has allowed me to learn about the history and culture of Mexico from an academic perspective as well as from a practical perspective.  We studied the history of the Zapotecs and learned about the importance of weaving to the economies of small Mexican villages.  We visited Monte Alban and Teotitlan del Valle. We read about the culture of migration in southern Mexico and, after learning the statistics, visited the reality at Santa Ana del Valle, a migrant sending village.  We discussed the importance of “heritage industry” to the Mexican economy, and we studied Spanish grammar at Becari.  Most importantly, however, we lived with a Mexican family in a Mexican city and lived Mexican culture.  As I sit on the flat roof, looking out over the lights of the city, I smile at all that I have learned.  My eyes trail upward to the stars and the moon in the sky above.  In two days, I will watch the same moon from my bedroom in Connecticut.  When I see that golden orb floating in the dark January sky, I will remember that I am leaving behind in Mexico a culture and a language.  Even so, the memories, as numerous as the stars, will follow me home.    

- Sarah Harris-