Open Mind

My first year in Spain, I opted for the ‘cultural experience,’ which was a fancy way of saying that I lived with a host family. It was definitely an experience, for sure!

The woman I lived with was probably eighty years old, and she had a mentally handicapped sister who was just as old. My first semester, I had a roommate who lasted almost a month before she decided to live somewhere else. The women we lived with weren’t the easiest to live with, and I think that it made it easier for her to choose to live in student apartments, where she could do things with other girls her age.

My second semester, I had a unique roommate who didn’t seem to know anything about living abroad.

During that time, there was an orange alert out to US citizens abroad, meaning that we were supposed to be cautious while traveling. I honestly don’t know why anyone wouldn’t be cautious, but apparently it was slightly more dangerous. Maybe it’s because I look less ‘American’ than others, but I didn’t worry too much. I already knew that I used caution when traveling, and that I didn’t do anything stupid to peg myself as an unwitting tourist.

My roommate, however, went into full panic mode. She had a whole cover story where she was a Canadian who didn’t speak English, but if they asked her to speak French, she would tell them that she didn’t understand Spanish, because she also didn’t know French. Every time we went out, she would tell me that people would bump into her on the metro on purpose, or that some of the men were following her.

Even though she was living in a different country, and apparently attempting to appear from Canada, she didn’t do a good job of hiding her roots. After about a week, she started going to the American store and bringing food to the woman hosting us, asking her to make ‘real’ food. The food she brought were things like hamburger helper, macaroni and cheese, and cold cereal. Things that the woman had no idea how to cook, or what to do with. She made us fresh meals every day, paella, garbanzos, oh it was so good. But my roommate didn’t want that food. She wanted American food. Real food.

She didn’t last very long with our Señora either. Within a month, she had moved into student apartments.

It was amazing to me, every time she refused to adapt, or even try the culture she’d chosen to live in. And it was even more astounding how offended she would get when others didn’t eat or think the same way she did.

There’s so much we can learn from other cultures, if we’re only willing to adjust and adapt to new ways of thinking. 

Real Immersion

When I first moved to Madrid as a new freshman, I had two options. First, I could live in a ‘host family’ environment, which allowed better immersion in the culture, or I could live in the university apartments, with multiple other girls. I chose the host family route. I knew my Spanish wasn’t very good, and I wanted to really experience the culture.

I took a basic Spanish class there, and my first day, I knew I was in trouble. My teacher didn’t speak English, and she gave a pre-test to determine how much we knew. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do in most of the sections. As expected, I failed the pre-test, and my teacher took me aside and tried to explain that maybe I should try an even more basic class. That probably would have been a good idea, but occasionally, I get a stubborn streak. I decided to stick with this class.

On my way home, I passed a large park, and I sat on one of the benches next to a fountain and pulled out my scriptures, and started reading out loud, in Spanish, to myself. I stumbled a lot, but I persevered. After two days of reading out loud to myself, a man started to relay the bricks of the sidewalk, and he and I worked side by side until he took a break.

He asked me what I was doing, and in my stumbling Spanish, I explained to him that I needed to practice. He then asked me what I was reading, and we continued our conversation. He was patient with me, and after he left, I realized that I’d carried on a conversation in Spanish. I immersed myself even deeper in the culture, attending church with a Spanish congregation, and religious institute classes with my friends from church.

Over the semester, I noticed a difference. Where most of the students from my university remained in their same circles, speaking English to one another, I forced myself out, making friends with Latinos and Hispanics. By the time midterms came, I got a C on my Spanish test, and I was ecstatic. On all of my homework assignments, I’d been acing them, with the help of my friends from church. I’m proud to say, I aced the final, and passed the class with a B.

The park where it all started

By the end of the semester, I was much more confident with my Spanish than most of my other classmates, and I could carry on conversations for hours (which I did, since I was dating a Bolivian at that point!)

The more you immerse yourself in the culture, the easier it is to learn the language, and the customs. And if you’re going to live in a different country, I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t want to really experience the culture for themselves.

Clearing a Room

When I was a nursing student, I got to meet a lot of interesting people. Saint Louis is a very diverse city, and I worked in Saint Louis University Hospital, right in the downtown area.

I had one patient who spoke a little English, not very much. She had probably ten or twelve family members crammed into her room, all laughing and talking in Spanish. Now, I’m just a little Asian girl, so most people don’t think I speak Spanish, which I guess makes sense. They assumed they could speak Spanish around me and I wouldn’t know what they were saying.

It’s an awkward situation, when you don’t know how to broach a topic, especially one that could cause embarrassment for anyone. In this case, when I went into the room to hang an IV, one of the patient’s nephews told everyone that I needed to get through. And, of course, there was a lot of teasing involved.

“You like her!”

“You think that nurse is cute. Why don’t you ask for her number?”

He was embarrassed, but he didn’t really say much. I worked on hanging the patient’s bag, but as they continued to talk to me, I started to feel uncomfortable. Finally, I turned to the patient, and asked, “De donde es?” (Where are you from?)

The room turned silent and the patient gave me a kind of smirk. Obviously it’s a simple question, one that anyone could learn in a first level Spanish class.

She told me, speaking quickly so that I wouldn’t understand her.

I smiled, connecting the tubing with her IV. “Y cuánto tiempo ha vivido aquí?” (How long have you lived here?)

It took less than thirty seconds for the room to clear. Everyone left, except for the patient’s husband. I’m thinking they were all embarrassed by what they said, realizing that I understood every word. I never saw the nephew again. 

I guess that’s one way to clear a room.

Living With Another Culture

My first year in Spain I had two options. Either, I could live in a university apartment with six to eight other girls, or I could really ‘experience’ the culture and live with a Spanish family. Of course, I wanted the experience, and I figured I’d be able to learn the language much faster if I lived with a Spanish family.

For a year, I lived with the most eccentric Spanish lady I’ve ever met. She was seventy or eighty years old, with big coke glasses and a shuffling gait. She and her sister were seamstresses, and they made my life interesting.

I wasn’t allowed to eat with them. They would make me a meal separate, and sit and watch me, to make sure that I ate it all. There were times like I felt like Hansel and Gretel, especially when she made comments about how skinny I was. I ended up getting sick because of how much food she forced me to eat, and the doctor had to tell her to listen to me when I told her I couldn’t eat anything else.

We had separate bathrooms, one was specifically for me, but at night, their bathroom was too far away, and they used mine. Every morning, I had to flush the toilet after them, because they didn’t want to wake me up in the middle of the night. Also, they didn’t like the fact that I used scented soaps, and at least two or three times a month, my soap would disappear, and it would be replaced with homemade soap that smelled like lye.

She also controlled when we had hot water, and most of the time, I showered with freezing cold water because it wasn’t time to turn on the water heater. The water heater was controlled by flame, and I wasn’t allowed to touch it.

During religious holidays, if I didn’t get home early enough, I’d be locked out of the house until Midnight Mass was over.

This woman was different, and more often than not, we didn’t have the same world views. But we learned to live together. I’m sure I have plenty of eccentricities myself, ones that she didn’t understand. When I came back after Christmas break, she was overjoyed. Apparently I was the first student who actually stayed the entire year without requesting a transfer. Over spring break, on my trip to Germany, I bought her chocolate, because I knew she would like it.

Too often, I think we see other people’s differences and assume we can’t get along. We aren’t willing to adjust for someone else’s lifestyle, or their little quirks. But if we don’t, we’ll miss out on so many opportunities, and so many friendships. 

Americans on Display

Last week, I talked about clichés concerning race and culture. More often than not, a cliché is there because there is a basis for it. I get to see it from all sides because I’m an American who looks Asian.

When I was living in Spain, no one knew what I was. I was obviously not Hispanic (usually) though I spoke the language fluently. Most people couldn’t even tell I had an accent. I looked Asian, but I spoke English. Most of the time, that meant I could blend in, and no one assumed I spoke their language.

You know that American cliché? The one of the tourist who talks really loud, wears ridiculous clothes and assumes everyone speaks English?

They actually exist.

I had a friend dress up as an American tourist for Halloween once. He wore a very bright Hawaiian shirt, a large camera, and socks with sandals. It was hilarious. Until I saw someone dressed just like that in Madrid, right down to the socks and sandals. He had his wife with him, and at least three or four kids. I watched in a strange mix of fascination and horror as he shouted to his family, “Come on kids! They’ve got trains underground here!”

 In the metro, American speak as loud as they want, assuming that people don’t understand what they’re saying. To tell the truth, probably sixty percent of us did. English is a language that most other countries teach their children to speak. If they don’t feel comfortable speaking it, I can guarantee that most of them at least understand it.

My husband told me that most of the videogames he played were in English, and he had to figure out what they were saying so he could advance. He understood me when I thought no one spoke my language. My friends and I were at a bar in Sol (center of the city) and someone came up to us, and asked in broken English why so many Americans hung out in the bar.

It’s a little scary, to think of the impression that we make on other cultures without even realizing it. From TV shows to travelers, we’re everywhere, and on display. Sometimes, I wonder if we know how much other countries watch us. 

The Art of Being Invisible

I’m very good at being invisible. It’s an art I’ve practiced since I was a young girl, and it’s only recently I’ve realized why I’m so good.

No one pays attention to me because I’m not one of ‘them.’

Let me give you an example:

Traveling through Japan, most people knew I wasn’t Japanese. There was something about me that wasn’t quite right. When I was in Spain, most of the Spaniards could tell I wasn’t one of them. I was too Asian looking. I could walk down the street or in the metro without them even noticing me, and they would say whatever they wanted, assuming I couldn’t understand them. Americans did the same. They assumed I wasn’t American, and couldn’t possibly speak English.

(By the way, if you’re in a different country and in a crowded area, there’s going to be at least one person who speaks English. Even if they don’t speak it, there’s enough video games, music and movies that they can understand a large percent.)

Madrid!

I used to have a lot of fun with it. Most of the missionaries for our church were from the United States, and we would often pull pranks on new ones because they wouldn’t speak to me, thinking their Spanish wasn’t good enough or because they were afraid I would go off in Spanish, leaving them stumbling to keep up.

One time, before a regional conference, I was asked to play the piano minutes before the meeting started. I panicked, running out of the main room, searching for a piano to practice on. I passed two missionaries, one I’d never seen before, and one I’d spent several months with previously. As I passed, he asked,

“How’s it going Krista?”

I responded with a rushed vent about how I had just been asked to play the piano, and I didn’t even know if I knew the songs, and the meeting was going to start in ten minutes. When I finished, I kept running, and as I left, I heard the other missionary say,

“Wow, she speaks perfect English.”

To which his companion responded: “Duh. She’s American.”

Technically, it’s true. I’m a Japanese American. My mom was born in Japan and adopted by a Dutch American Family. My maiden name is French. My married name is Hispanic. My husband is Bolivian. I speak both English and Spanish fluently. At home, we speak Spanglish.

It’s true, I’m not one of any specific race or culture. I may not quite fit in, but I think it gives me a greater chance to see and experience cultures in ways that might not be possible if I was just one thing.

I like being different.