Words

As a reader/writer, I know that every word counts—which is why, I think, I'm so self-conscious about the things I say. I'm continually re-enacting conversations in my head, replaying my words, often cringing at how they clash. Mostly, I wonder about how other people will interpret who I am: will they read me the right way? With the words that I've given them, will they understand the things about me that I want them to understand?

But, as a human being, breathing and living off the written page, I've recently come to realize that, in real life, maybe the specific words aren't as important. I've realized this because I now live in Spain and speak in Spanish a lot, which means that my words are a jumbled mess much of the time. Yet somehow, there are people here who understand me—and not just my poorly constructed sentences. They understand my heart. They get it, the things that motivate me, the things that make me happy or sad.

A couple weeks ago, I gave a gift to my principal, Elia, a lovely human being, for her hospitality at the beginning of my time here. She hugged me and said, "Te quiero"—I love you. Isabel, a good friend and co-worker, cried with me when I broke down on my first day back to school after my mom's death. Consuelo, my roommate, invited me home to her village last weekend, introducing me to not only her parents and sister, but also her cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandfather. By the end of the weekend, I felt like I was a part of them, happily cozying up for a nap in the living room, her dad snoring on the other couch.

Ultimately, what I want people to understand about me is that I am a trustworthy person with kind intentions. I want them to know that I value education and creativity and community. I'm learning that all of these things can be conveyed with imperfect words. The people here with whom I've built relationships, they love me and feel with me and invite me into their family lives. They understand the most important things about me.

Jack, my legendary poetry prof, always says: we are not writers, we are just people who write. As a writer, I've been trained to think that every word matters.  But I need to remember that, above all, I am a person.

                           with Consu at our Thanksgiving fiesta

                               with Isa at Thanksgiving

Home

Hey everyone,

Sorry for the delay in posting anything new.  As most of you know, my mom passed away suddenly a few weeks ago, so that's taken quite a toll on me—not only in how I've been able to use my time (hence not writing anything), but also in how I've been able to use my brain (again, the reason I haven't been writing).

So, I don't have anything incredibly insightful to say about what I'm learning now that I'm back in Spain, but I'll be sure to let you know when that brain of mine starts working like it used to, if that ever happens.  In the meantime, there is one thing I'd like to share: the piece I wrote for my mom's funeral.  Please know that it is rough and imperfect and sappy and probably poorly punctuated.  But it's what I have.

I want to start by saying, It’s good to be home. 

For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been teaching abroad in Spain for the past two months—something my mom was endlessly proud of.  I think it made her happy that we shared the same love of traveling, the same love of discovering a new culture.  It made her happy that I was strong enough to do things like that—just like she was.  But I know the value of coming home—another thing I learned from my mom.  Because despite all of her amazing travels, my mom always valued home above everything else.

For mothers’ day this year, my sister and I got my mom this print with a really lovely, unique sketch and a beautiful little poem that read:

“There is no one who comes here that does not know this is a true map of the world, with you there in the center, making home for us all.” 

And it’s so true.  Wherever my mom was, was home.  She brought it with her.  And she held us all together there. 

One year when I was really little, we went skiing at Treetops up in Gaylord over Christmas.  I remember being so worried, continually asking, “Mom, how will Santa find us if we’re not at home?”  And she would just say to me, “Don’t worry, honey, he’ll find us.”  And he did, of course.  I can’t imagine how she fit all of those presents into the trunk along with all of our luggage and ski gear, but on Christmas morning we had a huge celebration, just like every year.  She always spoiled us on Christmas morning, a tradition that only worsened as we got older.  I’d say to her, “Mom!  We really don’t need all of this stuff.”  And she’d say, “But you girls have worked so hard this year.”  That was my mom—always making us feel as loved as humanly possible.

A lot of my close friends say the same about my mom: they, too, always felt at home with us.  A lot of them remember the Johnson Thanksgiving dinner.  Every year we had Thanksgiving in Detroit with my mom’s family.  But then the weekend after Thanksgiving, my mom would host a second dinner at our house for the Johnsons and for close friends.  My mom would spend days preparing—grocery shopping, digging around for her mom’s old recipes, cooking, baking—even remembering things like what foods to buy for which friends would be attending this year.  And the cool thing was that my sister and I also got to invite our close friends.  So all of us would spend the night eating and watching football and talking and laughing.  It was always a night to be remembered, a night of having fun and spending time with good people.  Everyone felt comfortable, loved, at peace.  My mom created that. 

When I moved to Spain in September, she didn’t just drive me to the airport and say, “Have a good time!”  She came to Spain with me, of course, to see me off and to get me settled.  She wouldn’t have it any other way.  I was very stressed the day that she and my dad were supposed to head back: a lot of things had changed at the last minute, and suddenly I had had to be in a new city for a new teaching placement, and I couldn’t get a hold of the people I needed to get a hold of.  I was in tears more than once, not having any idea where I was even going to be staying that night, or for the following weeks until I found an apartment.  But my mom held it all together, making all the right decisions, calming me down.  And when we finally figured out where I needed to go, she hugged me and smiled as I breathed deeply.  She and my dad drove me up to my school, and helped me haul up my three giant suitcases.  The principal of the school, a kind, smiling woman, greeted us and hugged me right away.  She said to me, “Do you have somewhere to stay yet?”  And when I said no, she said.  “Good.  You’re staying with me.”  It was only then—after my mom had seen me safely delivered into the hands of someone who would take care of me—that my mom let down her guard.  She hugged me and started to cry a little and told me to send her an email later that day.  And then she and my dad left, and that was the last time I saw her.   

But really, she was with me in Spain.  We emailed back and forth every day, and video chatted all the time.  She was always there to comfort me when I’d had a hard day or to help me with all the problems I had as I tried to get settled in a new country.  She searched online for apartments for me, filling my inbox with listings until I’d found a place.  And I missed her, of course, but she was such a constant presence in my life that I never once felt homesick.  I just think that’s amazing:  22-years-old, the baby of my house, living in a country where I barely speak the language, and every day blindsided by some new challenge—and yet never once felt homesick.  Because my mom was there for me through all of it, and because she is my home.  Because in the true map of the world, she is at the center of everything, making home for me, for my whole family. 

I want to close by reading a poem I wrote about my mom back in April.  I never shared it with her, but I know she’s hearing it now. 

You're writing out of your soul space

My soul space is your hand,

twisting braids in my hair,

tracing your fingers on the nape of my neck. My head

is on your lap, my body

curled on one side, tucked

into a lower case h.

I look at the coffee

table and tell you

it's good to be home

it's good to be here, in this

living room with burgundy sofas,

with two furry cats who like

to cuddle. It's good

to be home.

Pictures

My kids!  I know some of them are crying... don't worry, they just miss their moms and dads.  I promise I'm nice to them :)

My cute green house... did I mention I live across the street from the beach??

Trust

"Mamapapa mamapapa," says Álvaro. I am sitting in a tiny chair, coloring with a purple crayon, and he is standing beside me, his little hands on my leg. His eyes are watery, his face pink. He looks like a funny little man—short and stout, no neck to speak of, and a waddle for his walk. "Mamapapa," he says again. 

"I know, honey," I say. "Mommy's coming soon." I smile and hand him my crayon. He takes it, turns around and backs up into me, then tries to slide his tush up onto my leg. I pull him up by his armpits, settle him on my lap, and watch as he scribbles. "Oh my gosh! A purple circle! You're so good at this!" He smiles and scribbles again. And just like that, I've made my first friend here. 

I started assisting in my class of 25 three-year-olds last week. I've been in the classroom for only six days, but already my kids love me, much to my happiness. Getting a three-year-old to love you, I've quickly discovered, is one of the most efficient activities you can participate in: it's incredibly easy and incredibly rewarding. 

For most three-year-olds, trust is a default setting. When Álvaro saw my crayon offering him a pretty distraction, he immediately grabbed it. For him, and for almost all of them, trust isn't something you have to build. It's something they give right away—innocent until proven guilty in its purest form. 

For those of you who know how this summer started for me, you might understand why I have some trust issues. For those of you who don't, I'll just say that I was let down an overwhelming number of times in the span of two months. So when I received an email claiming a potential English Teaching Assistantship offer in Spain from the Fulbright Commission, my first thought was, Oh my God!!—but my second thought was, Where's the catch? 

I had applied for a Fulbright grant over a year ago and was wait-listed; I had given up hope of ever hearing from them back in June, which is why I applied for a different Teach in Spain program. Because of this, I was already in Spain with a visa, preparing to teach abroad for a year, when I got the email. So I couldn't help but wonder (forgive the Carrie Bradshaw-esque proposition): was this potential offer another disappointment waiting to happen? Or was it perfect? 

In answer, I'll say that I started last week with my Fulbright placement, and I've since learned that Álvaro, that same little no-necked cutie, doesn't listen to me one bit. He never sits in his seat when I ask him to, he plays with toys during story time, and he constantly gives me the false alarm of whispering "peepee" so that he can go splash his hands in the sink. But then he laughs and kisses me on my cheek, and I remember that he was my first friend. And Aitana kicks when she's angry, but then she calms down and uses her stethoscope to check my pulse (through my ear, of course). And Víctor, who always has a runny nose, gives the best hugs and knows how to say my name now (but still alternates between "mamá" and "Dani"). 

So, no, it's not perfect. But it's much closer to perfection than disappointment. I love my little boogery kids more than I could have imagined possible in six days. Some technicalities are still hanging over my head with the Fulbright scholarship, but I'm trying to focus on the good things that happen to me every day. And just like my little ones, I'm blindly grabbing on to those offering me help: to Elia, my wonderful principal, who has taken me into her home while I search for an apartment; to Isabel, the teacher whose classroom I assist in, who has quickly become a friend, a mentor, and a fantastic translator; to all the welcoming people at my school, who always smile in encouragement at my limited Spanish vocabulary.  

I still have some things to figure out, things that worry me sometimes. But right now, I know that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. So I'm just going to do what my kids do, and trust that it will all be okay at the end of the day. 

Thanks for reading. Love you and miss you!

Goodbyes and Journals

A couple of weeks ago, one of my closest friends gave me a going-away gift for my upcoming year abroad in Córdoba, Spain. She gave me a journal—an 8.5 x 11, green, lined notebook whose cover says:

She decided to free
herself, dance into the
wind, create a new
language. And birds
fluttered around
her, writing "yes"
in the sky.

I got two more journals as going-away gifts. The next from Kevin, a friend in my writing workshop group. It’s handmade from India, with a tie-dyed cover and gritty, natural pages. My last journal is from a long-time friend who studied in London this summer; it’s small and leather, and decorating the cover is a silver elephant—my favorite animal as well as a good luck omen.

They’re beautiful, all of them. But there are a lot of pages to fill in three journals. My aunt says I should just regift them at Christmas—not a bad idea, since I’ll be spending all of my money this year traveling and trying to keep up with the Spanish nightlife. But I’m not going to do that. Not only because the idea of regifting makes me shudder (with the exceptions of well thought-out regifts that have personal value), but also because I already love them. Each journal is a friend whom I admire for its unique trait: the first one for her poetry, the second for its rugged earthiness, the third because the elephant looks at me with a smile, like she’s known me for years.

Goodbyes and journals are a great combination. It’s been harder than I thought it would be to say goodbye, however temporarily, to my friends. So now, with the gifts of these journals, I have some new, portable friends whom I can confide in: whom I can tell about my awkwardness in speaking Spanish, about the blisters on my toes from staying out all night dancing, friends who will listen when I freak out about growing up and grudgingly becoming an adult. They might not laugh at my witty/nerdy (depending on who's describing) jokes like Dan does, or smile as contagiously as Audrey does. They might not be as comforting as Michelle’s hand linking with mine, or as warming as Sam’s saying, “So much love for you, PumaKat.” But the journals will listen to me, and they’ll absorb who I am, and I’ll learn who they are—and that’s really the most fundamentally important part of friendship.

I’m moving to Spain but bringing all of my past experiences from the United States, a country I love, with me. In doing so, I’m creating my own culture, my own language. And I know that I’m doing so with the support and encouragement of lots of people—my very own “yes”-writing birds. Goodbyes and journals: I’m leaving something familiar and receiving something new. But I’m also blending it all together into an entirely new experience, a new freedom.

Thanks for reading.