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.