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