“You speak-a the english?” “Speak english or go home!” “We don’t want YOUR kind here.” “We speak english in this country HOMBRE.” “I’m sorry, I just can’t understand your Mexican accent. Or is that spanglish? I can habla spanglish.” “[insert, angry, threatening stare]”
Even as a kid, hearing stuff like this from friend, family and/or stranger, has made me cringe. On my boldest days, I’d say something, kindly or angrily. Others, I’d glare with all the reproach I could muster. And there were also days where I’d simply look down, and move away quickly.
I assumed it must be difficult for foreigners in my home, but I never really understood. Until May 27, 2011. On that day, en route to Chennai… I forgot my bags in Delhi, and flew with only a backpack to Chennai. I made a mistake. A stupid mistake, but a mistake. I’ve made mistakes before. I’m prone to them. Honestly, I’ve found that they’re no big deal. Make a few calls, pay a few bucks, wait a few days… and then, resolved. This is what I expected. Instead… well, let me tell the story.
It started in Delhi. We (I was traveling with two others) didn’t know where to go. We asked person after person after person. For our entire layover, we were shuffled from desk to desk to desk to desk to… round and round and round. Each time, we struggled to bridge the language barrier, contending with accents and regional differences in word choice. Eventually, we arrived where we needed to be, and hurried to assume our seats. I was frustrated. I was so used to being understood; secretly, I was grateful that we’d made our flight safely, that in only hours, I would be safely cocooned among those speaking my language.
It was in Chennai that we realized our error. I approached desk after desk asking for help, eventually stumbling across the right person, or at least the person with the right forms. She gave us a piece of paper with two numbers, told us to call them in the morning. Good luck and goodbye and we were gone.
[fastforward through forms and copies and faxes and phone calls and emails and lawyers and notaries]
It’s been a little over a week since that day. We still don’t have our luggage, but at least now, our luggage has made it to Chennai. This was not my doing. Our professors/our partner ICTPH acted as our bridge between cultures, airlines, customs officials and language.
The luggage actually isn’t my point. Presumably, I’ll get my luggage (some day). And in any case, I’m not nearly as worried about that as I am eager to end personal embarrassment and to stop being a burden to those I’m here to learn from/assist. I want to blend in. I want to be like everyone else. I want to be able to depend on myself, finally, again. And, those feelings… I understand now. Not completely, because I had Ramesh and Ravi and ICTPH to advocate for me, to speak for me; additionally, I know I’m only here for weeks. August 6th, barring catastrophes, will find me waking in my own bed, in my own home, in my own country. I will step off a plane and be greeted in English, language of… well, me. Because of those things, I’m blessed, or lucky, call it whatever. But even with blessings and luck, I was lost. And that’s what I understand. The fear, the embarrassment, the anger at loss of pride/face, the exhaustion created from holding back tears, from the effort expending trying to appear brave.
I’m grateful to ICTPH and my professors for going above and beyond, I’m grateful to my classmates for their empathetic responses, to my fellow travelers for their humor. Finally? I’m grateful for lost baggage; I will never again look down, never again call ‘a glare’ my ‘stance against discrimination.’ I am eager to be free of this experience, to have it behind me, but on my honor, I will never forget it.
Social Worker Seeks Transdisciplinary Experience 