The first time I got the taste of being a foreigner was when I left my country for the first time at the age of 30. I flew with my husband and sister-in-law to their home country of Chile to visit family for 3 weeks. It was the first time I’d left my children (then 5 and 8). It’s a long 16 hours of fly time. Our connecting flight was in San Paulo, Brazil. Our travel journey took 24 hours from Washington D.C. to Santiago, Chile.
Despite the angst of leaving my children for 3 weeks, I didn’t have many concerns, as I was traveling with two native Chileans. And though the primary language of Brazil is Portuguese, we weren’t leaving the airport, had a long layover, and figured English and Spanish fluency would be sufficient. I never anticipated any troubles. However, upon attempting to navigate the San Paulo airport to find our next gate, we found tremendous difficulty. Unable to find anyone who could speak Spanish or English to give us direction, I was surprised and frustrated and if I’m honest, a little bit scared. While I had confidence we wouldn’t miss our next flight due to the long layover, I had never in my 30 years of life experienced being a foreigner. I had never experienced having a need and not being able to communicate effectively to gain help or instruction. I had never experienced being surrounded by people who looked and sounded different than me- where the ambient noise of small conversation and passing words “Hello”, “Excuse me” weren’t in my native tongue.
Eventually we found our gate of course. And in the 3 weeks that followed, though my husband’s family was kind and loving and accommodating and I was never more than a shouting distance away from my English speaking husband or sister-in-law, I experienced being an outlier. I experienced being in a room full of people excitedly conversing in a language that wasn’t my own. And though I could speak and understand Spanish to a child’s level, after studying it for 5 years and occasionally practicing it at home and at work… for the first time I understood the exhaustion that came with trying to understand, translate and communicate in a new language. It was fast and loud and riddled with slang. It was so much more complicated than the basic phrases and vocabulary I’d come to know. And every country, I learned, has its own colloquialisms, regardless of shared language. In the US, Spanish was greater influenced by our neighbor, Mexico. For instance, back home “car” was “carro”; but in Chile, it was “auto”. “Strawberries” was “frutilla” instead of “fresas”.
After some time in a crowded room, my brain couldn’t keep up anymore and I would simply zone-out, losing track of the conversation entirely… and despite our friendly and loving company and their many, many efforts of accommodation… I’d feel alone. It only took one person saying “She doesn’t understand anything” to hurt my feelings. And one night, I retreated to my room to cry- missing my kids, feeling overwhelmed and a little left out.
But that experience changed me. It gave me a perspective I’d never had before. It showed me the privilege I’d been living and the tremendous bravery and sacrifice it takes to start a life in a new land. It was such a tiny amount of time. I was protected by natives who never left my side and I spoke the language to a degree. Some Chileans were honored and in awe to meet an American and others were respectful and kind at minimum. I felt like an honored guest there- though I did nothing to deserve that. And still it was challenging and lonely to be away from home. It got me reflecting on the lived experiences of immigrants and minorities in my own country.
I realized how different many of the interactions I witnessed in the US, were from my experiences in Chile. I thought about the amount of times I’d heard an abrupt “I can’t understand you”, when a non-native was speaking English with a heavy accent- knowing how hard it is to learn the language. I thought about the amount of times people rolled their eyes or made disparaging comments, or how often their presence was ignored. I remembered how intimidating it was to use my Spanish when I was surrounded by natives, afraid of saying the wrong thing… and I wondered how many times silence is assumed as ignorance instead of fear. I remembered people calling hispanics “cockroaches” because so many people lived in one home and then finding that cultural character trait admirable and welcoming when my husband’s family opened their homes and offered up their beds to us. I recalled countless times people called my husband a “Mexican” and assumed his cultural preferences to be the same, simply because he spoke Spanish… and how he handled their ignorance and misconceptions with grace. Behind closed doors, to me he’d quietly say “We’re not even from the same continent….”. I remembered him returning from work defeated and angry because he was refused access to a job site- “We don’t work with your kind here.”
And that’s just what I could recall off the cuff. How much more were people experiencing in my own country that I was unaware of or unable/unwilling to relate to? What were the lived experiences of people who dwelled in my same land but looked and sounded different than me?
We were 10 years into our now 22 (almost 23) year relationship when we took that trip. Prior to that, I had heard my husband‘s stories of being a new immigrant in this country many times. With starry eyes, he talked about how he always dreamed of coming to the United States. And how escaping during the dictatorship of Pinochet was a miracle for him and his family. And yet coming to this land of opportunity also meant leaving his entire life of 25 years- family, language, culture, food, music, familiarity. Though a dream come true… it was crushingly difficult. He talked about the loneliness and the isolation. How every day tasks, like going to the grocery store or visiting a doctor… became taxing chores as an accomplished adult. “Paper or plastic?” was a paralyzing question. Though surrounded by wealth and opportunity here, what came easily in his home country, was hard now. And the obvious difficulties were made harder still by the stares, disparaging comments and discrimination that he was met with.
Despite having a very compassionate spirit, I admittedly minimized his struggle. I’d make comments to him like “Well you’re here now.” And “You made it! Look at all that you’ve accomplished.” Comments that did nothing to honor the pain that came with immigration.
Maybe I had a hard time honoring that struggle because I had never felt those things before. It’s one thing to hear about them, but another to live them. Maybe, because I’d never thought or acted in an overtly racist manner, the reality of the existence of racism and discrimination fell deaf on my white American ears. Maybe I couldn’t imagine the reality… or maybe I didn’t try hard enough.
Now don’t get me wrong… this isn’t a bash the U.S. post. My husband will be the first to tell you, that he believes the United States is the greatest country in the world. He is honored and blessed to be here and never wants to live anywhere else. We have no desire to raise our family in any other country. It is beautiful and rich and has afforded us so much opportunity and comfort. His now 36 years in the U.S. have proven to be fruitful and fulfilling. And our life here has become a most fantastical dream come true. But it doesn’t erase the tears and the struggle it took to get here.
Protecting and celebrating our privileged lives here, doesn’t have to mean shutting out and silencing the cries of those less fortunate. We can honor the hardships, hear the stories of others and work to improve, to be even greater still. How true is our reality when we look through a narrow lens? What greater perception can we gain by broadening our viewpoint?
Like many Americans, I used to refer to my country as “America”. Patriotic hymns I’d come to love, like “God bless America” seemed to reinforce this. Until someone questioned me… “Isn’t ‘America’ a reference to two continents- North and South?” Why claim that title when so many other countries share those land masses? I realized the egotism it reflected. Since then, I started calling it “The United States”, out of respect for our neighbors. That is our name, after all. Though its doesn’t seem we’ve coined a term to replace “Americans”….. “United Statians” ? LOL
Things are a bit different now of course since my husband first immigrated here. With increased numbers of hispanics, there are more resources than ever before and more community. When my husband came, there were only two hispanic families in the city- his and a family from Mexico. They remain great friends to this day- now able to laugh about their early days navigating this country. One of my favorites is when the maternal family heads went to the grocery store looking for eggs. Their comedic reenactment of a laying hen takes the whole room down in stitches. Though the kids in Chile, like most around the world, studied English in school- their reality of language was similar to mine when I traveled. My husband arrived here equipped with “Hello. How are you?” “Good Morning.” “Good afternoon” Good evening.” Only to be met with a head nod and “Hey, what’s up?!” Little of what is taught in the classroom applies to everyday interactions on the street. Such experiences prompted my husband to take more English classes at night… after his two day- jobs of course.
Since that life-changing trip to Chile, we’ve continued to expand our international travels, always booking small and aiming for authenticity instead of large commercial resorts. And though the experience of being a foreigner still holds some feelings of uncertainty… it’s easier now. I’ve developed more confidence, life skills and resiliency. It’s called me to listen more closely to my intuition- when the language is different, reading energy and body language becomes essential. It’s widened my knowledge base of various ways of living- transportation systems, currency conversions, manners, cultural norms and expectations. And dare I say, it’s made me a more flexible, well-rounded and humble human being. The “American” way isn’t the only way to do things. In fact, I don’t think it’s even the better way to do things sometimes.
I found Canadians to be kinder, cleaner and more eco-conscious than most Americans. And I admire the standards Canada’s food industry maintains in keeping dangerous additives and chemicals out of their food. Belizeans awed me with their expansive knowledge and use of natural remedies- plants and herbs for everyday ailments instead of commercial pharmacy. Puerto Ricans (though also Americans by territory), have some of the most resilient and joyful spirits I’ve ever met-rebuilding over and over again and pausing to dance in the streets. Cubans are by far the most inventive, resourceful and creative people I’ve had the pleasure to commune with- maintaining vintage cars from the 50s and even installing makeshift air-conditioning units in them. They find a way to keep going despite a collapsing infrastructure, tremendous scarcity and almost total isolation from other countries. Mexicans have an outstanding loyalty to family. Chile has one of the most stunning and diverse landscapes in the world. They highly regard the work of public servants like teachers- and have an education system and economy that reflects it. But they aren’t flashy about it. None of these things negate or outshine all that the US is… but they are admirable and valuable in their own right. And I think we could learn from them.
A quick google search yielded that 27% of Americans report having never left the country. 23% have never visited a country where English wasn’t the primary language. I imagine a good number of the roughly 75% who have visited non-english speaking countries, stay in large resorts, travel by cruise ships or with tour groups that might minimize interactions with the local population. When polled, only one third of Americans could pass the US citizenship test despite a full and free education here. Despite our wealth, our education system and our health pale in comparison to some other, less wealthy countries. And in the National Geographic-Roper poll, Americans scored second to last in Geography when tested against Canada, Germany, France, Great Britain, Italy, Japan, Sweden and Mexico- with our average score being 23/56 correct answers.
Maybe that has something to do with some of the unrest and prejudices we see today. Maybe if more people experienced first-hand being a foreigner… maybe if more people took the time to get to know those who come from other lands or live by other customs, maybe if they sat at more tables unlike their own…. maybe we’d have more understanding and compassion… maybe. But to do that takes willingness, vulnerability, and discomfort.
Powerful and mighty as we are, I wonder how many of us would fare living in another land. I wonder how far we ourselves would go to escape violence and persecution… to protect our children. I wonder how often native citizens have thought about the difficulties and complexities of starting over in a foreign land… and simultaneously navigating the complex process and financial burden of saving up the thousands of dollars it costs to become a naturalized citizen. I’m not suggesting that we hand out free papers or open our borders to all. But having walked this journey with my immigrant family, I just wonder if people know. Do they even know? And for those that do, I wonder if safety and compassion can work together.
Can we love and nurture our home and still love and admire our neighbors? We can we maintain our national treasures and be willing to hear the plights of those less fortunate and lend them a helping hand? Can we work together for a greater good? I know we all have a lot to offer.
This beautiful, rich, diverse, melting pot of a country… If we could talk to our own immigrant ancestors- mine from Poland, Germany, England, Ireland, Italy and more…. what do you think they would share about their early days here? What would their stories be? Do we still possess the resiliency they carried… or has that turned to privilege? Would their stories hit different if they looked like us or would we find the common threads and shared humanity amongst all who are brave enough to seek more? I wonder.
