I stand on the playground with my coordinator and another teacher, while the four-year-old kids have recess. Their playground area is like a giant sandbox with some olive and orange trees. Different areas are sectioned off with ribbon in an attempt to separate the classes and minimize Covid-19 outbreaks, and the small primary school has had six cases already since September. The children sneak back and forth, but generally keep their masks on, an occasional tiny nose peeking above colorfully patterned cloth.
I point to an orange tree and tell my coordinator, “This is the first time I’ve seen one of these.” I’ve never even been to Europe before and everything is new.
“They are… not good for eating. Only to look beautiful,” she says.
Many of the teachers speak some degree of conversational English, but no one here is fluent. By contrast, my level of Spanish is abysmal. I've never taken a single class, and a couple months of half-hearted Duolingo haven't helped much. I'm prohibited from using any Spanish in the classroom, so it wasn't a requirement for the job. My coordinator turns to a nearby teacher and starts a conversation, of which I only catch a few words. Not even enough to understand the topic. I gaze at the trees and watch children toss little fistfuls of sand around.
“We are saying that you are very brave for coming here alone,” she says to me.
“Oh, gracias, pero tengo miedo,” I say, smiling. I am afraid. But I was afraid to stay in the United States, too, I want to explain. I don’t know which choice would have been braver. I think about the people who refuse to wear masks, the Trump merch stands I saw while visiting rural Arkansas in August. What this represents will not disappear after the election. She wouldn’t completely follow if I tried to tell her about the pit of worry in my stomach when I think of the United States, and I certainly don’t have the words in Spanish.
Instead I say, “Todo está nuevo para mi,” and again in English in case the words are wrong, “Everything is new for me.” This isn’t what I want to say, but at least it’s true.
I’m like one of the toddlers on the playground lately, alternately helpless and delighted. The language barrier means I signed a lease I couldn’t understand, and all day there is conversation around me that I can’t follow. I squint at mysterious vocabulary on the ATM screen. Every door is locked, but I’m slowly learning to twist the key the right way. Even the most mundane objects are confusing to me. (The milk is in the dry goods section of the grocery store, and I’m still not sure if my microwave is broken or if I just don’t understand how to use it.) Every night, I go to bed exhausted from information overload and walking miles around the city. I haven’t slept this well in years.
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