Morose

            Becca was feeling morose and perhaps a bit deflated. Maybe it was the holidays, or the lack of snow, or maybe it was receiving communication from some one at home she wasn’t yet quite ready to talk to, or the heat, or the language barrier, or illness that had persistently ravaged her digestive system for over a week. The Peace Corps doctors had a theory that with all of the factors of daily life in the campo, it was nearly impossible to figure out what exactly made you sick. Becca was beginning to think that applied to her mental health as well.

            She could already feel herself burning out hard; feeling that she couldn’t get anything accomplished, that she’d never learn Spanish, that she wasn’t going to be a good volunteer. How could this all be hitting her during month four...when she still had 23 more to go? Rationally, she knew it was likely normal, that nothing she was feeling was new, but the rational part of her was tired.

            She resigned herself to creating a new work plan, talking to more people, finally running in the mornings, talking to other volunteers, and remembering that time is all relative. It wasn’t a total fix but it was going to have to work. And in those moments when she really struggled she remembered the words of another volunteer; that everything passes in a few days, if you’re sad for a few days, wait, it’ll get better. She believed it would.

No Tengo Mama

Estefa had seemed down the night before as she tried to explain to Becca her plans for the following day. Becca understood that she needed to be home a little early for lunch because her mom was going somewhere. She thought she heard her say something about visiting her mother. And so she didn’t think much of it but made sure she was home a half hour early the next day.

“Hola hijita, quieres tu almuerzo?” she asked as Becca as she hugged her tightly.  (Hi term of endearment, do you want your lunch?). Without waiting for an answer she shooed her to the table and told her to sit. Second later she appeared with a large bowl of soup, a plate of rice and a smaller bowl of ceviche. Having gotten used to a work schedule that only allowed her to eat with her family a few days a week, Becca was used to eating a alone but was overjoyed when Estefa joined her. Until she saw the slightly deflated look on her mom’s face.

Estefa threw her a small smile but the sadness lurking just behind it pulled at Becca’s heart. She pointed toward the picture on the wall of Becca’s host grandmother and host grandfather, Estefa’s parents. Becca had never met them.

“Mis padres,” Estefa said. (My parents)

“Aw, si,” Becca nodded, not entirely sure what was going on, a feeling she often had. “Donde viven?” (Aw, yes. Where do they live?).

“No,” Estefa said, an interesting look of surprise dawning on her face. “Son muertos. Hoy dia es cumple de mi mama, muerta diez anos.” (No, they’re dead. Today is my mom’s birthday, she’s been dead 10 years). 

“Oh, lo siento,” Becca said, she was always unsure what to say in these situations, in Spanish it was even harder. (Oh, I’m sorry).

“Ya, ella es muerta, no tengo padres ahora, no tengo mama,” her throat caught on those last words and Becca saw the tears in her eyes. (She’s dead, I don’t have parents now, I don’t have a mother). She stood and excused herself, walking into the other room.

A moment later she returned, she downtrodden but looking a bit brighter. When she sat back down, Becca touched her hand and Estefa grabbed it, holding it for a few minutes.

“Gracias, hija,” she said and smiled something that looked a little less like sorrow. (Thanks, daughter). They sat together while they ate lunch and when they finished, they carried their dishes into the kitchen. When they set them down, Becca hugged her mom,

“Tu familia es bonita y tienes tres hijos biencarinosa y tienes una otra hija ahora,” Becca said. (Your family is beautiful/wonderful and you have three very loving kids, and you have another daughter now).

Estefa grinned and hugged her back in that wonderful tight, mom-hug sort of way. Becca had seen her mom struggle like this before, having lost her father, Becca;s grandpa, too soon. As she stood in the kitchen hugging her host mom, she thought of just how very similar completely different worlds could be sometimes, how very human.

Un Dia Malo

Most emotional moments in Becca’s life could be blamed on three words: Are you ok? It seemed that whenever she was getting dow, whenever she was standing on the edge of a mental breakdown, someone would ask her that little question and she would lose it like there was some tear-coaxing magnet in the phrase. And so, when her Spanish teacher turned to her during class on a particularly difficult day and said,

“Rebecca, no habla mucho hoy? Por que? Estas Bien?” she was completely unable to hold it together. Stacked hours and days of constant language immersion, subject immersion and culture immersion will do that to a person.

First she shrugged, knowing she wouldn’t be able to speak, then, the unavoidable tears started to come and she shook her head. She didn’t cry in classes typically, but the Peace Corps was a different animal.

“Esta bien, en mi casa, tengo dias malos tambien, esta bien. Es dificil,” Claudia said and tried to move on.

“Becca, could you find that advil for me, my head is really hurting,” Amanda broke in and Becca nodded quickly, happy for the excuse for escape. Amanda followed her into her room and though Becca tried to search for the advil and ignore the issue at hand, Amanda refused to allow it.

“Come here,” she said and Becca obliged. Amanda hugged her tightly.

“I know,” she said. Becca nodded but she continued. “No, like I really know. I cried all of last night.” They stood like that for a long time, Becca feeling foolish but also relieved and Amanda without hesitation or judgement. Eventually, they broke apart and Amanda told her to look for the advil (which to be fair, Amanda really did need) and come out when she felt better, Becca couldn’t have thanked her enough for that.