Chapter 05: Close But Yet So Far

“Except that you’re a little arrogant.” My friend was talking to me about how easy I was to get along with.

“Arrogant?” I snapped back.

“Yeah. You must already know that. You always talk as if you’re better than other people.”

“Huh…”

I walked away puzzled.

But I

am

better than everyone. How is it arrogant if it’s true?

I generally surrounded myself with people who weren’t as capable as me. I worried that if I hung around with smart people, I’d get found out as a fraud. Whenever I was with people who I had a lot of respect for, I would belittle those not present.

What I didn’t realize is that talking bad about anyone decreases people’s respect for you. There is never an appropriate time to say something disparaging about someone else. The people who hear it might wonder what you say about them when they’re not around.

I was eighteen years old. I had friends who signed up for college at sixteen and seventeen, and I felt dumb. Those were the friends I was afraid to talk about (or talk to, even). Why didn’t

I

sign up for college? How is it that they sent letters to universities and got accepted, but I didn’t? I knew the answer. I had no idea why I would want to go to college in the first place, much less which college I wanted to attend.

I had to get in this year. I wasn’t going to be a late entry — getting into college after they’ve turned nineteen. For a few weeks, I debated what kind of thing I wanted to sign up for. As I looked at classes online, some would fill up and disappear, so I shifted focus to other classes. Then the worry monster showed up. One day I got online to look at what was available and the class inventory had dropped by more than half. There were almost no classes available, and if I didn’t sign up soon, there would be nothing left.

I drove to the school, hurried inside, and followed the maze of corridors until I found the place to sign up in person. There were only a few courses left. One was theater. I wasn’t going to act in a play even if my life depended on it. Some were science classes that has prerequisites I didn’t meet. There was only one class left. It was Spanish.

This part is a little hard to explain. My family wasn’t racist. I’ve described them as bigoted, but even that’s too strong. We had a mixed bag of friends from all over the world. But, over the last ten years we’d had a lot of bad experiences with Mexicans.

They had killed friends of mine, they sold drugs in our neighborhood, and they broke rules. They would park their trucks on the sidewalk to keep them from getting hit by other cars. One person even parked in our yard. I had a little resentment mixed with fear. Since they wouldn’t listen to us and our rules, I wasn’t ready to learn from them either.

As I reflect on the past me, I don’t see how it wasn’t more obvious how arrogant I was. How misguided and wrong my thoughts were. Today I’m good friends with Mexicans, but I’ve also learned something greater.

You don’t respect someone because you understand them, or because they’re smart. You don’t respect someone because you like them, or because they have something to offer you. You respect

all people

, regardless of their background. You respect them because they’re

human beings

. They need nothing else to earn your respect.

A person walked in front of me and got in the line for Spanish class. Panic stabbed me in the back of the head like a bunch of sewing needles digging into my scalp. I stepped into the line with no thought other than ”

It’s too late.

”

“Is this the class you want to take?” came a voice from outside the line.

“Yes.” I didn’t look up, or think about the answer. It wasn’t the class I wanted to take. I didn’t know what class I wanted to take. I didn’t even know if I wanted to be in college. The only thing I knew was that anything other than “yes” was the wrong answer.

The line shuffled forward and I counted the people. They were almost at the limit for the class. A few more minutes and it would be full. There was no turning back now. As we continued to ebb along toward the sign-up desk I thought to myself.

What a weird feeling. This is one of the greatest gifts of a developed civilization, but instead of being happy, I’m terrified. Am I doing the wrong thing, or do I have a bad brain?

What would my parents think if I didn’t sign up for college?

Would I even be able to get a job without college?

What do I want to get out of college?

Was I even smart enough to make it?

“…installments of one hundred dollars.” I looked up. I was standing at the sign-up desk and didn’t know how I got there. It seems like I’d been daydreaming. Having a day-mare is more like it. I hadn’t a clue what we were talking about.

“Um… Could you say that again?” I stammered.

“Which part?”

I didn’t know. They didn’t skip a beat — working with ditzes like me was a standard part of their job. They re-explained the payment programs for the books and materials. I got paid up and walked out with my books. I got to my car and sat down for a few minutes staring at the cover of my Spanish textbook.

It had more colors than a peacock, and had more exclamation marks than necessary.

Why did they need to sell me on the course?

I wondered to myself.

I already signed up for it.

A friend of mine drank half-and-half coffee: half sugar, half coffee. If you have to put that much sugar in it, then you don’t like coffee. That’s how I felt about this textbook. It seemed like looking at a flyer for a Spanish course.

What I would later learn is that Mexicans believe that the rainbow exists for a reason. If you publish a document with any less than five colors, you’re being a poor steward of resources. They embrace color, life, and everything happy. I would later fall in love with their culture, but right now I was trying to figure out life.

“Ok.” I said aloud. “I signed up late. I signed up for a silly language course instead of something smart like science or math. The least I can do is get perfect grades. I’m going to out-study this class and make sure I never get a question wrong.”

I did exactly that. I made maps, charts, and flash cards. I never missed a day of class, and turned in every homework assignment early. One of the assignments was to translate a recipe from English to Spanish. I translated the recipe and then got a friend who was a graphic designer to make it look fancy. The teacher showed it to the whole class.

This is sure to get me more friends! I thought to myself. That’s when I learned that people don’t like that sort of thing. They all started ridiculing me and making fun of me any chance they got. I was so confused. What do I have to do to prove to people that I’m smart?

I started hanging out with the teacher between classes and helped her grade homework. She even told the other kids that I was helping her score tests, which I was

sure

would finally win their respect. It didn’t.

I did, get the attention of the school dean. One day in the middle of class, a lady came and knocked on the door. She announced that the dean wanted to talk to me, and asked the teacher if she would excuse us. As I followed this mystery lady down the hall, my heart was trying to kick holes in my rib cage. I didn’t know what the dean was, but everyone who saw him got expelled.

After a four

day

minute walk, we arrived at the dean’s office. She knocked, he invited me in, and she closed the door behind me. I didn’t introduce myself. I stared at his 10-foot-tall bookshelves, leather couches and mahogany desk. The rest of the school felt like stainless steel. Was I in another dimension?

“Please take a seat.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk.

How should I handle this?

I fretted.

What am I going to tell my parents? Will this ruin my career?

“Do you know what an international exchange program is?” He asked.

“No sir.” I said blankly.

“It’s a program where you live in another country and learn by immersion. You get to know more than the language. You experience the culture and lifestyle.” He paused to make sure I was understanding everything. “We selected you and ten other students. You will receive a fully-paid scholarship to the Colima international exchange program. You’ll live one semester in Mexico and study abroad. Your credits will transfer back when you return. Does that sound like something that would interest you?”

“Yes sir.”

I’m not getting expelled. Cool.

“You have one week to decide if you’re going to be able to travel. Your teacher will handle everything from here.”

“Thank you, sir.” I stood up halfway. Almost as if asking permission to leave.

“Have a good day.” He nodded.

As I headed back to class, I wanted to tell everyone what happened. It was so cool that I got picked for this international exchange program. I headed in and sat down. Nobody said anything, and I didn’t offer the information. While I was too dense to realize how much of a jerk I was, I knew better than to brag.

I was the only student chosen from my class, but there were a lot of other Spanish classes. The university selected students from all the classes — ten students in all. The teachers coordinated among themselves to get all ten of us to the passport office. We showed up on the same day and waited our turns to take photos. We also applied for visas the same day. They didn’t tell us that we were all going together, so I didn’t realize they were my fellow nominees.

The teachers scheduled a lot of different events for us. We had one meeting per week for seven months. There was a lot of talk about what to expect when it came to weather, culture, what to wear, say, and do. They taught us about safety, international policy, and some campus policy.

Sometimes we would come in and record videos or write letters to the host family. Video calls and smartphones weren’t around back then. Instead, we’d sit in a studio and record us talking about ourselves or having an interview with a teacher. Then they would make it into video files and email it to the university in Colima, Mexico.

The host families would watch the videos and pick who they wanted to host. We didn’t know anything about the host families, but they got to see information about us. After all, we were going to be staying in their houses.

One month we saw a little of the

exchange

part of the foreign exchange program. The group from Colima came up to Texas before our group left for Mexico. We received them at the university, prepared a dinner for them, and helped them feel welcome. We didn’t do a lot for them, but we did get a chance to talk and get to know them a little so that they wouldn’t feel as awkward here. It also served to give us a chance to practice our Spanish a bit before heading down there.

In Colima, the women greet men by kissing them on the cheek. No one explained this to me. We prepared a dinner to receive them on the first night they were in Texas. As the foreign students came in (men and women) one of the women kissed me on the cheek.

“My name is Dora” she said, but I didn’t hear her. I was thinking about the kissing. My family had a strict no-anything-with-women policy. This is the first time a girl had ever kissed me — even on the cheek.

I didn’t know what to do, but I’d heard of cultures that do this, so I kissed her on both cheeks. Dora thought it was cute, and started to develop a crush on me. I wasn’t aware of this, and wouldn’t clue in until several months later.

The time finally came for us to make our trip to Mexico. I don’t remember much about that day. Most of the time when I can’t remember a day, it’s because I was under a lot of stress. It would make sense. I was about to leave my home and everything I knew and go live in another country for five months.

I do remember when the plane landed, and they opened the door. We grabbed our things and walked off the plane. It hadn’t pulled up to the terminal, so we’re standing in the middle of the tarmac. A group of guards formed a circle around us and ordered us onto a bus. It was a weird double-decker bus with iron rails instead of windows or doors.

We packed in so tight I couldn’t even move my elbow without stabbing someone in the ribs. Suitcases crowded in and around and through people’s legs. As the bus bobbed toward the terminal, I grabbed on to the iron railing to keep from falling.

The bus driver opened the door without saying a word. People stepped down like clothes flopping out of an overstuffed closet. We all grabbed our things and ambled toward the terminal. We walked into customs and immigration. Border officers were reciting instructions over and over while handing out paperwork. Everybody found a little makeshift post to fill out their immigration paperwork. After I filled out mine, I filed into the line. Over the next half-hour, we made our way to the counters. Once there, officers checked our paperwork along with our bags.

What was interesting about this whole experience is that I didn’t find it that odd. I expected Mexico to be a little different, but at this point it still felt like I had only traveled to another state. We got on a bus which took us on a six-hour drive from Guadalajara to Colima. The bus made a couple stops on the way for restrooms and snacks, which was still fun – like a field trip.

We arrived at a big warehouse where we all unloaded, and the teachers explained to us where we would be going. They read the names of students paired with host families. I was last, and they explained that no family had picked me. So they assigned me to a family while they continued to work out more permanent arrangements. They gave us little cards that explained how to tell someone where we lived and where the school was. We also each wrote down the phone number for our host family.

Finally, we were off. I got into a taxi and explained to them how to get to my host family, loaded my things into the vehicle and went on my merry way. There is another guy staying with my husband family. His name was Josh. Since we’re going to the same place, we shared a taxi. We didn’t talk a lot, though. Instead, I spent most of the time looking out the window. Everything was a bit different there.

It surprised me that they had things like traffic lights. In part due to my closemindedness. But part of the reason is that I had helped an organization raise money to buy a traffic light for a place in Mexico. Somehow that association made me think that traffic lights were a big deal there. But they did have a lot of great architecture, nice bridges, and the gardens were beautiful. In fact, Colima was one of the most beautiful states in Mexico.

We finally arrived with the host family who took us in and showed us where our rooms were. The oldest son of my host family took me into my room and pointed to a large stone block and said, “That’s your bed”. Of course, we put a mattress on top of it, along with a sheet. I asked for a blanket, and he looked at me funny. “Why would you want that?” I ignored it and moved on.

I suppose I’ll figure it out later

.

We spent the day getting to know each other and talking about various things. It turns out they sponsor people year-round, but they tend to sponsor Canadians. Josh didn’t say much, because he didn’t know very much Spanish, but he tried. After a couple of hours we ate dinner, and everybody headed off to bed.

As I mentioned, this whole time it didn’t sink in that I was in another country. Some people spoke English. My host family didn’t. While some things were different a lot of things were the same. They had electricity, cars, highways, television. One thing that was different where the phones. They had phones, but we weren’t allowed to use them. A host family could only make 100 calls in a month before their phone would stop working. That was definitely a weird system to me.

As I woke up, however, it finally occurred to me that I was in another country. I started thinking through my day. I didn’t know what I was going to eat. I knew I had school that morning, but I didn’t know how to get there. I had a toothbrush and toothpaste, but if I didn’t, I wouldn’t know where to buy them. None of this was a major problem, but it did cause me to ask what I would do if I didn’t have the answers to these things.

I had a lot of questions come, but I didn’t wait to answer them. It was fun to study. I went to the bathroom and started brushing my teeth and someone in the host family walked by. Closed the door to the bathroom and shouted “How rude! Close the door when you brush your teeth!” I stared at the closed door for a few minutes.

Ok. So, that’s a thing

. I thought to myself. Then I finished up brushing my teeth before heading out to figure out the details of our day.

Their daughter, Monica, taught us how to take the bus to school. It was much cheaper than a taxi, but the timing was trickier. She also taught me where the grocery store was and even took me to buy some of the basics that I would need. I never did end up needing that blanket after all. The temperature almost never dropped below seventy degrees at night. Some nights it’s it was as hot as eighty-five degrees all night long.

The ten of us students went into our classroom for our first class of the day. I expected that they were going to introduce us to our Spanish teacher, and that our class was going to be Spanish. That didn’t happen. The teacher handed each of us a written syllabus on a piece of paper. As I read through my list of classes, I asked the teacher if there had been a mistake. My classes were art, architecture, literature, and music. There had not been a mistake. We were going to learn art, architecture, literature and music in Spanish.

Not everybody made it. Josh ended up getting sent back to the United States for high levels of stress and anxiety. Six other students were struggling to even have basic conversations. The administration moved them from the program and to remedial Spanish training. There were three of us left, and we had to scratch and claw our way through. My very first assignment was to read a one-hundred page book in Argentinian Spanish. That same week I had to write a five-page essay on it.

If somebody had told me how bad it was going to be I wouldn’t have taken the course. Yet, I ended up learning something interesting. A lot of people say I want to learn Spanish. What they mean is they want to speak Spanish. Most people don’t want to go through the hard part of learning something. They want the success of knowing it. Since then, I’ve had to ask myself in life if I want to learn something or if I just wish I already knew it.

I learned more than Spanish, however. One day I went to the school bookstore to pick some stuff up that I needed for class. I walked through the store looking for the items I needed. I tuned into the drone of voices around me, trying to see how much conversation I could pick up. After getting things that I came for, I went to the counter to pay. I gave the lady the wrong amount of money, and she corrected me. “Oops. I’m an idiot.” I said.

There was complete and total silence. All the conversation in the store stopped at the same time. The lady behind the counter said, “we don’t use that word here.” I was floored. It was just the word “idiot.” It’s not even profanity, and I was directing it at myself! I learned to be more careful of the words that I use in another culture. You never know what weight they might carry.

More than that, however, I learned to consider the utility of all my words. It’s not like I’m perfect, or that I never use profanity. I have bad days too. But I learned that It’s important to think about the goal of the words I use. Am I using words that make people around me feel better about them and others? Or am I using words that tear down?

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.Ephesians 4:29

This verse isn’t to make you feel bad about what you say. I see it in light of what I learned in the store. It’s important to think about the effects of having negativity come out of your mouth. Not only the immediate effects, but long-term effects as well. If people always expect you to criticize other people; if they expect you to tear down people who aren’t around; if people expect you to use profane language; if people expect you to be a source of negativity; then even when you say good things, they will take it in a negative way.

James chapter three says that blessings and cursing can’t come out of the same mouth. It’s like drinking clean water and poison from the same fountain. It’s a physical impossibility. Therefore, if you allow cursing to come out of your mouth, you cannot be a source of blessing as well. I want to be a source of blessing. It’s less about not saying bad, and more about making sure you’re a reliable source of good.

One day after my class let out, someone told me that the Dean wanted to talk to me. Our ambassador from the United States side met with me and the dean. This time, they weren’t there to offer me a bonus or a special program.

“Everyone thinks you’re a snob” she started. “You don’t do any of the activities, you act like you’re better than everyone else.”

“I go to the classes. But outside class everybody’s going to the bar or the ‘discoteca’. I don’t do those kinds of things.”

“I’ll make it easy for you.” She leaned in. “If you don’t go to the bar or the clubs, you’ll be sent home. You’re here to learn, so you need to be more open-minded about the lifestyle and culture here. You don’t have to drink or smoke, but you do have to go.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The truth is I didn’t want to go to the social activities, because being in a room with a bunch of people caused me to panic. I hated the idea of going to parties with more than three people — even if I knew them. The idea of being at a club trapped in a small noisy room with strangers terrified me.

I did end up going to the bars and the clubs. I don’t remember if I drank or anything. But I hung out with people and got to view life from a new perspective. I was still terrified, but I learned new things about people and met good friends along the way. I learned that if you’re in a crowd, but you have a small group around you, then focus on your small group. The panic only set in when I focused either on the crowd, or on myself (how I looked, or felt).

I’m not saying everybody needs to go hang out in bars and clubs all the time. But just because bad people were in a bar doesn’t mean that going to a bar makes you a bad person. Bad people go to church too – it’s a prerequisite.

On September 11th, I woke up and did my normal routine. Our host family had the TV on as we were going about getting ready for school. I could barely make it out from my room. They were showing some kind of video about planes crashing into buildings in New York. Not my kind of thing, but people will watch anything these days.

I finished getting ready and went into the other room. By this time, I could tell they were watching the news. The president was in the background talking about what happened in the news. The reporter was translating everything into Spanish. She wasn’t doing an excellent job. She said that the United States was under attack and that we had declared war. What really bothered me was that all flights were grounded around the world. How was I ever going to get home?

I didn’t spend any more time watching the news. I knew that we would be talking about it at school. More than likely they will cancel school today. Everybody would be discussing what was going on. We had ambassadors from the US that represented our small group. I was sure that they would create some kind of focus group to talk about it.

That didn’t happen. We showed up for class, and they had the TV’s blocked off. The school didn’t allow anyone to watch TV that day. One of the teachers said that it was too distracting, and we needed to focus on our materials. That felt inhumane to me, but at the end of the day, I’m glad they did it. Taking a pause from my emotions and waiting for the media coverage to settle down and get their story straight ended up being healthier in the long run.

One of my classes finished up. As I walked out and started heading down the winding staircase, I passed a girl who was sitting on the stairs. She was crying with her head between her hands. She wasn’t from our group — she was from Colima. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, not really knowing where to start.

“Your president just declared war on Iraq again! You’re going to get called into the military! You’re going to leave us and have to fight, and you could die!”

“Um… It doesn’t work that way.”

“It doesn’t?” she wiped tears away and looked up at me.

“No, it doesn’t. The president doesn’t just declare war without serious consideration. Even if he did, he doesn’t send people like that. I have to agree to go to war, and there isn’t even a war yet.”

We talked a while more, and she felt a little better about the situation. I still didn’t know when the United States was going to open the borders back up. I didn’t know what happened, or if there would eventually be a war. However, I realized something. She was having a reaction to an assumption she made on partial data.

Now, whenever I have an emotional reaction to a situation, I say “STOP” in my own mind. Especially if the information is not from an original source. Then I have a checklist:

1. Do I know that the information that I have is true?
2. Do I know that I have all the information?
3. Do I have a responsibility in this situation?

Sometimes people share information based on their feelings and not the truth. Sometimes people omit information to make a story appear different than it really is. Whether the omission was intentional or not doesn’t matter. It’s dangerous to act on partial information. Finally, dealing with a situation outside your responsibility is meddling. A situation is in your responsibility if you can take action to directly affect the outcome.

That girl ended up having to go to class and I had to eat lunch. I sat down in the cafeteria and started eating. Another girl came up to me and asked if she could eat with me. It was all the same to me – I’m here to meet as many people as possible.

“My name is Dora, and I went to the United States this year on a foreign exchange trip.”

“Oh, neat.” She’s searching for common ground. I wonder what the play is here.

“I wanted to share something with you.” She pushed a brochure over to my side of the table. “This is something that they gave me to help deal with culture shock.”

“Thanks, but I’m not having culture shock.”

“Yes. You are.” She stated with no change in inflection.

My brain broke. I don’t remember if we had more conversation at that point or not.

How did she know me? How did she know I was going through culture shock?

I leafed through the booklet to see what it said, and it had interesting things in it.

“Why don’t you keep that for now and see if it’s helpful?” She offered.

“Ok. I guess it couldn’t hurt. Thanks.” I replied, still confused.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” She grinned.

“Should I?”

“I met you at that dinner when you made the reception for us in Texas!”

I felt silly. I didn’t remember her. Should I have? If I’m honest will that hurt her feelings? If I lie, is it going to open a line of questioning that I’m not going to be able to get out of? “I remember the dinner. It was a good time, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, you were dressed really formally and everyone else was wearing jeans and t-shirts. I remember you because you were trying to help everyone out and teach everyone. You were really nice.”

A little context, that’s helpful. I still didn’t remember her, but she was pleasant to hang around with. I still had a lot of extracurricular activities to do to keep from getting kicked out of the program. It wouldn’t hurt to do them with someone who was nice to hang around with. I took her book and her contact information and went home.

Later our school planned a trip to the movies, so I called her up and invited her out. She and I started hanging out a lot more and eventually started dating. It was wonderful. She was undyingly supportive of everything in spite of my weird quirks. She was cheery regardless of the situation, and she was quite intelligent.

In December, the program wound to an end. I

‘d love to go into detail about all the places that we saw, and the things that we learned. But that would take another book, and isn’t what this book is about. I can tell you that

I learned a ton, and it opened my mind to realize that what we see of the world is a tainted and partial view. If we ever think poorly of someone we should ask ourselves if we have the entire story.

As we got on the bus to go back to Guadalajara we watched a movie about dysfunctional parents. I told the other classmates that my family was just like that. I was trying to convince them how messed up my parents were. Strict, pedantic, and unyielding. My eyes were opened to the fact that there were a lot of weird things about me and my family. One of the students finally got tired of my ranting.

“Every family is dysfunctional!” He said to me.

“Yes, but my family is so messed—”

“EVERY family is dysfunctional! Everyone has problems. Everyone has weird parents. You’re not special. Everybody has junk in their past. Everyone has parents that they don’t understand and that don’t understand them.”

This was an eye-opener to me. I realized that everyone I meet might have a story. I don’t have the monopoly on weird parents. I can’t blame my parents for everything wrong in my life and walk around innocent of who and what I am. I have to take responsibility for myself regardless of how I was brought up. I would still have issues with my family later. This interaction would help me work through those problems a little better.