People in São José like to ask me if I've gotten used to living in Brazil. Even after three years, I still don't know the best answer. The honeymoon phase is over, that's for sure! I'm not sure if I can remember any specific phase of culture shock, though. I have pretty much the same career that I had in the U.S., and that's convenient. I'm familiar with the bus system here. In general, the food is different, but better (but I don't eat rice and beans every day). And I'm used to speaking Portuguese throughout the day, even if I'm not as gracefully fluent as I'd like to be.
So have I gotten accustomed to life here? Yes and no.
Last year I read the book Almost French: Love and a New Life in Paris by Sarah Turnbull, an Australian, who, like me, moved for love. Her memoir recounts all sorts of interesting and amusing details about her adjustment to life in Paris. I enjoyed her descriptions of dog walking culture, dinner parties, buying cheese, and the kind of clothes it was considered acceptable to be seen in. Though the cultures are different from the ones mixed together in my life, there was a lot I could relate to. It's a wonderful thing when literature steps in with just the right words to describe a feeling that had previously existed without a name.
After having lived abroad for two years, Turnbull recounted a visit to Sydney, her hometown, and related some conflicting emotions that surprised her on the plane back to Paris. She came to realize that in Paris, even though it was home to her, a home she loved, she was still an outsider. There was a constant effort to understand and be understood that followed her everywhere. Even if she wasn't speaking French or directly interacting with a Parisian, she was always more aware of herself and her surroundings there than in her country of birth. In Sydney, back with family and old friends, she was able to drop her guard--a weight she hadn't even noticed she had been carrying.
This feeling of constantly being "on" is very familiar to me. It's like carrying an extra bag, or wearing a heavy helmet everywhere I go. It's always a relief to be able to drop it when I visit the U.S., and it's like another suitcase to pick up when I travel back to Brazil. I don't always realize it when I'm here going about my life in São José, but I feel like I desperately need visits to my hometown fully feel like myself again. Dressing up like a tree and walking around an art festival in Baltimore was one of the most refreshing things I did last year. Here, I feel that the littlest thing I do or say that is out of the ordinary needs a good explanation.
Here in Brazil, I can tell stories and jokes in both Portuguese and English, but the way I can goof around with old friends in the U.S. comes with less effort, and almost no filter. I may feel comfortable in my day-to-day life here, and even fairly capable in social situations, but it takes a greater amount of energy. The thing is, I don't always notice that I'm spending so much energy. After reading Sarah Turnbull's account, though, it makes sense why I'm so often exhausted!
When I get off work at night, I don't just return to "home mode." In fact, when English class ends, and I leave the building, Portuguese class begins--and I don't exactly have a teacher! I'm sure those of you who have been abroad can relate.
I've often compared speaking another language to learning a new dance. (I spent many years dancing swing and salsa in Boston.) There's a rhythm, there are rules, and when I get it, it flows, not effortlessly, but smoothly. Sometimes I stumble on a step or two. Sometimes there's a miscommunication on my part, or my partner's, or both. Sometimes I know something didn't feel right, even if I wasn't able to catch what it was or find the way to fix it. But by observing others, and with practice, and by paying extra attention to the rhythm and movement, I eventually get it.
And then there's immersion. Just like swimming underwater, surrounding myself with people who don't speak my language instills a greater urgency to get a grasp of the target language. Having lunch with an Italian family who didn't speak English was like putting my head underwater for the first time. And when I spent the night with a family in Sicily, it was like diving a little deeper. Staying in the Italian-speaking dorm, a little deeper still. The greater the dive into a language or cultural experience, the more comfortable and fluent I got. And yet, there still remains a need to come up for air, finding a way to reconnect with the familiar culture, or at least a way to "turn off" for a bit.
If speaking a language is like dancing or swimming underwater, then perhaps living in another country is like going back to high school. All of a sudden, I have to second-guess my assumptions about what is and isn't acceptable. I have to figure out who I am and what's expected of me in a new environment. A lot of it is much more subtle than knowing the words to say or the cultural norms of how to greet someone. Even if I say all the right words, it remains obvious that I'm estrangeira--a foreigner. There's no handbook for the nuances--I just have to try and figure them out as I go along.
High school can be a traumatic time for many young people. Thankfully, and in spite of some terrible things that went on at my high school, my experience wasn't horrific. But when college welcomed this misfit with open arms and gave me an honored place among the weirdos, I realized what a relief it was to be done with that season.
I was quiet in high school. People may have seen it as stand-offishness, but it wasn't. It came from shyness, and a nagging lack of confidence. The rare times I tried to speak up, I often found my voice was drowned out by the outgoing, smooth-spoken folks who lit up the room.
As years passed by, post high school, I eventually found my own voice and self-assurance. Sometimes I ended up in the center of a crowd, making everyone laugh. Other times I would be a quiet observer in the same gathering. Either way, I was comfortable in my own skin.
In Boston, when I spent time with Brazilians, often the only American in the room, immersed in Portuguese, I was untroubled. If everyone around me was speaking loudly and I chose to be quiet, I was at ease with the fact that I was different.
But now, living abroad, I feel a greater urgency to speak up, fit in, and find my place in the tribe. And yet I often find myself shut down by the same obstacles that kept me quiet in high school. It's not that people are unfriendly or rude--quite the opposite. People in São José can be very friendly--if you are friendly to them. But I often end up quiet, appearing to stand aloof, when I'm really just trying to figure out my role.
It may be that I can't form my words fast enough to join in a conversation where everyone talks over each other. It may be that, though I understand the words I hear, I just don't know the natural reply. Or perhaps the typical passionate Brazilian response "olha que coisa mais linda, gente do ceu!--look at the prettiest thing ever, people of heaven!" just wouldn't sound right coming from my lips, so I stay silent.
Other times I'll jump in, seize my chance and say what seems right, but it just doesn't fit. Despite being almost positive that I've used the correct words and aimed for the right intonation, I get a blank stare in return for my efforts. And so I withdraw again.
Besides social interactions, there are plenty of other things that bring me back to the awkward world of high school. There's the supreme place of sports, when I'd rather talk about art (I didn't fit in that way in Boston, either!). Or when I realize that the clothes I've been wearing for years look odd here--that my pants need to be tighter, or the top I thought was cool stands out, but not in a good way. And let's not even get started on body image--I thought I had finally grown out of that. But somehow, even though I'm healthy and enjoy plenty of thin privilege, summer and bikinis and everyone discussing their fitness program have a way of making me feel fifteen and flabby.
I know almost all of this is in my head. That doesn't mean the experience isn't real, though.
Maybe I'm still in my junior year, and things will get better with time.
There's a Broadway musical that's super hot in the U.S. right now, called Dear Evan Hansen. It tells the story of a high school kid with extremely isolating social anxiety. If you're not familiar with it already (and even if you are), please pause now and check out this incredibly potent song, "Waving Through a Window."
Ben Platt, who plays Evan, in his compelling display of raw emotion in this song and throughout the show, consistently wins the audience over. Everyone, no matter their high school experience, has felt like an outsider at some point, and this song imparts a healthy dose of compassion. There are heavy issues in this show, including the sweeping spread of false information on social media and even suicide. I have mixed opinions on how the show handles mental health, and think it could have told an even better story by welcoming more diversity. But what I do admire is how this story about an outsider, isolated in a world of hyper-connectivity, has been bringing people together.
I share all this to start a few conversations.
To my American friends, and anyone living in a host country, how can we make outsiders feel more welcome? I've had a fairly easy transition here, with many advantages that played to my favor. But let's consider how much more difficult it is for minorities, people with less economic mobility, disabilities, or people fleeing from appalling situations in their home country. Can we notice the face outside our window, whose lot in life may have made them invisible to us?
To fellow English teachers, how can we better reach our quiet students? It's often the quick and outspoken ones that monopolize the teacher's attention, and get the best experience. How can we include and empower shy students, students on the autism spectrum, or those with extreme difficulties in pronunciation or even impairments in speech, hearing, vision, etc? How can we keep them from getting burned? How can we help them reach their goals, as well as find their place and feel valued?
And to outsiders everywhere, sojourners in a foreign country, itinerants in a new city, those exiled from a community, or anyone who is unsettled in any way...
You matter.
Your story matters.
You are welcome here.
And, in the words of Evan Hansen, #youwillbefound.
So have I gotten accustomed to life here? Yes and no.
Last year I read the book Almost French: Love and a New Life in Paris by Sarah Turnbull, an Australian, who, like me, moved for love. Her memoir recounts all sorts of interesting and amusing details about her adjustment to life in Paris. I enjoyed her descriptions of dog walking culture, dinner parties, buying cheese, and the kind of clothes it was considered acceptable to be seen in. Though the cultures are different from the ones mixed together in my life, there was a lot I could relate to. It's a wonderful thing when literature steps in with just the right words to describe a feeling that had previously existed without a name.
After having lived abroad for two years, Turnbull recounted a visit to Sydney, her hometown, and related some conflicting emotions that surprised her on the plane back to Paris. She came to realize that in Paris, even though it was home to her, a home she loved, she was still an outsider. There was a constant effort to understand and be understood that followed her everywhere. Even if she wasn't speaking French or directly interacting with a Parisian, she was always more aware of herself and her surroundings there than in her country of birth. In Sydney, back with family and old friends, she was able to drop her guard--a weight she hadn't even noticed she had been carrying.
This feeling of constantly being "on" is very familiar to me. It's like carrying an extra bag, or wearing a heavy helmet everywhere I go. It's always a relief to be able to drop it when I visit the U.S., and it's like another suitcase to pick up when I travel back to Brazil. I don't always realize it when I'm here going about my life in São José, but I feel like I desperately need visits to my hometown fully feel like myself again. Dressing up like a tree and walking around an art festival in Baltimore was one of the most refreshing things I did last year. Here, I feel that the littlest thing I do or say that is out of the ordinary needs a good explanation.
Here in Brazil, I can tell stories and jokes in both Portuguese and English, but the way I can goof around with old friends in the U.S. comes with less effort, and almost no filter. I may feel comfortable in my day-to-day life here, and even fairly capable in social situations, but it takes a greater amount of energy. The thing is, I don't always notice that I'm spending so much energy. After reading Sarah Turnbull's account, though, it makes sense why I'm so often exhausted!
When I get off work at night, I don't just return to "home mode." In fact, when English class ends, and I leave the building, Portuguese class begins--and I don't exactly have a teacher! I'm sure those of you who have been abroad can relate.
I've often compared speaking another language to learning a new dance. (I spent many years dancing swing and salsa in Boston.) There's a rhythm, there are rules, and when I get it, it flows, not effortlessly, but smoothly. Sometimes I stumble on a step or two. Sometimes there's a miscommunication on my part, or my partner's, or both. Sometimes I know something didn't feel right, even if I wasn't able to catch what it was or find the way to fix it. But by observing others, and with practice, and by paying extra attention to the rhythm and movement, I eventually get it.
And then there's immersion. Just like swimming underwater, surrounding myself with people who don't speak my language instills a greater urgency to get a grasp of the target language. Having lunch with an Italian family who didn't speak English was like putting my head underwater for the first time. And when I spent the night with a family in Sicily, it was like diving a little deeper. Staying in the Italian-speaking dorm, a little deeper still. The greater the dive into a language or cultural experience, the more comfortable and fluent I got. And yet, there still remains a need to come up for air, finding a way to reconnect with the familiar culture, or at least a way to "turn off" for a bit.
If speaking a language is like dancing or swimming underwater, then perhaps living in another country is like going back to high school. All of a sudden, I have to second-guess my assumptions about what is and isn't acceptable. I have to figure out who I am and what's expected of me in a new environment. A lot of it is much more subtle than knowing the words to say or the cultural norms of how to greet someone. Even if I say all the right words, it remains obvious that I'm estrangeira--a foreigner. There's no handbook for the nuances--I just have to try and figure them out as I go along.
High school can be a traumatic time for many young people. Thankfully, and in spite of some terrible things that went on at my high school, my experience wasn't horrific. But when college welcomed this misfit with open arms and gave me an honored place among the weirdos, I realized what a relief it was to be done with that season.
I was quiet in high school. People may have seen it as stand-offishness, but it wasn't. It came from shyness, and a nagging lack of confidence. The rare times I tried to speak up, I often found my voice was drowned out by the outgoing, smooth-spoken folks who lit up the room.
As years passed by, post high school, I eventually found my own voice and self-assurance. Sometimes I ended up in the center of a crowd, making everyone laugh. Other times I would be a quiet observer in the same gathering. Either way, I was comfortable in my own skin.
In Boston, when I spent time with Brazilians, often the only American in the room, immersed in Portuguese, I was untroubled. If everyone around me was speaking loudly and I chose to be quiet, I was at ease with the fact that I was different.
It may be that I can't form my words fast enough to join in a conversation where everyone talks over each other. It may be that, though I understand the words I hear, I just don't know the natural reply. Or perhaps the typical passionate Brazilian response "olha que coisa mais linda, gente do ceu!--look at the prettiest thing ever, people of heaven!" just wouldn't sound right coming from my lips, so I stay silent.
Other times I'll jump in, seize my chance and say what seems right, but it just doesn't fit. Despite being almost positive that I've used the correct words and aimed for the right intonation, I get a blank stare in return for my efforts. And so I withdraw again.
Besides social interactions, there are plenty of other things that bring me back to the awkward world of high school. There's the supreme place of sports, when I'd rather talk about art (I didn't fit in that way in Boston, either!). Or when I realize that the clothes I've been wearing for years look odd here--that my pants need to be tighter, or the top I thought was cool stands out, but not in a good way. And let's not even get started on body image--I thought I had finally grown out of that. But somehow, even though I'm healthy and enjoy plenty of thin privilege, summer and bikinis and everyone discussing their fitness program have a way of making me feel fifteen and flabby.
I know almost all of this is in my head. That doesn't mean the experience isn't real, though.
Maybe I'm still in my junior year, and things will get better with time.
There's a Broadway musical that's super hot in the U.S. right now, called Dear Evan Hansen. It tells the story of a high school kid with extremely isolating social anxiety. If you're not familiar with it already (and even if you are), please pause now and check out this incredibly potent song, "Waving Through a Window."
Ben Platt, who plays Evan, in his compelling display of raw emotion in this song and throughout the show, consistently wins the audience over. Everyone, no matter their high school experience, has felt like an outsider at some point, and this song imparts a healthy dose of compassion. There are heavy issues in this show, including the sweeping spread of false information on social media and even suicide. I have mixed opinions on how the show handles mental health, and think it could have told an even better story by welcoming more diversity. But what I do admire is how this story about an outsider, isolated in a world of hyper-connectivity, has been bringing people together.
I share all this to start a few conversations.
To my American friends, and anyone living in a host country, how can we make outsiders feel more welcome? I've had a fairly easy transition here, with many advantages that played to my favor. But let's consider how much more difficult it is for minorities, people with less economic mobility, disabilities, or people fleeing from appalling situations in their home country. Can we notice the face outside our window, whose lot in life may have made them invisible to us?
To fellow English teachers, how can we better reach our quiet students? It's often the quick and outspoken ones that monopolize the teacher's attention, and get the best experience. How can we include and empower shy students, students on the autism spectrum, or those with extreme difficulties in pronunciation or even impairments in speech, hearing, vision, etc? How can we keep them from getting burned? How can we help them reach their goals, as well as find their place and feel valued?
And to outsiders everywhere, sojourners in a foreign country, itinerants in a new city, those exiled from a community, or anyone who is unsettled in any way...
You matter.
Your story matters.
You are welcome here.
And, in the words of Evan Hansen, #youwillbefound.
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