So, where we left off. (these next several posts will be detailing my first trip to Mexico by myself, in summer 2007 not too long after i graduated high school).
Dad had just dropped me off at Casa Esperanza, and I can only imagine his thoughts as he prepared leave his 17-year-old daughter for a week in a foreign place that was, quite frankly (and pretty obviously) disorganized and confusing. It’s not as bad as it may first seem, and it’s not all the director’s fault—it is what it is with so many people on a compound and not much of what we Americans take for granted like cell phones, precise schedules, etc.
When we first stepped out of the car and looked around at the compound, a few young kids burst through the unfinished construction and grabbed at my hand, shouting gleefully at me in Spanish, “Come on! We’re running from a monster!” I ducked through the rooms of the unfinished building after them, not quite sure what was going on.
Finally, we saw an adult or two as well. It took us what seemed like an eternity to find the director, who was the only other English speaker on the property. I had in my repertoire what Spanish I had learned in three years of schooling, and got a few different answers in my best attempts at asking where Terry was (come to find out, another woman had a similar name). To our relief (I’m sure my uncertain Dad’s, especially) she finally appeared to greet us and showed us to the old travel trailer (photo) I would be sharing with another young woman, Isba.
Probably feeling as reassured as was possible for the situation, Dad said goodbye and left me to enjoy my first lunchtime with the women and children of Casa Esperanza. With little explanation or clear expectation, I was tossed in the middle of their daily life.
Introduced, and automatically welcomed, I wrote in my journal. ’La Americana’, ‘La Jessica.’ For one, I’d forgotten how Mexican I’m not. For two, I began to realize just how alone I am. Not that I’m lonely, I’m not, but culturally I sure am alone. It’s what I hoped for, but I never grasped the idea of this—I, Americana, no matter how Mexican I think I am, am dumped straight into a world that is not at all my own. It’s a pretty weird feeling… but I can’t say it’s not great too. I knew I’d be on my own here, that was the whole idea, but man, I sure am on my own. Just me and God and my less-than-perfect Spanish. Not quite what I expected… but just what I wanted.
(note: this post is dated according to when it happened, not when it was posted.)
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