At length I hear nothing. I am thrown into a world Astranged of my home. Given to those who speak. Speak with themselves Speak with… at… me. Desculpa, nao fallo… Desculpa…  I am locked For the first time Inside my mouth. Nao sei… no know… No… nao… no no… What? Que? Por que?  Comment ca va toi? Nicht sprechen… I… Nice to meet you too. Tchau.

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I grew up going to commune-like public alternative schools, where children were allowed to chair school meetings and maintain a conviction that they were dinosaurs, and I used to wonder why my classmates were so much more homogeneous than the children I met in the park. We were mostly white kids whose families had been living in Canada for several generations.

I feel like being a foreigner in Chile is giving me a better understanding of the (obviously complex) reasons that my alternative schools were so lacking in diversity. You see, I haven’t worn my favourite coat since arriving in Chile. My favourite coat is bright red, with floral blue fabric quilted onto the front and an oversized hood. I bought it at a Buddhist temple rummage sale around the corner from my parents’ house; wearing it makes me feel a little like a manga-style Little Red Riding Hood. I confess that it probably qualifies as “quirky”.

In Toronto, I love romping around in this coat, getting glances from the denizens of my neighbourhood. In fact, I generally enjoy dressing and acting in a slightly unusual way. I like it when people read me as “alternative” or take note of me on the street. However, I think much of my enjoyment comes from the power I have in these interactions. Living in Santiago has taught me that it was almost always my choice to be inconspicuous.

As a foreigner, I no longer have that choice. It’s fitting that the Spanish word for foreigner (extranjera) nearly contains the word for strange (extraño). Most of my clothing choices are unusual here. My hair and skin colour make people notice me in the street. I stand out because I look confused all the time (usually because I am) and, whenever I open my mouth to speak, my terrible accent makes it obvious that I’m not from here. It’s a privilege to be able to choose to stand out and I’ve had that privilege without really appreciating it for most of my life.

I sometimes want to be private, to wander the streets of Santiago without turning heads, but I can’t change my confusion or my accent. I can change my wardrobe and, thus, I’ve folded up my favourite coat and put it away in my closet. It’s just not that much fun to wear weird clothes when people are already staring. I’d also guess that it’s not that much fun, in general, to make “alternative” choices- e.g. sending your children to alternative schools- when you’re already forced onto the fringe because of your accent or your heritage or your skin colour. I know there are probably many other factors that contributed to my homogeneous primary education, but I wanted to share this bit of new empathy.

Reposting from two years ago in Chile, this time with an illustration.

come & taste

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Story Prompt 3

A foreign exchange student, who knows barely enough of the language to survive, is being given freedom from her host family while they’re at work.

So explores the city she’s in, buying a couple things here and there, and then stops at a cafe where she meets a mysteriously handsome young man. He introduces himself briefly, before leaving with his coffee.

After the day ends, the host family announces that they’ll be having a guest over for dinner. It’s the mysterious stranger.

“How do you know the ________’s?”

“I met them today, told them a couple things and they let me come over for dinner.”

“Like what?”

“Things about you.”