By CJ Gibson
I refuse to lose my
Spanish. Far too many elders have lamented to me about taking foreign language
classes in high school and undergrad only to let their second language diminish
to no more than the correct pronunciation of “quesadilla.” I refuse to let five
years of formal classes, a student organization presidency, and 65,000 Duolingo
XP be put to waste by my mid-30s. But it’s certainly a “use it or lose it”
skill, and I don’t use it.
I’m an Honorable
primarily motivated by the fear of appearing weak to others. Anything that
society deems a personal failure, I spend hours upon hours striving to avoid.
And to people who don’t know Spanish, I’m in the clear. To the people who do, I
fear looking estadouni-dense. But I’ve had two decades of learning how to seem
smart in English, and unfortunately, I can’t do that in Spanish without
speaking it.
So I swallowed my
anxiety, committed most of my wages from writing HC thank-you cards, and went
to Costa Rica with the teacher education department. The trip was only ten
days, but I soon figured out that altering my persona to avoid vulnerability
held me back not only in my Spanish practice but also in enjoying my life.
Everything new was
nerve-wracking. Though I’ve been on a plane before, TSA has yet to feel
anything less than soul-piercing.
I’ve had a few months
to distort my thoughts, so I don’t remember the itinerary perfectly, but after
three flights, we were dropped off at our host family’s house. I soon
discovered that not only did my host family not speak English, but they could
hardly understand my Spanish. I found myself making basic grammar mistakes I
would never have made on paper, and much of the time, I found it easier to
eavesdrop while playing dumb.
The house was large,
with eight other people living there, and elegantly decorated. I adored the
spiral staircase that led up to a platform overseeing Vargas Araya. My host
family, who owned a nearby restaurant, made wonderful meals typically
consisting of rice, beans, and fresh fruit.
I woke at around five
each morning to the sound of yigüirros—Costa Rica’s national
bird. My host family cooked me breakfast, and I began my hour walk to the Costa
Rican Language Academy. It was recommended that we take the bus, but I
preferred to just take my chances and try not to get lost. On my walks, I had
an hour to slowly notice the intricacies of that part of the city—a pastime
that made San José start to feel more like home by the end of the week.
We spent our first
day at the Costa Rica Animal Rescue Center where we volunteered and were given
a tour of the different animals. After preparing meals for their many types of
birds, I cleaned the turtle pond, comforted by my inability to name the species
of Costa Rican turtles, as even the creatures I knew so well changed over three
thousand miles.
My classes at CRLA
were my favorite part of each day, and I honestly wish we could have spent more
time there instead of bar-hopping, which took place nearly every afternoon. It
seemed like most of my FHSU peers, including the faculty, came to Costa Rica to
drink, and I couldn’t understand the appeal of making myself numb every night
when I’d rather experience the city. These outings weren’t required, but with
my host family’s house an hour away and difficult to navigate by taxi—CRLA gave
me the wrong lack-of-address, and I’d already directed a taxi to the wrong
place once—it was easiest to stick with the group as they once again went out
for margaritas while one of my peers insisted that I don’t have any fun.
It rained almost
every afternoon, and having grown up on a farm where I had to water the trees
on hot days, I adored each downpour. The day before we left for Jaco, most of
the group wanted to spend their available time at a hot springs, so I swallowed
my lower-middle-class Midwestern money anxiety and spent a ridiculous amount of
colones to sit on a bus to go sit in a warm pool at the bottom of a volcano.
While I did enjoy
that experience, my favorite parts of the trip were the ones that weren’t
official tours and cost nothing extra but a shift in perspective. I loved
walking along the beach and watching tiny, translucent crabs skitter around as
the waves tugged at my ankles, calling me to drown. I loved starting a
conversation with a non-binary young adult on my way back from downtown Jaco. I
loved hiking up to an abandoned, graffitied drug cartel mansion. And above all,
nerve-wracking as it may have been, I loved using my Spanish, comfortable in my
ignorance and confident in my practice by the end. I saw that same initial
nervousness in the children I tried to speak with at the Costa Rican elementary
school we visited where the teachers put students above appearances.
It takes discomfort
to trust myself and deviance to find peace in the uniquely commonplace.
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