The Honorable Blog: Central American Self-Exposure: CJ's Study Abroad in Costa Rica

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.