Cansada de Ser Extranjera

I walked into class this morning, signs of fatigue evident on my face. My eyes throbbed with residual sleepiness, with chill from the early spring air, and with the tears I had let out moments before coming into the classroom--tears of frustration and annoyance. Juan cheerfully asked, "How are you?" using one of about six English phrases he has learned so far. His enthusiasm inspired my first smile of the day, as I sighed and responded truthfully, "Hoy me siento cansada de ser extranjera"...Today I'm sick of being foreign.

My students in this beginning class know only about 100 words or so in English to express the enormity of their feelings, but this morning their sympathetic faces expressed more than their words could. Antonio slowly nodded, his instinctual fatherly care showing through his buisnessman facade. "Yes," he said, "Cuando you are extranjera, todo es muy BIG." I took refuge in his understanding: "When you are foreign, everything is very BIG." I explained, translating into Spanish as I talked, "Anything I do is more difficult here. A simple task, like grocery shopping, is a new, confusing adventure for me. Where do I pay? How do I pay?"

Antonio added in his Spanish-English hybrid, "In Gringolandia, you are so comfortable. Here, you are not used to the ways of doing things." "Yes," I told him, internally chuckling at his use of the common Chilean word for the United States. "I'm not comfortable here yet."

This morning of frustration came from a trip to the bank today--a task that in the States would not necessarily be pleasant or enjoyable, but nonetheless would be navigable, possible. I had to go to the bank to cash in my first paycheck, something I thought would be fairly simple to figure out, but has so far resulted in four failed attempts and an emotional breakdown. My first attempt, I went to the wrong bank. My second attempt, it was closed. My third attempt, carrying two cumbersome bags of heavy textbooks, I went to the right branch of bank but the wrong TYPE of bank (what?!?).

Today, I allowed myself an extra half hour before work to make a fourth attempt. I arrived at a different branch in the suburbs, and entered the 20-minute line with a sense of auspiciousness. I held my check close to me as I spent the standing time observing the people in line ahead of me--my little community of other bank patrons paving my way toward economic stability for the month of September.

I watched a curly-haired man wearing a Guns N' Roses t-shirt toward the front nodding his head to a tacit beat. I watched two old women wearing hot-pink lipstick speak quietly and quickly about some gossip to do with their mutual friend. But mostly I watched the woman directly ahead of me, a woman whose confidence was evident in the way she fabulously carried herself. She held her check in one hand, her cell phone in the other, making three phone calls throughout the course of her waiting, ending each short conversation with a sprightly, flirty "Ciao ciao!" She wore a demure courderoy skirt enlivened by embroidered leather boots and a thin vintage trenchcoat, all well-selected garments gracefully adorning her glorious Rubenesque body--large, soft, strong, feminine.

I wondered at her confidence and apparent inner strenth as she glided up to the teller, tucking her cell phone into a hand-made felt case, breezily retrieving her cash. Inspired by the ease of her transaction, I too marched boldly up to the teller, greeting him "Hola!" and handing him my check.

He looked at it, looked up at me, and casually asked, "May I see your Cartel?" "Oh," I said, still feeding off the contageous confidence of the Fabulous Woman, "I'm not Chilean, I don't have a Cartel." The man squinted his eyes suspiciously. "Passport?" "Uh, I don't have it with me," I replied. The teller informed me, "Sorry, I can't cash your check." Discouraged but still clinging to hope, I told him "Oh, I have a U.S. ID card," taking out my drivers' license. I was immediately embarassed of the informality of the colorful card--my perky smile in the photo, the crab illustration at the top signifying the pride of Maryland. "Sorry," the man concluded, looking half-amused at my naïveté, "you need a Cartel or your passport. Next customer."

I stood in place for a few moments, collecting myself. The teller couldn't have realized what an emotional blow this was to me, how it suddenly brought to mind everything that had been frustrating this week for me...my inability to pronounce the name "Rodrigo" (and my students' constant mocking of it), a catastrophe involving me pretending I knew had to use the washing machine when really I had no idea, and my first hot shower in over a month that lasted all of two minutes.

I don't want to be foreign anymore, I thought to myself. And that's when the tears came.

After class--a class that improved my mood with discussion about Bill Clinton, Obama, and how the Mexican accent is "a constant fiesta"--I indulged in the most comfortable, non-foreign place in all of Chile...the Starbucks downstairs. I felt sinfully delighted as I ordered an iced Americano from a barista who took my order in precise, flawless English, and bought a chocolate chip cookie big by even American standards. Rachael Yamagata played over the stereo, and as I waited for my decidedly NON-CUTE coffee drink I mentally sang along and watched the businesspeople type away on their laptops in the foreground of the drizzly day outside.

I felt embarassed to walk down the street with a Starbucks cup filled with iced coffee (not something that appeals to the Chilean palate), but I felt comfortable, non-foreign. Still singing Rachael Yamagata to myself, I bit into the cookie which was objectively horrible but tasted so freakin' delicious, and sipped bad espresso out of a green straw.

Yes, I felt comfortable, non-foreign.

But I thought back to Fabulous Woman in line with me at Santander Bank. How did she get so fabulous, so confident? Certainly not by always being comfortable. Certainly not. If she had stayed comfortable, she probably would not be wearing those embroidered boots, would probably not be flirting with men on her phone but be married to some loser undeserving of the air she breathes much less her voluptuously grandiose body filled with a creative spirit, would probably not seek out vintage jackets and hand-made felt cell phone cases in her precious spare time.

I want to be like Fabulous Woman. But, alas, I also want to be comfortable.

Okay. I am off to Bank Attempt #5. Uncomfortable, difficult, complicated Bank Attempt #5. At this point I think I'd rather eat a filet mignon smathered with mayonnaise (I tried to think of the most disgusting meal I could imagine eating) than go back to Santander Bank, but if it brings me any closer to inner strength, inner confidence, and the ability to one day glide up to the teller and breezily retrieve my cash, perhaps while wearing embroidered boots...then I am up for the challenge.