"Host Mom & 'Lourde' Luggage"
I sat uncomfortably on the sole wooden chair in the kitchen—my back straight, my legs pasted together, my hands in my lap. I nodded continuously while staring at the white wall in between my host mother and the digital clock that told me how long she had been talking at me. I mumbled “oui” every once in awhile to make sure that she thought I was paying attention. I was trapped in an elementary school classroom.
From September 1st to January 18th, I studied abroad in Strasbourg, France. The eleven of us in the group were placed with separate host families. Students were driven away to their new home. I was the last one standing. Instead of a welcoming pick-up, I boarded a taxi that navigated me to my apartment. My host mother stood in front of the apartment—a 50-year old, single mother with graying hair and cigarette-stained teeth.
“Je m’appelle Marina.”
“Simone,” she said with no hello, nice to meet you, or welcome.
She grabbed one of my overweight suitcases and started to drag it to the elevator. She muttered in French. Seeing her discontent with my overabundance of luggage, I tried to say something to lighten the mood.
“D’ésolée. J’ai beaucoup de choses. C’est trés...” I paused.
“I’m sorry. I have a lot of things. It is very…what is the word for heavy,” I thought to myself, “An easy word.”
I asked her what the word for “heavy” was. Her snappy response shaped the rest of my home-stay experience: I don’t speak a lick of English.
I knew that my time abroad would be centered on the French language and culture. I was not as prepared for this as I thought. I struggled speaking to my host mother, and I dreaded it each day. But if there was one thing that I wanted from study abroad, it was the ability to communicate in my own way.
Venturing through Strasbourg, I began to pick up on more of the language. At the markets, I would make small talk with vendors, ending with praise and for my French skills. But when I returned back to my host mother’s presence, my high from the day would disappear.
My host mother was not encouraging or helpful in the slightest. She patronizingly laughed at my mistakes. The worst was that she did not believe me if I told her that I comprehended something. She made me repeat back to her as if I were a child.
“Be back by 7 o’clock every night for dinner. If you are not going to be home, call me. On Saturdays, let me know by Friday night,” she spat.
“Okay, I understand. 7 o’clock,” I said.
“Non, non. Répèter!” she screamed.
I repeated word-for-word what she had just explained to me. She waited for me to make a mistake; then when I did, she snickered and belittled me, saying she knew I didn’t understand.
How could I get over the language barrier if all I heard was mocking laughter? I took her attacks. I would lock myself into my room, keeping back tears just in case she entered with another one-sided battle.
For months, I let her treat me like one of her nursery children—allowing her to give me curfews, and adolescent rules—all things forbidden by the program. I tolerated demeaning conversations.
I finally erupted. I sat in my freezing room, finishing up homework, when she stormed in with a trashcan in her hand.
“You use too much toilet paper and tissues!” she screamed at me.
“Okay, I understand. I will not use so much anymore.”
“NO! You use too much!” she continued screaming. But this time, she stuck her hand deep into the trashcan and pulled out used pieces of tissue and waved it in my face.
“Trop, trop!” I saw her white, curly-q covered dog whimpering in the corner. I was sure she knew how I felt because she also got scolded when she did not behave. The dog and I related to each other.
I started to fall into my usual method—staring back at that white wall, watching the clock tick.
“Pourquoi ne tu comprends pas!?” she yelled, “Why don’t you understand!?”
I lost it. I screamed back. I raised my voice to her level. I retaliated for all of the times she had lectured me—“You treat me like a child. When I say I understand, I understand. I do as I please. You have no right to treat me this way…I have no desire to talk to you.”
She walked out of the room to put the trashcan away. I slammed the door behind her.
“Don’t close the door when I’m talking to you,” she stormed in.
“Oh, I thought you were done telling me things I already know,” I sneered back.
After this screaming match, my host mother gave me more space and started to take my word. We did not like each other, but we did not dislike each other either. I finally got her respect. I felt that I could communicate.
The battle finally ended. My host mother thought she won—she made me walk my two 50-pound suitcases (luggage that started this whole mess) to the bus station by myself at five in the morning. But guess what, Simone…I’m not a child and I made it by myself, with 15 minutes to spare.
From your writing process I see that you already know that you’re still bitter about Simone, so I don’t have to elaborate too much there! But that was my initial reaction to the piece, that the tone was too bitter, so I’d definitely work that out of it—well, not all of it. I mean I think part of what you’re trying to get at is the difficulty of cross-cultural/cross-language understanding, and the moments of bitterness bring out that frustration well. Maybe just tone some of them down a bit.
ReplyDeleteI really liked that you chose to start it with a scene that gives the reader an idea of what was normal in that house. It was a good opening.