I walked through the crowded tables, feeling a pit in my stomach. I looked at all the women in their conversations, wondering where to insert myself. The scenario was familiar, but ancient to me. Apparently the insecurity of entering a crowded lunchroom on the first day of school is easily recalled if all the circumstances are similar enough, even when one is 34 years old.
Eventually I came to a table and instantly felt relief as I walked around to where there was an empty chair. I interrupted the enthusiastic conversing of six lovely, dark-haired women, who from the way they interacted, had been friends for a long time.
“ ¿Puedo sentar aqui?” I asked, and than instantly corrected my improper Spanish grammar in my head.
Looks of surprise but welcoming greeted me with a chorus of “ ¡Sí!”s.
When the one who told the stories finished with the colorful one she was telling, which was a little too fast for me to pick up on, they turned to me to ask me my name and get acquainted with the newcomer. The gringa.
They seemed impressed by my Spanish as I started to share how I know their forgiving and easy-going language. The connection was rápido as I gave the full disclosure that I wasn’t understanding everything— that sometimes they were going too fast and so I just ate my lunch and stopped paying attention for a moment. Their looks in response to that were understanding. I suddenly thought of how it would be to be in an English-speaking environment with unfamiliar words, rules, vowels. They understood what I felt when I was tired of trying to understand. Except their world was much harsher than mine. They were coming to a place where English was expected, even demanded, and negative stereotypes were rampant. I was there to practice my Spanish and have a good time. In my experience, making a new Spanish-speaking friend is always a good time.
My confidence increased with their smiles and positive words. I caught some of the stories, but mostly sat back and people-watched a bit. In that time, which flew, but was perhaps 30 minutes, there was banter, connection, vulnerability, love, teasing, stories, and so much of it punctuated with laughter. I was the tiniest bit frustrated at what I was missing, but mostly just felt joy at hearing this language that I love, so beautifully shared in a chorus almost like a song. At seeing each personality shine through — some very quiet, some calmer, some animated. At feeling like I was instantly accepted, just by existing. Just by my tiny bit of courage to ask if I could sit with them. It seemed almost unfair that that tiny bit of courage had such a generous outcome.
When I left the table, I hadn’t learned most of their names. But they all learned mine. And I felt connection and love. I cried a little later, about the quick connection that I sometimes feel for people but don’t always maintain. About people I care about who I most likely will never see again. It happened in Guatemala and Honduras more than ten years ago, and it still happens occasionally today. But then I thought of the future and I felt great esperanza. I truly believe there will be time to sit with friends and talk and laugh and know each other— and this time, when they tell their stories, I will catch every word. I really look forward to that.
How lucky are we to be allowed to have the relationships we have in this life?
