I’m about to start my third full week here, and it’s simply amazing how fast time has flown by. This study abroad experience has been quite a whirlwind tour, jam packed with as many amazing experiences as possible. In two weeks I have completed 50 hours of classes, countless hours of homework, attended a gaucho party at an estancia in another province, toured a former clandestine detention center from the Argentine military dictatorship while listening to the account of former victim/prisoner, done a walking tour of the city, traveled 18 hours by bus to experience Iguazu Falls, visited a public school, viewed Rosario from 230 feet above in the flag monument, and quite literally had my brain brought to the brink of exhaustion many times as a result of being immersed in a foreign language conversation. Each and every one of those experiences has been simply unforgettable and awe-inspiring. But it has been during my quiet moments here in Argentina that I think I have learned the most.
In Argentina I have taken on a temporarily altered identity. It all began with my name. Never have I understood the importantance of a name for one’s sense of identity than since arriving here. Although my entire life (well, my entire married life, anyway) I have been Jessie Pad”eee”a, here in Argentina, where they pronounce the double LL differently, I am referred to as Padi”gja”. A very important detail that almost led to missing my bus the very first day. In addition to my last name, Argentineans have no basis for pronouncing my first name, in the form of the nickname I have used my entire life. When I offer “Jessie” at a request for my name, more often than not I am met with a puzzled look. When it gets communicated that it is a shortened version of Jessica, the light comes on (ah, Jey si ca!) and I am thereafter referred to as Jessica, as though I was the confused one.
I have realized through this process that a name is so much more than I always gave it credit for. It is something that is inherently yours, despite the fact that it holds no material body or wealth. It is a sense of identification beyond necessity. After 34 years, my name (and it’s pronunciation) has become as much a part of me as the freckles on my nose and the shape of my fingernails. To have it altered by others carries a sense of intrusion and theft. These emotions have caused me to reflect upon the Americanization of names so often dealt out to diverse ethnic groups at the hands of well meaning U.S. citizens. As a future teacher, I now understand the sense of loss and powerlessness associated with such practice, and will always make it of utmost priority to first and foremost learn the correct pronunciation of each and every student name in my classroom.
Along with my new alias has come an altered daily routine and persona. In Argentina I have not been wearing makeup. This is a small detail that contains several personal implications. Although I don’t wear much makeup ordinarily, there is a feeling of professionalism and finishing touch that accompanies the process. We tend to hide our flaws and present perfected faces to the world. What was born from laziness and surrender (23 hours of travel can do that to a person) has developed into a new identity. Here I am a temporary resident whose sole purpose is to learn and experience. I have no need to impress or present a polished appearance. I am a child of foreign experiences, traveling each day with wide-eyed appreciation and wonder.
In these daily travels I have additionally lost my typical stride. At home, I swiftly walk from destination to destination, sure of my place in the world. Here I walk with care and interest, my stride too often interrupted by new sights, smells, and noises. I have become the mumbling wanderer, always trying out new words to test the shape of their formation in my mouth (“el sandwicheto”, “cataratas”, “los desaparecidos”). Aside from my mumblings I am a silent stranger here, spending hours each day simply walking; walking the 10 blocks to school, the same blocks home, to the great Parana river, the grocery store, and various local landmarks. And sometimes, just walking to experience Argentina.
It was within one of these walks with no destination yesterday that I began to think about levels of experience in regards to life. When I began this journey, in its earliest planning stages, Argentina was nothing more than a colored shape on so many maps in my life. A neatly drawn, simple closed curve with artificial color. It was symbolic and clean, familiar with its contours but lacking in personality.
As I flew into the country I plunged one level deeper. I saw Argentina itself, although from a considerable distance. Seeing the mountaintops, river systems, grids of cities, and grasslands all under the same types of clouds that blanket my own home made it that much more real. The beauty was breathtaking, but it could have been any county. The was no way to differentiate. I always think back to the cartoons I watched when I was little, and how when they would go really high up in the sky they could look down and see all the political boundaries and country names drawn below them. For a long time in my youth I thought that was how it really was. Looking down at Argentina though, I had no guideposts. There was just the natural beauty of a magnificent country.
Last weekend some of the other students and I paid the 5 pesos to take the elevator 70 meters up to the top of the flag monument. The view was spectacular, with the river to one side and buildings as far as one could see on the other. I noted, as I was gazing our across the city, that you couldn’t really see any of the fantastic architecture of Rosario. This city is remarkably rich in historic and diverse architecture. The streets are lined up and down with rich colors, lines, and adornments. None of that could be seen from the monument, though. We could only see the tallest buildings, standing out above very thing else. And the tallest buildings are the most plain, constructed purely out of necessity for a rapidly expanding community. There was a sense of irony standing there 230 feet above the city, as I could see so much but at the same time so little. I could see the city in its entirety, but I couldn’t see any of the beautiful intricacies that make Rosario what it is.
At the deepest level of my journey have been my meanderings through the streets. At this level I cannot see the rooftops or the complete river system. I can’t see much beyond one street at at a time. In terms of quantity, my sight is limited. But it is here that I taste the essence of Rosario. And when you venture to experience anything at its deepest levels all your experiences are going to be that much more vivid and striking; the good and the bad.
While walking the streets I have to watch out for broken sidewalks, insane traffic routines, and lots and lots of dog poop. I see the bird with a broken wing, shaking in fear at my approach but unable to get away. I see the dogs who are sickly and hurt, hobbling around on 3 legs or creeping along in exhaustion. I see the children who quietly come into the restaurants, placing small wares on each table in the hopes that someone will pay a few pesos for them. I experience the pain that comes with life at it’s most elemental levels. And this leaves me raw and wishing for that disinfected and refined distance the maps, planes, and monuments provide me.
But it is in this level that I break into a grin at the 3 young children high on a balcony overlooking Orono Blvd, screaming “hola!” at the top of their lungs to each and every car that passes by. I see the couples embracing on the park benches, lost in one another for that moment in time. I inhale the warm scents of pastries and meats wafting from restaurants and walk though the laughter of friends and family gathered around patio tables on the sidewalk. I enjoy the music and art of street performers, the jazz of a trumpet matching my stride and giving my step a little extra pep. I experience the best of Rosario- its heart and soul.
So life is what we make of it. Some prefer to remain at a safe and comfortable distance, never experiencing the sight of a broken wing but never inhaling the scents of a neighborhood bakery either. Some may hold themselves above it all, believing themselves superior as a result of their more extensive viewpoint. This view, although wide, is very shallow in depth. And then there are those who dive in and submerse themselves. Although their field of vision might not be as large, comprehension is rich and saturated. There are belly laughs that cause you to ache with joy and tears that sting a raw and exposed soul. There is beauty at its very best and pain at its very worst.
And that is what this journey has been for me. It’s been about getting dirty and scared, rewarded and inspired. It’s forcing myself to remain at those deepest levels when it hurts or feels hard, and then experiencing the bubbles of pure joy and excitement that accompany so many of my experiences. I may not be able to see it all, but my limited view offers a much greater perspective.
Jessie
