Muchos Años Después…
That is how Gabriel Garcia Marquez´s Cien Años de Soledad begins. Marquez has a way of captivating you from the start. Español has a way of captivating me. It has-- siete años después de mi primero viaje a Guatemala. I can’t believe it has been that long. So many ins and outs. So many tears. Death and rebirth. All, I thought, leading up to this exam.
I’m sitting in a Yemeni cafeteria listening to two old men having what I presume to be a very intellectual discussion in Arabic. It is a language that is so easy to listen to. So beautiful. I am listening to them code-switch as I sip on an indulgent “Mofawer” and eating pinches of something called a “cruffin”. This is what it feels like to be working for myself. I put these things into words now. I use code to place ads on my site. I read linguistics textbooks and research nonprofits in Argentina. I write more than ever before, even as I feel my mind slowing down from the mania—a welcome change. This is what it feels like. I’m picking up a few words from their conversation now—a pursuit I can dedicate time to now that my exam is over. It feels surreal. Not in a euphoric way like I thought, but more of a welcome presence within me. A knowing.
My exam. Everything led up to a moment where I clicked a button on my computer and stared into my own eyes en mi espejo. I had moved my bistro table into the bathroom, a quiet and tidy corner of my apartment perfect for a proctored exam. I spent twenty minutes talking to myself. Shedding a few welcome tears of either joy or desperation—it was hard to tell. Then, nothing. It’s not easy to talk about nothing. There was some sort of technical issue. Nothing happened. Thirty minutes passed. I felt frozen in time. It was over—that’s it—nothing.
Pero no era solo nada. I cried a few tears. I called my dad. Smoked a welcome cigarette. Then—alivio. So much of it. So much filling my heart. I needed the exam. Not to tell me I was worth it, not to validate my learning, not to prove anything at all—but to teach me how to trust myself. Teach me how to value my work. In the months leading to this point—este libertad en este cafeteria Yemeni—I have learned that I am worth it. Something I never thought—muchos años solo sobreviviendo. I have reflected. We don’t get to reflect when we are in survival mode. I have learned. My love for this language has grown tenfold—and I am no longer afraid of that love. Y ahora—más. Hay tan mucho más para mi. I had to let go of my pride and my control to receive this love. I had to sit down for a test that failed. I had to move my bistro table back into the kitchen and move on.
The man hopes his conversation has not been a disruption for me. He says if I need any help learning Arabic, he would be happy to help. This language, these people, are so inviting. In speaking Spanish and Arabic, I have the privilege of knowing the most warm and inviting people on planet earth. I can’t imagine how someone could judge another person based off the language they speak or the country they come from. It is all so beautiful to me. All so wonderful.
Language is a powerful thing. The way we speak about ourselves and others informs the way we live. I am learning this about myself. I have learned I don’t know how to insult myself in Spanish or Arabic. It is a pathway for me to be kinder to myself. Language can empower. It is a way, I think, for people to understand each other on a deeper level. It has the capability to heal conflict. But so often we use it to fuel war. I think about the genocide happening in Gaza. The words we are using—the media propaganda— “war”. “Terrorist.” “Danger.” I have had someone tell me they are afraid of Muslims. It is a result of the words we use—and the images we promote. We cease to view the world as a collection of people and choose to view it as a collection of countries. We isolate ourselves within our own. But here at Arwa, you see the people. You hear the language. You look into a new espejo, perhaps. Language can unite.
I don’t know yet how Cien Años de Soledad ends. I haven’t even arrived at the middle yet. I know for so long I was in my own soledad. My own magical island. Pero ahora—I have belonging. If not in my family or in my hometown, I have it in the corners of the metroplex where these languages are spoken. I have the places I have seen, and the places I have not yet seen. People met and those to come. Yallah.