The Lone Streets of Identity Far Far South of the Americas: Chapter 1

In the beginning of my junior year of college, I sat down to write a list that would explain me: who I am, the things I like, the things I’m ashamed of and so forth. From 1 to 52, I wrote every thought that came to me such as #1 Action figures, #27 Momma’s boy, #41 Ankle socks, and #37 Morning person. I saved the file to my computer and haven’t bothered looking at it in many months.

This past Wednesday, I was talking with a group of international exchange students about the differences between me and my host family when I was forced to question the operation of identity in a study abroad experience. I was explaining that, even though the Uruguayan culture has made a lot of changes in my daily lifestyle, many of my character traits are directly contrasting with my environment. For example, I am a morning person who loves breakfast. I wake up with an energetic sort of hunger.

My breakfast in Uruguay: bread (toasted or untoasted), water, juice, and DULCE DE LECHE!!!! (Ignore the flies ... a good source of protein and other valuable nutrients for any aspiring ex-vegetarian anyway)

The example I was using with my international friends was that, in Uruguay, the concept of the energetic morning person doesn’t exist and the idea of having a big breakfast in the morning is even less prevalent (there are of course exceptions to these statements). Uruguayans typically eat dinner between 9 and 10 pm, enjoy socializing activities a short while afterword (this includes the children) and start the next day with little or no breakfast. So when I get up at 5:30 am to eat breakfast and work on homework, it’s something of an oddity for my host family. My host mother also gets up early: around 6:00 am to get ready to go to work. The last few times that I have engaged her in conversation (admittedly a slightly springing, bouncy sort of dialogue exchange on my end) she has responded with a very tired sort of confusion. The following is a translated excerpt from a morning form a few weeks ago:

Host Mother (HM): The steady clapping of slippers announces her journey toward the kitchen in search of coffee. She performs a jumping one-step in retreat upon discovering a crouched figure sitting in the kitchen and holds a hand near her heart. Its 5:45 am. Oh, Andy. Studying already.

Andrew Michael Seifert the First (AMSF): Head flying upward, disconnecting itself from the slough of words printed in Spanish. Hello! Good morning! Yes, I wanted to get up early to work on the homework assignments that I didn’t do over the weekend. But I really like the morning. The best time for me to finish things. How are you? Did you sleep well?

HM: Yes. I’m well. She takes her first opportunity to flap those slippers toward the corner of the long, narrow kitchen and work away at preparing coffee.

AMSF: Still watching her for another response and glancing reluctantly back toward the homework. Awkward. He feels awkward in a kitchen so small. Something must be said. Ready for the day of work?

HM: The tinking of the swirling spoon amidst the coffee and sugar is the most predominant sound. Possibly the only non-sleeping sound in the entire apartment complex. Yes. I believe so.

The short dialogue exchange was a meager example of the immense difference I felt between me and my host mother. It may have been her laid back tone or her tired eyes but I knew that this sort of conversation, and at that hour, were not part of her routine. If that wasn’t evidence enough, the next few time that I woke up at 5:00 am to do homework in the kitchen I could only hear the sounds of the slapping slippers, the trickle of the shower, and the clatter of keys as she left to go to work without a cup of coffee. Conversation successfully evaded.

Quest for identity to be continued in following chapters ...