“Mexico was a year of vivid impressions,” write four members of the class of 1946 in a reflection on their time abroad, “of color and contrast and chiascuro—of music, and markets, and mountains. We’ll remember also…the ever-present mariachis with their fugitive and haunting melodies—almost as fugitive and haunting as a year can be in its rapid change from present into past irrevocable.”
The latter half of the 1930s saw the Second Republic of Spain plunged into violent civil war, forcing the apparent suspension of a Smith College Junior Year Abroad program for students studying the Spanish language. In May of 1937, however, citing the “present internal unrest” in Spain, the college announced that Smith would be pioneering a junior year in Mexico for the following academic year, offering Spanish majors in good academic standing an alternative to the junior year in Spain. Mimicking the structure of the Spain program’s itinerary, students studying in Mexico would spend the month of September in Guadalajara, an old, coastal Mexican city, to gain familiarity with the language before moving to Mexico City, where they were to enroll in courses at a university. Already considered a pioneer in the field of study abroad for establishing programs in Europe (beginning with Paris in 1925), Smith attracted great curiosity as other institutions watched closely what was deemed an “experiment,” a certain stepping out of the comfort of Eurocentric study abroad.
The Mexico “experiment” was approached with some wariness on the part of administrators, who professed a need to “investigate the situation” and collect “evidence as to the feasibility of the project.” An initial skepticism of Mexico as a suitable location of study for “refined” American girls is palpable in the many letters exchanged during the establishment process—President William Neilson writes of wanting to “assure ourselves of the hygienic conditions, the possibility of an appropriate place to live, and the academic opportunities,” while program director Katherine Reding interrupts her long-winded admiration of the group’s “luxurious a la Mexican” residence to express her surprise that “[i]ncidentally, the floors are not deep in grime.” While Neilson’s investigations produced a decision against the practicality of housing students with Mexican families, Reding later writes to him of “beginning to see that we could have put the girls in private families…The family where I am living is charming.” “The Guadalajara idea is good,” she says in another letter. “I was very dubious before coming.”
A newspaper interview with Janet Tunison, 1938
Such hesitation and suspicion quickly proved unwarranted. In spite of early sickness, work deemed “too easy” by their rigid director, and frequent, “minor upsets” incited by the “difficult climate,” students left Mexico in 1938 feeling “so very happy,” reportedly trying to arrange “ways of staying in Mexico all summer.” Janet Tunison, one of the students on the trip, reported that she was “particularly fond of the Mexican cooking” and that her first few meals back in the United States seemed “a bit tasteless” compared with the spicy dishes she had been eating abroad. She also admired the hospitality and laid-back lifestyle of the people she encountered, musing that the people of Mexico City “always take their time and are never in a hurry.” When the group returned to their busy lives in Northampton, they had gained not only language proficiency but “considerable insight into the history and culture of Mexico.”
After a six-year lapse, said to be initiated by political unrest and financial insecurity of the Mexican government, the Junior year in Mexico “experiment” was revived in the fall of 1944, a plan met with significant student enthusiasm. This time, students were placed with homestay families for the duration of their time in Guadalajara, providing a far more immersive experience. “From the first, the girls fitted into the family life,” writes director Helen Peirce ‘1921, “[F]rom all the ‘mothers’ I had glowing reports of cooperation on the part of the girls and their desire to understand the dos and don’ts of Mexican society.” In a series of lighthearted anecdotes shared with a campus publication upon their return, the students touch on the difficulties of navigating the smallest of interactions and activities within an unfamiliar culture. One student relays the humorous tale of being unable to follow the procedure of turning on hot water in the showers, stepping in “with the utmost confidence” and stepping out again “a matter of seconds later” with skin blue and teeth “doing a rhumba.” After avoiding the showers for as long as they could stand it, the student and her fellow guests, “no longer able to bear up under the strain of martyrdom thrust upon us by necessity,” ducked under the frigid water and let out screams which “were heard from one end of the house to the other end of the neighboring house.” Another student shares the following:
“When one travel-weary and somewhat apprehensive student arrived alone at the house to which she was assigned, she attempted to explain to the Señora of the family in the highly inventive form of Spanish which one picks up so easily, that her roommate would arrive the following day. The Señora nodded encouragingly and said ‘Puro español, bien?’ The student, alas, knowing but one meaning for the word ‘puro’ understood the kind lady to offer her a Spanish cigar. Not wishing to appear ungrateful for any gestures of hospitality, she paled considerably and whispered ‘Sí.’ Although no immediate action was taken and with time came the knowledge that the Señora had merely remarked that only Spanish would be spoken, one ‘Gringuita’ spent several uneasy days stealing herself for the ordeal should the occasion present itself.”
The JYA Mexico group, 1944-1945
Students also had the opportunity to immerse themselves in broader cultural practices during their travels. Five in particular chose to take a six days’ detour between Guadalajara and Mexico City “to see some points of interest.” In a letter to Dean Hallie Flanagan Davis, the members of this trip highlight the famous Día de los Muertos, the Mexican holiday in which people pay tribute to their deceased loved ones. They write:
“This ceremony is very unusual on the little island of Janitzio, located in Lake Patzcuaro…To the cemetery which is in front of the church the Indian women brought flowers, candles and baskets of food and placed them on their particular lots. An interesting custom is the scattering of torn flower petals over the graves to cover the great number of dead buried there.”
“Term papers and soft music,” 1944-1945
Writing her report on the value of the students’ year in Mexico, Director Peirce ruminates that “[w]hat advantages they have gained from living in a foreign country are impossible to estimate.” In addition to learning and facing fears on a daily basis, equally valuable to participants in such an experience, particularly a non-Eurocentric immersion, was the opportunity to expand their perceptions of the world, their home country, and their place in it. “Living in a small country where one seems closer to the economic, social, political, racial and religious problems than one often is in the United States made them conscious of these same problems in their own country,” writes Peirce. Being able to view one’s own country with detachment and through the eyes of thinking people of a neighboring country is a valuable experience for anyone, especially for the young people who will be expected to help solve these many problems in the near future.”
References
Office of President William Allan Neilson, Smith College Archives, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. Series: Smith Subjects, Junior Year Abroad Mexico — L, Box 52, Folder 1-2.
Helen Jeannette Peirce Papers, Box 42, Smith College Archives.
Junior Year Abroad Program, Smith College Archives, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. Junior Year Abroad A-P, Box 1131.
Class of 1946 – Lundberg, Joan, 22E3 80.Cla Box 2156, Smith College Archives.
Smith College Alumnae Quarterly, Smith College Archives, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. “Juniors in Mexico Mix Study and Travel,” February 1945.
Amanda Carberry ’21 is a prospective Government major with a strong interest in languages, the World War II era, international human rights, and the study of history as it relates to foreign policy today. She hopes to travel and study abroad in the near future. She is also an avid writer and looks forward to having the opportunity to refine her writing abilities during her years at Smith.
My parents often avoid talking about their past. But, behind their unspoken stories lies the truth of my identity. Who am I? Why is it that I’m Kenyan but speak the Somali language? Why is it when I say I am Kenyan, people ask whether I speak Swahili (the main language in Kenya)? Why is it that my family members recognize themselves as the Somali Bantu? Who are these so-called “Somali Bantu”?
As I began to research for myself, I discovered why my parents always avoided sharing their story. It has been a dark road for them, and the memories must have been too painful.
At times when my siblings and I misbehaved, my dad would share bits of his story to encourage us to think about how good we have it here in America and to take advantage of our opportunities. From his stories, I remember him mentioning gunshots, screams, and he himself having to carry a gun for safety. Whenever we complained about the walk to the grocery store, he would mention having to trek for miles with little to no food.
Honestly, I thought he was exaggerating just to scare us. Now I believe he did not tell us enough. He spoke about traveling a lot, but I never realized that he was not traveling for fun. He was fleeing for his life.
My mom never talked about her past, not even a tiny bit. I remember when we first came to America and we didn’t have a car, she would walk almost everywhere, sometimes as far as five miles. I always joked about how much faster she walked than me. Little did I know she had also walked many miles to save her life.
At one time, my parents had a peaceful life in Somalia. They were farmers, which is where the “Somali Bantu” identity came from. It was in 1991 that my parent’s lives were turned upside down. The civil war broke out in Somalia and the minority “Somali Bantu” became a target. They lost everything. The farm that they had worked so hard for was taken away. Robbed, hurt, and aware that things would only get worse, my parents decided to leave Somalia.
Joined by other refugees, they walked thousands of miles for days with hardly any food. Some became ill, some died from starvation, and some were hurt or killed by wild animals. But my parents survived, making it to Kenya’s refugee camp, where they started over again.
My parent’s bravery in migrating from Somalia to Kenya’s refugee camps and then eventually to America has had a huge impact on my life. Their hardships opened many doors for me. Knowing this helped me confront my own struggles with moving to America, where I was overwhelmed by being surrounded by people other than my race, having so many resources, changing my lifestyle, and struggling to keep up with the American culture while maintaining my own. It is what continues to drive me, and to help me understand their high expectations.
I cannot resent my parents for having these high expectations of me. I don’t blame them for expecting me to make some sacrifices in trying to keep our culture alive. I don’t blame them for not understanding the American culture. I don’t blame them for not knowing the English language after being in America for 13 years, for dragging me out of school just to translate for them, or for giving me a lot of paperwork to do on top of my own homework. I don’t blame them for not understanding my decisions to pursue something unfamiliar and greater. One day I want to be able to stand strong and proud and show them the great woman I have become and that all of their sacrifices and struggles were worth it.
Who Am I?
I am Kenyan. I am a refugee and I am Somali Bantu.
Rumbila
Rumbila Abdullahi’21 was born in Kenya and came to America when she was seven years old. She is currently a first year at Smith College. She is the second to youngest child and the first to attend college. She aspires to become a Doctor and go back to Kenya to give back to the community. She is involved in Community organizations such as Pioneer Valley Project and Somali Bantu Community.
Zipping down the road for the first time, the only thing I could think of was that I hated this. No one would ever describe me as athletic. I’ve never played a sport and will take the elevator any chance I get. So for me, someone who has ridden a bike perhaps only twice in her life, biking down the road was out of my comfort zone, to say the very least.
But when my boss said we were going to the satellite office and showed me the yellow bike I’d be using to get there, I knew my fate was sealed. Despite being an unathletic person, I had to exercise. Watching the rest of my team get on their bikes, I was so scared. Scared that I’d get hurt, scared that I’d fall behind, scared of everything. The office was on the other side of the city and I knew that getting separated was not an option; there was no way I could have made it back alone. So I listened to those directions harder than I’d ever listened before.
When it was time to actually “saddle up” on the bike, I was so thankful for my weird puritanical upbringing, which always caused me to put on little shorts and some kind of shoulder covering with whatever dress I was wearing. Due to my severe under-packing, I had bought a bunch of cheap summer dresses that I kept in rotation in my work wardrobe, always paired with my signature cardigan. That day I had been wearing a particularly short dress that was not suitable for biking, so I had to tuck the skirt in under me when I got on the bike. My outfit was not complete without an oversized red helmet. Even though my coworkers teased me about it and told me I’d be fine, as a total hypochondriac and an American without universal health insurance, I strapped it on.
I situated myself at the back of the pack, figuring that if anything happened to the people in front, I’d have time to react and get out of harm’s way. We started off slow, easing into the busy streets. But once we got into the flow of things, it started getting scary. We were weaving in and out of traffic, car horns blaring on the busy streets. My hands were so sweaty that the handle bars became slippery, and my knuckles turned white from gripping them so hard. I could see my team leader saying something, but I couldn’t understand him from the blaring traffic, so I just tried to follow along and stay with the group. Once we got past the huge hoards of people bustling in and out of the city, I started to calm down and could focus more on the actual ride. The sensation of the wind whipping through my hair and drowning out all the noise was something I’d never really experienced before. I loved that feeling of freedom and the fact that something I was doing was making it happen. By the time we got to the other office, I was drenched with sweat and shaking. The ride was completely exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. My legs felt like jelly for the rest of the day due to all of that peddling, and I couldn’t even eat lunch due to the adrenaline that was still coursing through my veins. My coworker later commented that he couldn’t believe that I’d actually done it.
I rode my bike back home that day and many more times over the course of the summer. By the end of my stay, I was so comfortable riding a bike that I even prefered it to taking an Uber. That feeling of weightlessness and adrenaline is something that I still look for even today. It was something outside of my comfort zone, but I’m so glad that I did it. I matured immensely that summer and did much more than I ever thought I’d do. That experience made me want to try new things that I normally wouldn’t even dare try, things that I am since glad that I’ve done. Even though I’m back in the United States now, you can still find me on a bike, skirt tucked under my seat with my sweater flapping in the wind.
Marleni Chavana is a sophomore studying Computer Science and Government. She has spent time in both Europe and South America and is looking forward to traveling more in the future.
What is farther outside of one’s comfort zone than being completely displaced in time, transported chronologically backwards through space to find oneself adapting to a foreign historical environment? While I do not possess the ability to time-travel, this essentially represents the mental sojourn that I undertook in my French course last semester called, “Les Années Noires: Living through the German Occupation In Paris, 1939-1945.” Using the methodology of creative assimilation, my peers and I absorbed ourselves in the vie quotidienne of those who lived in Nazi-occupied France, creating and embodying a fictitious character and chronicling their memoirs throughout the war. We transformed our classroom into a portal through which we gained an understanding of what it was like to live in Paris after the French defeat and under the German occupation. What were the daily humiliations, the moral dilemmas, the political risks and confrontations that Parisians faced as they struggled to survive?
Thus, embarking on the feat of creative fictional memoir writing in a second language, I plunged myself into the imagined life of Ève Leroux, a young orphaned cabaret dancer. Ève’s life, spent struggling to survive day-to-day under conditions of paranoia, suspicion, and fear, was a far cry from my own life. In the creation of this character, I tested my ability to think beyond my own political spectrum, opting to inhabit the mind of a collaborator who supported the German occupation, someone who is vilified for posterity and someone whose narrative belongs to the “wrong” side of World War II history. Since I pride myself on my high standards of moral integrity, I grappled with this decision; could I really inhabit the mind of someone whose belief system contradicts the liberty and democracy for which I stand? How would it be possible to elicit sympathy for a coward, for someone who is neither likeable, courageous, nor full of integrity?
It was often paralyzingly difficult to immerse myself in Ève’s ideological mindset, and one hurdle I had to overcome was developing the complexities of Ève’s character. As a multifaceted young woman coming of age in a tumultuous era, her primary focus was her own self-preservation. Ève’s crimes stemmed from labanalité du mal (“the banality of evil”) — a term which describes ordinary yet insidious everyday activity that perpetuated pro-Vichy ideology. By paying attention to her own needs but ignoring the need of others, she enabled herself to be indifferent in the face of injustice and annihilation. In the name of self-protection, she obeyed pro-nazi général Maréchal Pétain and those at the reigns of power, causing her to condone anti-semitic and xenophobic attitudes of the day. She shielded herself by turning her own back and closing her eyes to the violence that was happening around her, thus absolving herself from blame.
When I stepped out of my comfort and into the shoes of someone with a completely opposite vantage point, I was able to investigate why and how, in the face of blatant repressive extremism, French citizens were culpable or complicit in the atrocious domination that claimed the lives of millions of people. I hope that Eve’s memoirs represented les Années Noires for what they really were: les Années Grises, full of moral ambiguity, where every person held a degree of responsibility that needs to be reconciled.
Despite the discomfort, the process of writing Ève’s memoirs helped me to reach an understanding of a perspective that completely conflicts with my own values. Given that we are in the midst of a global resurgence in fascism, writing these memoirs in French taught me an important lesson, that we need to comprehend the origins of this deep-seated extremism in order to effectively tackle it. Most importantly, this experience taught me that when we expand our worldview to address the multitude of perspectives that exist inside of every history, we can take steps towards establishing a more tolerant and peaceful future.
Claire Lane ’20 is a sophomore Global STRIDE Scholar double-majoring in Dance and French Studies. Last summer, she took French language courses and trained in contemporary dance in Brussels, Belgium, and she looks forward to continuing these two avenues of study next year while spending her junior year abroad in London and Geneva. She is passionate about how languages, both verbal and physical, shape identity and culture and can be a vehicle to bridge global divides in order to sustain a more compassionate world.
One of the first things I told my host mother in Ecuador was a lie. A small one, at the time—there was no way I could possibly have known then that over the next few months, it would completely take on a life of its own. But even now, if I could go back in time, I think I might choose to tell it over again.
My host mother was nothing if not welcoming, and treated me like family from the very beginning. She taught me to make empanadas, made me breakfast every morning, and laughed gently when my host sisters teased me at the dinner table. She loved flowers, her family, music, and God.
The lie I told her that first day was a simple one, and one that my program directors had actually encouraged. Assuming that she would be Catholic, like most Ecuadorians, I told her that my family was Protestant—technically the truth, although the last one of us to actually go to church was my late grandmother. Unfortunately, my host family was not only not Catholic, but in fact part of a small but deeply conservative evangelical Protestant church. From that moment on, they assumed that my religious views would be fundamentally the same as theirs, and as the weeks and months passed, my small white lie grew out of control.
I arrived in Ecuador only a few months after coming out as a lesbian to my friends and family, and I knew from the beginning that it would be different. I grew up in a liberal east coast city and then ended up at Smith College—of course I was aware that I was coming out in one of the safest and most accepting environments possible. I never assumed that Quito would be the same as Northampton. But I was entirely unprepared for the amount of homophobia I’d be exposed to in the safety of my own (temporary) home.
“It’s not my place to tell others what to do with their lives, but I would never let any of those people into my home,” my host mother said to me—not just once, but repeatedly, as casually as if she were discussing the weather. “Homosexuals, lesbians, the transgenders…out there in the street they can do what they want, but this is a house of God.”
Once, in front of a friend from my program who I had invited over for lunch, she continued: “Those nice people from the program, who pick the host families, they know that I would not take in a gay or a lesbian. And if they sent me one, I’d send them right back.”
My friend glanced at me across the table, and I fought back the hysterical urge to laugh, or maybe cry. Not for the first time and not for the last, I said nothing.
During my two months with my host family, I thought a lot about how easy it would be to leave—my program would help me switch homestays without question, if I asked. And I thought about how lucky I was to have that option, and about the millions of people across the world who don’t. I thought about taking a stand, about coming out to her right before I was scheduled to leave—maybe having known me for two months, having taken me in and treated me like family, would help to challenge her prejudices. Maybe I could make a difference.
I never did any of those things. Even knowing as I left the country that I might never be back, even knowing that I would likely never see her again, I kept quiet. I don’t know how to explain how much I felt like an imposter in my host family, and how much I loved them anyway. I loved our dinners together and our Saturday night movie marathons, our little house by the park and the sound of my host sister practicing violin late at night. As happy as I am to be back home, I miss them every day.
I don’t know if this story has a resolution, or if it ever will, and maybe that’s as it should be. After my semester in Ecuador, I’m more certain than ever before that I’m not certain about anything—where my comfort zones are, what it means to be safe, what it means to be open, and what it means to be home.
Kaia Heimer-Bumstead is a junior majoring in Comparative Literature and planning on adding a second major in Portuguese and Brazilian Studies. She spent the Fall 2017 semester studying the politics of language and researching indigenous literature in Ecuador.
I began the summer of 2017 fresh out of my Junior year at Smith and terrified of flying abroad, alone. I didn’t want to get lost in a country where everyone spoke Hebrew (even though I was assured frequently that everyone also knew English. It turned out to be true, but I’m a worry-wart). I didn’t want to miss a flight or get ripped off by a cab driver. Most importantly, I wanted to do well in my first class overseas. I wanted to make connections with Yiddish professors from all over the globe, something that I hadn’t been exposed to at the National Yiddish Book Center (as much as I would have liked, anyway). The program was huge, so I also wanted to make connections with people older than me, different than me, from other countries, with other ideas. In the end I was successful in doing these things. I completed my coursework and enjoyed it, I explored Israel with my Yiddish speaking friends, I met people from Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Frankfurt, Berlin, New York City, and St. Petersburg, all of whom were also looking to make new friends from exciting places. I learned that I could travel alone with ease, and with my newfound self-confidence I applied myself, learning from those ahead of me and teaching to those behind me. To my surprise (after what I was taught about historical views of Yiddish in Israel) I wasn’t ridiculed for my choice of study by locals. Young folks found it cool and interesting, and related it to their liberal politics, and older folks seemed more surprised than condescending.
One of the most interesting things about my month in Israel was the fact that I was learning a Jewish language surrounded by yet another Jewish language, a very rare situation in the life of a young, secular academic. One of the joys of my experience was puzzling that out emotionally and intellectually. It was also very, very tiring to be surrounded constantly by a language that I didn’t understand.
My second “ah-ha!” moment came in Tel Aviv, as well. I’ve been a listener of Sosye Fox’s podcast “Vaybertaytsh,” a feminist podcast produced entirely in Yiddish, for as long as I’ve been a Yiddish student. To my surprise, Sosye was also in Tel Aviv, and quickly organized an opportunity for people to participate in her work. She created the “Far vos?” [“Why?”] series of episodes, in which those of us whom she interviewed could explain why we came to Yiddish, why we love Yiddish, or why we struggle with Yiddish. We split into small groups based on interests, and I was happy to find people with a shared interest: What does it mean to be queer in Yiddish? What about being trans in Yiddish? We each brought to the table different views, and some of us even came up with a queer Yiddish vocabulary. This was the first time I created in Yiddish, and that was the true “ah-ha!”, but listening to myself on the air was pretty cool, too.
Once I got back to Smith College, I became enveloped entirely within the world of my Honors Thesis, a translation of several short stories from Rikudah Potash’s collection In geslekh fun Yerushalayim [In the Alleyways of Jerusalem]. I went into it looking for an under-appreciated, under-studied woman Yiddish writer. I am now writing my critical introduction to the text, which begins with a short introduction to the study of Yiddish women writers and how Potash expresses womanhood and femininity in her work as central to her sense of self. It then goes on to what I consider to be the much more interesting layers of her work, which are the racial and cultural components, as well as her writing about disability. It’s very rare to discuss disability studies within the framework of Yiddish literature, but I’ve found many older pieces of Yiddish literature (for example, Rebbe Nachman’s story “The Seven Beggars,”) that show that there is a great need for attention to disability studies in our little field. I’ve also been able to learn about orientalism in Israel, something that I’ve never bumped into in my Eastern European-leaning studies. It complicates the things that I was initially taught about Yiddish from my language teachers. Yiddish as the “under dog” is a good narrative for young Yiddish learners, but gets much more complicated as you move historically out of America or Europe. It’s exciting to know that I will be among the very short list of people who have written so extensively about Rikudah Potash’s work, and especially one of the only translators to have worked with her prose.
Teddy Schneider is a senior at Smith College. Their focus on Yiddish literature allows them to explore themes of disability, womanhood, history, genre, geography, borders, and marginality. After they graduate, they would like to go to graduate school for library and information sciences, or further their studies of disability in Yiddish literature. Their senior thesis is a translation of Rikudah Potash’s collection of short stories, “In geslekh fun Yerusholayim [In the Alleyways of Jerusalem]” complete with a critical literary analysis.
Four years ago, when I was at home in China, getting ready to study abroad in the United States, my family and friends repeatedly advised me to befriend all kinds of people. “Step out of your comfort zone!” They urged. “Don’t get caught up in the Chinese students’ inner circle!” But then, there we were— occupying a table in the dining hall, forming study groups, eating out on weekends, and traveling together over the break. There was almost a natural affinity among us and I wondered why. I gradually noticed that this inner circle comprised of those who were using English as a functional language.
By “functional” I mean the fundamental use of the language to achieve a goal, such as buying a toothbrush, ordering a meal, or understanding the questions in an exam. In my first year, I struggled with even the functional use of English. I could only decline when my friends asked me out for a movie. “Why?” They asked. “Because I wouldn’t be able to understand!” I replied. They laughed so hard that I was bewildered. Isn’t that strange — A college student still relying on subtitles to understand most vernacular English? Language is an interactive tool, but at the same time, a subjective experience. How well was I supposed to understand a speaker? How much did they understand me? Would they judge my intelligence based on my flawed expressions? I had no way to know. As I talked, so many words were at the tip of my tongue. So I paused; I even saw what I intended to say written out in Chinese in front of eyes, but I was silent. My world was muffled, so I strived extra hard to sharpen my senses.
I used to be afraid of overhearing people speaking English due to the fear that it would confirm my inability to understand them. Gradually, I learned to open my ears to the outside world and acquire as much information as possible. I put down my earphones and tuned in to the people around me. Still, I would describe my experience of going outside of my dorm room in my first year as stepping onto a battlefield, since I was easily submerged in frustrations and embarrassments.
I also realized that a more severe obstacle to making friends in another linguistic environment is the expression of emotions. Words don’t just mean what they mean; they also carry loads of emotions. There are words to make jokes and puns, to form swear words and release anger, to trigger laughter and tears, to hurt, and to heal. I felt those words at the tip of my tongue but not in my heart. The distance between my tongue and my heart was the distance between me and others, whose emotions were revealed whenever they spoke.
Deciding to learn German is what saved me. In that classroom, I found something familiar—the deliberateness of sticking to grammatical rules due to an absence of intuition, the hardship of coming up with the right words, and the decoupling of thoughts and the medium that carries them. If I talked about struggling with words at the tip of the tongue, my German study pals were the ones who fully comprehended and empathized with me.
When studying abroad in Hamburg, the American students formed an inner circle, and I was part of it. This is why I smiled when one member of the Hamburg group asked, “why do Chinese students only hang out with each other?” It doesn’t have much to do with the nature of a particular culture or national character, as some may suggest. The familiarity and security within a group is what defines a comfort zone, where people naturally fall back.
This was the time when not only my German but also my English progressed considerably. Every word was a trial and every sentence that I uttered carried the risk of embarrassing myself. But at the same time, each attempt at communication was an endeavor beyond my comfort zone. It was this type of everyday struggle that humbled my friends and me, as well as empowered us. In Hamburg, we faced, fought, and embraced this linguistic challenge together.
Admittedly, language barriers don’t account for all the hardships of making friends in a foreign environment, but language is certainly one of the most significant factors, as it carries the signature of one’s culture, living environment, and family character. It defines insiders and outsiders, and it delineates everyone’s most basic comfort zone. In this context, stepping out of our comfort zone is not the end but the beginning. Just like weight training, knowing how many sets of a routine there are (i.e. when the discomfort will end) is essential, as no one can sustain in an uncomfortable environment forever. But the ultimate goal should be to expand our comfort zone through repetitive and continuous attempts.
What I gained in both English and German environments was not just the languages themselves but also confidence, persistence, resilience, and courage. I now have a greater appreciation for the struggles of living in a foreign environment and more understanding of the tendency for people to cluster together with their peers from the same cultural background. We are not simply wasting an opportunity to improve but seeking a temporary shelter between battles.
Now I know that time will bring the words at the tip of my tongue, one by one, down to the depth of my heart.
Tianhua Zhu ’18 is currently a Senior, majoring in both Government and Linguistics. Looking at the intersection between the two majors, she is interested in the politics of language and seeks to understand the language of politics. She participated in the Smith Program in Hamburg in Spring 2017 and took advantage of the great opportunity to travel around several countries in Europe. Originally coming from Shanghai, China, she would like to accumulate more international experiences and bring together distinct perspectives echoing through the East and the West.
I spent two months last summer in Iganga, Uganda working on a public health research project with a medical anthropologist. We wanted to understand how female sex workers’ experiences influenced their access to HIV care and prevention. This experience taught me invaluable lessons in cross-cultural communication, in addition to skills needed to conduct ethnographic field work.
Those two months were the first time I had spent more than a couple of weeks in a foreign country away from my family. I thought the trips to Hawaii and China to visit relatives would have prepared me for my trip to Uganda, but when we finally drove up to our home for the next two months after a hot, dusty car ride from the airport, I was ready to break down in tears.
I eventually found my footing in the following days and weeks. As the streets in Iganga Town slowly became familiar to me, I learned to barter for pineapples in the market and felt completely at ease squeezing onto the backseat of a motorcycle with two other people. The research itself was fascinating — I visited health care centers and clinics, discussed HIV prevention policy with government officials, and had the opportunity to hear the life stories of incredible women.
All the while, my inability to truly “fit in” (I am a Chinese-American) and the more negative experiences of the other students I lived with began to affect my own. The other research student, who is a few years older than me and whom I respected, started to express dissatisfaction with our research mentor, our situation, and Ugandan culture. Unwilling to disagree and cause any sort of conflict, I followed along with her negative sentiments. These seeds of negativity accumulated and soon I started to believe these sentiments myself. I found myself expressing my own discontent more and more often. It was addicting: the dust was so annoying; everyone always stared; the food was so bland. I looked forward to the first hot shower in Dubai (a layover on our way back to St. Louis) as if my life depended on it.
When I finally stepped into the steaming hotel bathroom in Dubai, I relished the hot water and incredible water pressure. But as the brownish water colored by Iganga’s infamous red dust trickled down the drain, I realized I already missed Uganda: I missed the boda-boda rides, the ridiculous unstructured research meetings that would last hours, the food, the people, and even the red dust between my toes. The thought saddened me and I was immediately swept into a wave of regret. I continued reflecting on this experience during the few weeks I spent at home – asking myself what I could have done better and imagining how the two months would have gone if I had just spoken up.
Before I knew it, it was time to head to China for a semester abroad in Kunming. I was excited, but also scared that I would end up making the same mistakes and come home clouded by regret. I would again be forced to face my classmates’ and my own negative sentiments, and I was afraid I would handle it poorly.
Long story short, I learned from my mistakes in Uganda, but I also learned to show myself some self-compassion. Even though I did allow my negativity to affect me towards the end of my time in Uganda, I learned and accomplished a lot in my two months there. Among other things, I played a significant role in the research team and developed many other skills through interacting with others and facing my own biases. I expanded upon these skills in China, where I continued my research on HIV and sex work in a cross-cultural comparison of China and Uganda, and found a community outside of my American peers. In both places, I formed friendships that will last a lifetime with locals and fellow Americans. All of the accomplishments and failures from my experiences living abroad in China and Uganda are marks of success, and I am now realizing the slow process of growth and the need to push past feelings of regret in order to fully appreciate an experience and make the best of future ones as well.
Delphine is a junior at Smith College from California and Washington. She loves to dance and lay in the sun. In the future, she hopes to pursue a career in health and medicine, and incorporate radical listening and community-building into her work.
Despite being an only child, I’ve never felt comfortable being alone in public. If I had to guess, this discomfort is learned, not innate: my parents, protective to a fault, often policed where I went when I was younger. I was rarely allowed to go to Boston and was never allowed to go alone, despite living only an hour away from the city. I couldn’t go to certain areas in the towns surrounding my hometown; even if it was safe now, it hadn’t been a safe place in the 1970s.
When I left for my junior year abroad, it was the first time I had ever navigated an airport by myself. Saying goodbye to my parents at security, not knowing when I’d see them again, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I spent a solid hour before my flight crying in the bathroom, wondering what I had gotten myself into.
During my first few months in Florence, I’d rarely leave the house on weekends without establishing a set plan to meet someone. My lifelong stigma against eating alone in public meant that if my housemate ate lunch without me, I’d skip the meal entirely. I wasted so much time trapped in my own head that could have been spent exploring my temporary home.
On one Saturday night, after saying goodbye to my friends and getting off the bus, I found myself in my neighborhood alone after dark for the first time. Unfortunately, a nearby man noticed this, and spent the next two minutes asking me to hold his hand as I walked to my apartment. Thankfully, he ended his pursuit once he got to his own place, leaving me to run two more blocks home, terrified in a way I’d never felt before.
Despite this, as the year continued, I felt myself becoming more comfortable with the concept of being alone. While my friends were in class during my free time, I’d treat myself to a few hours alone in the local movie theatre or a nearby museum. On weekends, I’d find myself at my local pizzeria, or walking to get some gelato while waiting for my laundry to dry. I was finally learning to enjoy as many aspects of Florence as I could, even if it meant a few hours alone.
I had spent my month-long winter break off from school with my close friend as we traveled across Europe. As spring break drew closer, however, I started to realize that all of my friends had made their plans already, and I was left to either piggyback on what they had planned, or to travel alone. I knew I’d be meeting one of my friends in Spain for the first few days of break, yet I couldn’t help but feel unwelcome imposing myself on someone else’s plans for the last week. I eventually worked up the nerve to book my first-ever solo sojourn to London and Athens.
My parents were horrified at my choice, berating me from 4,000 miles away. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a woman to travel alone?” Of course I did. However, I knew I’d regret it if I sat back and let someone else plan my spring break instead of checking places off of my own bucket list. I’d chosen to start with London — an English-speaking city that I’d already visited once before — before working my way up to Athens.
I couldn’t help but be proud of myself when I returned to Florence after my two weeks off, over half of which I’d spent alone. The girl that cried when saying goodbye to her parents at Logan Airport seven months prior would never have imagined that she’d have such an amazing adventure, especially not by herself. I can’t say that everything in those two weeks went perfectly, but the experiences that felt like the end of the world at the time quickly became merely another set of anecdotes for my friends and family at home. I’m infinitely proud that I let myself step out of my comfort zone to have such a wonderful time abroad.
Kaity is a senior living in Lawrence House and studying psychology. She studied abroad last year with Smith’s JYA Florence Program.
The question, no doubt, came to mind as I failed to understand the language used by my classmates and professors, as I ran to catch the 8 am train, or as I stopped by a nearby kale smoothie joint on my way home.
That isn’t to say that I wasn’t having a good time. I loved being in Japan and in the town I consider my second home. I still couldn’t get over the fact that I had received funding for my summer language intensive, and I appreciated the independence and empowerment that came with something as simple as riding public transportation.
I loved it all, but I simply didn’t know what I was doing — or what I should have been doing, for that matter. What was I learning from this experience? How would it contribute to my future goals — whatever those may be?
I continued with the monotony of everyday life. Wake up. Go to class. Come home. Sleep. My language skills were improving minimally, and I found myself immersed in a culture I had already been accustomed to since the moment I first visited Japan at age two.
Things changed when I typed in a simple search on Google: “Kyoto University Field Hockey.” I wasn’t expecting much and yet, lo and behold, my nonchalant search yielded thrilling results. I was introduced to an assortment of season recap videos, player descriptions, and—much to my delight—an email address and open invitation for “students of all backgrounds and interests.”
As a field hockey player at Smith and soon-to-be junior captain, I jumped at the chance to re-immerse myself in team culture and physical activity, and I was eager to incorporate foreign strategies into my plans for the upcoming season.
I clicked “send” and what followed still remains a bustling, heartwarming blur of new friendships, athletic perseverance, and riveting cultural experiences. A two-day tournament on the countryside, the organized chaos of the Gion festival at night, and a makeshift “octopus ball party” are just a few of the many memories I will cherish forever.
Some of my fondest memories are those I now share with my captain at the time, Maki, a senior meteorology major with a passion for field hockey unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. Her unrelenting hospitality, compassion, and discipline continue to motivate me as I navigate my way through leadership experiences both within field hockey and beyond. She has solidified my values in terms of what it means to be an effective, inspiring leader, and she is who I envision when I think of “my captain.”
My summer experience in Japan was more than just a cultural and linguistic excursion: it was an opportunity for me to grow and learn from the leadership of others, and to follow my instincts and personal desires. By finding guidance in both others and myself, I learned to address change and monotony, to engage with my interests and future goals, and to appreciate what each new person and experience brings.
Aiko is a junior anthropology major currently studying abroad at the University of Amsterdam. As a neuroscience minor and translation studies concentrator, she is particularly interested in studying the relationship between language and culturally-influenced thought processes. Her hobbies include field hockey and pottery, and she hopes to someday work for a non-profit organization in Kyoto, Japan.
We woke up at 4am after a night out and hopped in the van that would take us to Mount Cameroon. “It’ll just be a quick two-hour hike there and back,” said Arianne, trying to encourage us. I have very little experience hiking, so I mentally prepared myself for shortness of breath and throbbing thighs. We watched the beautiful sunrise as we were on our way up a small hill, thinking that the 2-hour journey began when we got out of the van. About thirty minutes into the walk, we read a sign that indicated that the trail was only then officially beginning. Already out of breath, we looked at each other wondering what we had gotten ourselves into.
At some unknown point, we lost half of the group. Arianne, Kizzy, and I were in the front, seemingly conquering the trek while also stopping every five minutes to catch our breath. Every one of our steps was imprinted in the muddy trail, and all I could see were trees and leaves blocking the sky, the top of the mountain nowhere in sight. It was fun at first. The fresh smell of nature, the adrenaline of doing something I’ve never done before in a foreign country, my increasing heartbeat from exercising… And then we reached the two-hour mark. We read a sign that said we were entering the steepest part of the mountain. Arianne, surprised at how long it took us to reach this point that she’s reached previously in half of the time, looked at us and laughed. From that point, she told us we had about 30 more minutes left.
I began to believe that Cameroonians either have a very poor sense of time or that the universe suddenly extended the length of seconds and minutes. During our pre-departure orientation, we were warned that Cameroon is a very laid back country and that sticking to schedules isn’t something we should expect. I didn’t have a problem with this because I couldn’t imagine any circumstances where this would be troublesome; at least not until I was 3 hours deep into Africa’s second tallest mountain with no way to back out.
My legs started cramping, shaking, and giving out on me. My sweatshirt was sticking to my arms from the sweat dripping all over my body. Right before I felt myself giving up, we began to see sun rays peeking through the trees. “We must be close.” I thought. Arianne, who was hardly fazed by this trajectory, adopted a new time estimate: “Five more minutes!” The stops to catch my breath were closer to 30 second intervals at this point and I knew all I had to do was push myself for ‘five more minutes’ to reach the top. Every time I stopped I began to ask, “Are we there yet?” or “Is this it?!”, hoping that I could speak the top of the mountain into existence. From the first time that Arianne told us we had 5 minutes left until we actually got to the mountain top, another hour had passed.
It took us a total of not 2, not 3, but 4 hours to reach the summit. My group got there half an hour before everyone else, giving me enough time to reflect on what exactly had happened. How did I just hike for 4 hours? How many times did Arianne significantly underestimate how much longer we had left? How were we supposed to get down? We couldn’t even see anything because we were so high up that the clouds were blocking the view! I didn’t know if I should feel angry, accomplished, or simply tired. And if this wasn’t bad enough, the impending hike down was almost worse. This time, though, I had no expectation of how long it would take to reach the van that was waiting to take us home. On the way down, amidst trying to see through the obnoxious mist and not slip on the muddy rocks, I began to reflect on what I had done to get myself into this situation. Instead of continuing to feel sorry for all of us who had suffered through this arduous trek, I started to think about how lucky I was to simply be able to say I hiked (partially) up Mount Cameroon. It doesn’t matter that it took us twice as long as we thought or that it was way harder than expected. In the end, we didn’t quit and experienced firsthand the importance of patience and perseverance–the hard way.
Jennifer Aguirre ’18 is studying Psychology and completing a 5-College Certificate in Culture, Health and Science. Although she is not currently on the pre-med track, she hopes to go to medical school in the future and work with underserved communities. She loves traveling and was fortunate to spend 3 weeks in Cameroon with members from the Bold Women’s Leadership Network, where she had the amusing and memorable experience described above.
I grew up in Northern Kentucky among a large family of over sixty relatives. My childhood soundtrack was country and bluegrass, but I always desired to know what lay beyond the Ohio River. I was not interested in traveling to scenic locations, but rather making connections outside of the United States. Though I dabbled in languages as I could, the options were limited among my math and science courses in high school and I found myself arriving in college eager to start the process of truly learning a language.
Dr. Kim Yi Dionne thought Swahili was the best place for me to start, and was keen to emphasize the importance of avoiding the language of ‘the colonizers.’ As Kim steered me away from learning French and into studying Kiswahili, she was quick to emphasize the structure of Swahili classes in the Five Colleges: one-on-one conversation sessions with native speakers and tutorial sessions with Dr. Agnes Kimokoti, an amazing mentor with a doctorate in Kiswahili.
Over the next two years, I lost count of how many confused looks I received from Agnes, when I tried to explain my biology classes with elementary Kiswahili. These conversation sessions eventually grew to make connections between an array of topics. We talked about my chemistry classes, the book Kim was writing on failed AIDS interventions in Africa, the sometimes-outdated Swahili culture described in my textbook, and even immigration.
After two years in this environment, Kim and Agnes encouraged me to pursue Kiswahili studies at State University of Zanzibar (SUZA). While there, I again had individualized education. Mwalimu Omar, my professor, was particular about my Kiswahili grammar and fascinated by my English to Kiswahili translations. Like in the Five Colleges, the conversation structure of my Swahili classes, fostered unique classroom discussions. Both the professors and the students were free to be candid with their opinions and topics of discussion.
In order to learn all aspects of a language, we must discuss all aspects of our lives from personal to political, and all manners of topics from culture-specific to international. Languages classrooms have the potential to be unique spaces where the freedom of discussion allows for candid conversations of topics that lie beyond the scope of any one class. These exchanges value communication over an all-encompassing understanding of a people, region, or topic. It is impossible to teach students about every aspect of a community, but language allows us to hear each other in our own words.
The Five College Center for the Study of World Languages has crafted their language offerings with a keen understanding of just this. Director of the Center, Amy Wordelman, can be found announcing at any academic meeting, that she is happy to offer any language, as long as she can hire a native speaker to converse with the students. The Center values the need for students to delve into a language, regardless of the number of people who speak it. Amy and Agnes have worked along with an array of conversation partners to provide an environment that fosters not only languages, but social justice. If I leave anything behind when I graduate in May, it will be my unending praise for the tireless work of Kim, Agnes, and Amy to make possible these invaluable exchanges of language.
Gretchen ’18 is always trying to show love and be aware of everyone around her. Home for her lies in the people who surround her and anywhere soccer is played. She hopes to never stop growing and never be famous.
Jessica Aduwo ’18 is a senior and biology major at Smith College. She plans to become a physician and is interested in women and children’s health. She wants to practice medicine in underserved communities & among minority populations so as to provide quality healthcare to those disadvantaged by their race, government and socioeconomic status.
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Amanda Carberry ’21 is a prospective Government major with a strong interest in languages, the World War II era, international human rights, and the study of history as it relates to foreign policy today. She hopes to travel and study abroad in the near future. She is also an avid writer and looks forward to having the opportunity to refine her writing abilities during her years at Smith.
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Gretchen ’18 is always trying to show love and be aware of everyone around her. Home for her lies in the people who surround her and anywhere soccer is played. She hopes to never stop growing and never be famous.
