The Evolution From Stranger to Daughter

We arrived in a broken down ranchera bus- 22 North American students in the midst of the Ecuadorian mountains. Just as the shrill of a mooing cow awoke me to the reality of my distance from home, I looked off to my right and spotted a pack of villagers. I jumped of the rickety open-air bus and stepped for the first time upon the ground that was to be my team’s construction site for the next three weeks of our stay in this foreign country. I began to gaze at the smiling faces of welcoming strangers. Their pupils gleamed, and their cracked-tooth smiles seemed so genuine that I could not help but return the gesture. Each extended a firm hand as I timidly approached them, however we had no connection other than our agreement to build a new community center in exchange for their generosity to provide us homes for the upcoming weeks.

As the final student hopped off the bus, our only ride to civilization drove off and disappeared in the distance. Our leader interrupted the awkward silence and greeted the community, she called “atención”. My eyes immediately turned as I timidly listened for my name to be called. Stretching my fingers and shuffling my feet, I anxiously stood for 10 minutes until my name was read. I was brought into the center of the circle to be united for the first time with Merci and Cesar, and their daughter Sandy-my gracious home-stay family.

The first few days I became accustomed to my new routine. Waking up to pestering sounds of honking pigs and barking dogs, I’d amble to the table to find a bowl of oatmeal made by my host mother with milk from the backyard’s cows. Quickly eating, I would then hike 30 minutes through the unpaved mountains to the construction site, passing immense stalks of greenery unlike any shrubs I would find back home in the backyards of Connecticut. Working strenuously beside the community’s members, I’d use broken Spanish to discuss my home life and ask questions about their lives. I gradually became more comfortable using Spanish to communicate to pass the time while mixing pavement and hauling rocks.  Slowly, I evolved from the little blonde girl, to Cassandra, the friend and member of Merci and Cesar’s family.

Everyday as the sun descended, I would leave my working friends to head “home”. After my initial culture shock, I’d adjusted to my home-stay’s thin wooden walls, absence of electricity, and outdoor bamboo shoot they’d call a shower. I was beginning to feel more comfortable in my new surroundings, yet I still did not feel I had made a personal connection with my home stay family. Though I was enjoying my time on the program, I deeply wanted to gain a personal connection with my host family.

In an effort to break the strong language barrier, I attempted a variety of activities. One evening I pulled out a large map I brought to show the family where I was from. This sparked conversation and questioning about my home life that allowed the family to learn more about me, but lead to me feeling any closer emotionally to them.

Attempting again, I introduced my home stay family to the traditional American game of monkeys in a barrel. We laughed as we each struggled to pick up each monkey, but the laughter seemed to come more from a place of nervousness than genuine enjoyment with each other. I continued my efforts by showing pictures of my friends and engaging in conversation at the dinner table, but unfortunately I still felt distant with the members of this foreign home I had been thrust into.

About nine days into my stay, I stood in the kitchen. Although not a conventional kitchen, it housed a few shelves, a sink that drew water from the backyard waterfall, a few knives hung loosely by slipknots of string, and a burner that one could ignite with an ordinary match. I peered out the kitchen’s window hole to witness Merci and Cesar toiling in the overgrown fields while Sandy strutted around, letting her glossy black hair flap freely, as her doughy fingertips chased after the squawking chickens. Merci called to Sandy, and standing by her mother’s side, Merci stroked her head repeating “oh mi hija”, the words all the mothers in the community used when referring to their daughters.

Changing the direction of my gaze from out the kitchen window, I spotted a loaf of bread and a tub of locally made white cheese. Wanting to surprise my hard working home-stay family, I began to create a “plato Americano”, an extravagant grilled cheese. Fumbling with the erratic burner stove and dull tools, I managed to stack 3 sandwiches on a rimmed plastic plate.

With the plate in one hand, I walked down the steps, and out to the fields. Winding around shrubs and rocks, I found Merci tending to the family pigs. I handed her my poor excuse for a grilled cheese, and she smiled a broad warm smile. I smiled back, and began to walk away to find Cesar. Suddenly, Merci called out, “Ven aquí”. I ran back while at the same moment she looked at me to say, “Gracias, gracias mi hija”. Astonished at the term of endearment, I smiled even wider at the woman who only a few weeks ago, was nothing more than a stranger. Unsure of what to do or say, with no words and just instinct, I wrapped my arms around my Ecuadorian mother, and without words, and just instinct, she pulled me in tight.

-- Casey Weiss