Snap

For those of you that know me, the image of me working on a farm is actually quite comical. In high school, we were always told there were two kinds of people: athletes and non-athletes. Okay yes, this is a generalization but just roll with it for a second. We were told there was a grand division between those who had an affinity for some sort of ball-handling and those who, well, maybe should just stick to reading and pottery. However, I am here to make the case that we have been forgetting all about a crucial third category of people- the people who refused to relent their individuality to the tragic conformity of high school stereotypes, instead embracing the fullness of their own spirit? No. Of course not. Get your head out of your ass.

The third category of people is obviously: “the-awkward-girls-who-pretend-to-be-athletes-due-to-their-throbbing-inner-pefectionist-and-a-religious-devotion-to-the-very-true-events-of-She’s the Man-and/or-Bend it like Beckham-but-who-actually-have-neither-athletic-ability-nor-really-even-basic-human-coordination”.

I am the third category (surprise). I have tried to be an athlete my whole life. I played basketball, soccer, tennis and even swimming (can you ‘play’ swimming?). Most importantly, I lettered in academics my first year of high school and ordered a soccer patch for my jacket to make it seem like I had actually lettered in sports. I did everything so right! I just didn’t have any talent.

This brings us back to my current life on the farm. I don’t have any physical talent here either. My head and my body just aren’t connected that way. If someone were to psychoanalyze me, they might say something like: Aly has a deep fear of vulnerability and a rigid control issue that prevents her body from moving with liberty… Also, we can conclude that this is definitely why she is single and will remain single long after humankind has gone extinct due to the over-growth of foot fungus. But actually the truth is that my center of gravity is at my forehead, not in my hips. I am a walking cranium, which makes me damn good with flashcards but really not that great with manual labor (nor, probably, in bed).

I think everyone has those things that they love but just don’t have a natural gift for. There is a big difference between loving something and ‘being at one’ with something. To be at one with something, I really believe the stars must align to give you a little bit of natural talent. It should fit like your favorite sweater: soft with a little room for growth. For example, here is a list of things I love but absolutely suck at:

·      The aforementioned category of ‘athletics’

·      Writing the letter ‘k’

·      Going to the beach (in the words of my mother, I just “don’t look good wet”)

·      Paint-by-Numbers

·      Being nice

·      Bacon

·      Walking

Now, in contrast, here is a list of things I feel I am ‘at one with’:

·      Cliteracy (no, this is not an ‘academic term’ for masturbation* you weirdo. Go look it up.)

·      Binge-watching Ally McBeal

·      Being in love Watching others be in love/third-wheeling

·      Crying while eating ice cream

·      Cheese

·      Coffee-shops (like, you’re around people but you don’t actually have to talk to anyone)

·      Unsweetened black iced tea

And just because I am kind of having fun making lists, here is a list of the things I hate:

·      Cam Welch

I don’t know if I will ever feel at one with life on the farm. This morning I was walking into my bedroom when a hummingbird followed me and flew toward the window, thinking it was another way outside. She ran into the glass but couldn’t figure out how to turn around and make it out of the windowsill. I am absolutely petrified of birds and all around apathetic to their well-being; I ran to find my host sister so that I later would not be considered an accomplice in murder. She entered my room and grabbed a towel as she headed toward the window. She was going to hold the hummingbird and take her to the door to let her go. This is how it went down:

Miri, the bird-whispering host sister, approaches the bird: “Tranquila. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Me, in my head: “THE BIRD IS LITERALLY GOING TO MURDER YOU.”

Miri, the bird-whispering host sister, holds the bird and pets its head: “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”

Me, in my head: “SHE HAS BEADY DEVIL EYES AND DESERVED TO DIE.”

Me, in real life: “Thank you for everything. I am so happy she is safe.”

Miri, the bird-whispering host sister, lets the hummingbird go and the bird flies up only to get stuck in the roof: “Oh no! Pobrecita, I’ll go get her!”

Me, in my head: “JUST LEAVE HER ROTTING BODY. SHE GOT HERSELF INTO THIS.”

Me, in real life: “You’re right! We’ve got to do something!”

The point of this little anecdote? Yes, Miri did successfully rescue the hummingbird, but the point is that Miri is someone who is at one with the farm. She emanates this kind of compassion and service, while I might have some things to work on. 

I do love it though. The other day, I harvested crops for the first time. My first harvest was potatoes, which was so fitting, as the papa is a key cornerstone of Bolivian culture. After my partner Paulino uprooted the potatoes, I dropped to my knees to collect them into a basket. As I fell to my knees and grabbed my first potato from the earth, I was overcome by emotion- wonder bubbling with an ecstatic relief. There was something so profound about the fact that I was holding a small golden potato in my hand. I realized this was the first time I had ever worked with my hands. I felt like I knew something that I had never known before.

One of my favorite things about the Spanish language is that there are two words for ‘to know’: saber and conocer. Saber is to know information, things or facts. Do you know the answer to the question? Sí, sé la respuesta. On the other hand, conocer is to know places and people. It is to know lives. I love that the Spanish language distinguishes between knowing things and knowing people, places and experiences because these types of knowledge are so profoundly different. To know things? Well, that is to memorize or to compute. But to know people and places and lives? That is to go home again. It is to be overwhelmed. To listen torrentially as love makes its way through your most guarded maze of ear canals. To bare yourself open to the carving of a new magnetic North within you. To love and to never even begin to be able to describe the way you are feeling.

And if you are beginning to know new people and a new place and new lives all at once? Then I say you must be at a dinner table. I have vagabonded my way through many families during my time abroad. I have worked to know a lot of people and places and lives in Chile, Peru and Bolivia. For me, the best moments always happened at the dinner table. It’s where the three profundities meet: people are all together, they are in the epicenter of their home and for the moment, their lives have all converged. Today, I was at the dinner table with my new host family on the farm. I was listening to their conversation, happy that I was keeping up with the fast pace of Spanish. However, just as I felt truly confident in my understanding of the conversation, my listening was interrupted by my host mom catapulting an olive at my host father’s head as she screamed something in German. My host sister started laughing so hard she literally burped up her strawberry pie. I swore we had just been talking about the rain. So, if I had to pick a snapshot of the moment where things started to shift with my relationship in this family, if I had to flutter a shot of a moment to string alongside my millions of little memories that are beginning to yellow in the caverns of my mind, that would be my snapshot. 

And with this snapshot, I think I know something now that I didn’t know before.

(*I do not mean to say that women should feel ashamed for masturbating. I actually believe that the dramatic difference between the public’s celebration of male masturbation and its disgust with female masturbation is a damaging consequence of outdated and harmful gender expectations. This is a feminist issue. I digress.)