When I first decided to learn Spanish, it was because I wanted to say “thank you.” I had arrived, sleeping bag in hand, at Blanca’s door just moments earlier. I would be staying in the cinder-block house of this family of maquiladora workers in Nogales, Mexico, as part of a trip for a college course on the U.S./Mexico border, and I couldn’t even say thank you. I had, of course, said gracias as Blanca, the mother of the household, began serving dinner that first night, but that garbled attempt seemed inadequate coming from a privileged American student who had literally just been airlifted into the lives of this struggling Mexican family.
I still remember the pregnant silence that descended over the table arrayed with bean stew, meats, homemade tortillas and guacamole; so many conflicting emotions and thoughts roiled in my head, but I was deaf and mute, unable to communicate with my hosts. Unable, that is, until Blanca’s sister Carmen joined us.
Having lived in Thailand for three months just before the recent violence broke out, I am deeply saddened by what has transpired there these last few weeks. Every day now, I receive messages from the American Consulate warning me of government-imposed curfews and informing me of the danger of being shot or blown up in what I knew as peaceful, vibrant neighborhoods just a few months ago.
