According to the laws of the United States, I am currently years beyond being a legal adult. However, I have yet to be required to think about all adult things. I am still a child, who becomes more responsible and knowledgeable every day. I am not an adult because, at times, I fail to understand the some of the realities of the world in which I live. I’ve been hidden, protected from the horror and pain in the world that surrounds me. It’s as if my parents covered my eyes so I didn’t see the “gore” of a movie, and muffled my ears when inappropriate words were being said. I understand I am very fortunate to have grown up in the capacity I did, with the parents and resources I was given. I am fortunate to have the opportunity to attend college and to be here, in Spain. These four months were meant to be an adventure, a learning experience.

            Tonight, in midst a heart to heart with my se�ora, I am reminded of why I ventured into the world of the Spanish language. It was not for my resume, or for the likes of anyone else. Instead, and more simply really, it was my desire to learn; my desire to learn about the lives and cultures of others. With the knowledge of another language comes a whole new population of people who can reveal to me their stories.

As I intently listen to my se�ora speak of her families struggles, I can’t help but wish I were able to understand every word. I wished I could tape our conversation and replay it every time I needed to be reminded of parts of the world that have been hidden behind a curtain for me, in a play that no one wishes were true.

It seems to me that my greatest adventures and most meaningful conversations have been without plan. They are not something for which time can be blocked off, and they are not something that can be marked down in your calendar. Instead, they are like a present lost underneath the Christmas tree, not opened until days have passed. Though I opened one of these late Christmas presents last night, an experience I wasn’t planning for has joined the household.

For the next week two girls from Belgium have joined us. My first encounter with them was interesting, to say the least. After having been told the arriving girls were from Germany, not Belgium, you can understand their confusion when I asked them in what part of Germany they lived. After moving beyond my inadequate previous knowledge, we communicated with one another in broken Spanish. However, it seemed that every time I asked a question, and they followed with a response, they would begin speaking with one another, in a language of which I have no knowledge.

Just as I was beginning to feel slightly comfortable in the place I must call home for three more months, this happens. I become an outsider by two new girls at what is supposed to be considered my “home”. When traveling to another country, such as France, I expect to be clueless. But in a country I have now lived in for over a month, and am finally beginning to understand more of, I didn’t expect to have another language thrown at me on a Monday night. In that moment I become an outsider, an outsider in the only place in Spain that has grown familiar. Even my pre-assigned seat at the table had been replaced, causing me to rethink where I belonged.

            I have been replaced by the novelty of something new. Tonight, after returning from class, I unlocked the door to the apartment and turned to my se�ora, cooking in the kitchen, and happily said, “Hola!” After no response I turned to the other members standing by the kitchen table. My se�or was standing five feet away, talking with the “new” girl and they didn’t so much as acknowledge my presence. So I swallowed my pride and silently walked toward my room, softly shutting the door behind me. At home I am the favorite, and as my older brothers remind me, only, daughter of my parents. Yesterday, in my new household, I was an only child and in moments I became one of three. I was the only one of three that was familiar, the other two being new and exciting members of this seemingly ever-growing family.

            At dinner tonight I was no less of an outsider. After the “only Spanish spoken in the house” rule my se�ora established at the end of last night’s meal, the only change as the volume of their voices speaking the foreign language. Tonight their words are whispers, in hushed tones as if they were hiding, hiding from the ears of my se�ora.

            This situation is unlike that with your own children, with whom parents love equally, just not always at the same time, as I have been told. Instead, there can be favorites. It seems this is something I must become accustomed to, as another student will be filling the Belgium girls’ room the day after their departure. It seems as if I am continuously changing from being an only child to one of many, which seems to change any routine of which I have become accustomed.

Location: Sevilla, Spain