I’m in Bogota, Colombia this week. As I struggle to learn words in Spanish, my latest Writing Mindfully for Transformation online workshop has just begun, and the workshop participants are bravely finding words to tell their life stories. As the weeks go by, they will begin to discover how the expression of words holds the power to make order from chaos, to decrease their feelings of isolation, and to help them connect with other people. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the past few days embodying the vulnerability that comes with not being able to find words in a country in which I barely speak the language.
Several days ago, I took a cab with my girlfriend to a central location. She went her way for a meeting at the US embassy, while I went to the neighborhood coffee shop in Parque 93. As I was walking toward the famous Colombian Juan Valdez coffee shop, I realized that I didn’t know how to ask for the cup of hot green tea that I wanted. Searching through the somewhat short list of words and phrases that I know, I recalled that I do know how to ask for a bottle of sparkling water–agua con gas. A cold bottle of water wasn’t what I wanted on a chilly morning in an open-air café, but at least it was something. How odd that what I order in a coffee shop is dependent upon my knowledge of language.
After the coffee shop visit, I ventured back into the street to hail a cab, even though one of my Colombian friends, Jimena, had warned me that a Gringo taking a cab alone was risky in this city and that I should hire a driver. While walking and trying to spot an empty cab, a motorcycle drove past me, looked my way, made a quick u-turn, and came back around to park just in front of me by where I was walking. I had read about thieves on motorcycles kidnapping and robbing tourists, but there are so many motorcycles in this city, many of who upon closer inspection turn out to be Policia, that I had gotten over my uneasiness about motorcycles during my last trip to Bogota in February.
The guy got off of his bike and walked quickly toward me. I felt my breath catch in terror, convinced for a second that he would grab me. I realized that I didn’t remember the words that a Colombian woman taught me in February for “leave me alone!” Was it “No molesta?” I couldn’t remember. I didn’t even know the word for “Help!” and it suddenly seemed important. Again, the power of words struck me here. In an instant, the busy street and sidewalk full of people disappeared in my perception, and all that existed was this motorcyclist and I. His arm brushed mine as he carelessly passed by and walked to the fruit juice stand beside me. I exhaled heavily, realizing that I’d been holding my breath.
| Many of the cab drivers have either a rosary or mochilla hanging from the mirror and sometimes religious figurines or the shoes of their children or grandchildren on the dash |
I hailed a cab and tried to confidently state my girlfriend’s address, pretending to speak fluent Spanish, careful to add “por favor” at the end, as though speaking confidently gave me some added measure of safety. Because I know greetings well, and because my pronunciation is good, people assume that I speak Spanish well. So after a greeting, if I’m feeling vulnerable, such as riding in a taxi, I pretend to be preoccupied, writing in my little book or something. If the driver continues the conversation anyway, I look at them perplexed, still trying to look confident while fully embodying my vulnerability internally, and say, “No hablo Espanol,” after which I am always met with, “No hablas Espanol?” laughter, and a look that implies that I must be crazy to be wandering around this city alone if I can’t speak Spanish.
I suppose I said “sesenta y seis” instead of “sententa y seis,” because I ended up at Calle 66 instead of 76. I wrote “76” and showed it to the driver, to which he muttered something in response and seemed quite frustrated. “Perdon,” I said. “No hablo Espanol.” He laughed and said, “Tranquilla. Tranquilla.” As the cab driver approached the apartment building, he asked “Left, or right?” and I pointed left (I’ve become quite skilled at pointing and grunting lately). He drove fast, nearly past the building, and I muttered, “Aca! Aca!” which I believe means “here,” but I’m not sure. For all I know, I may have called him an asshole. Once at 76, I said, “Gracias, Buenos tardes” to the cab driver, I entered the apartment building, said, “Buenos tardes” and “Gracias” to the guards for opening the door for me, took the elevator to the 7th floor, unlocked the door, closed it behind me, and let out a heavy sigh.
Another successful day of navigating my way through this Spanish-speaking city of eight million people in spite of barely speaking the language.
When and how do you find the power of words? When do you experience vulnerability with the power of words? Try using your mindful journaling practice to write about it!
2 replies on “The Power of Words”
Awesome!!!!!!! I would love for you to share your adventures with my students who are learning Spanish and how important it is to learn and why
I'd love to share my adventures with your students! Skype me into your class!