A painful reality of living abroad

Someone I really care about was in trouble a couple of weeks ago. I won't recount the story here. It's not my story to tell. But the repercussion of his actions back home shook me to the core here in Peru.

It started with the bone-chilling e-mail. The one that says "Something bad has happened. Call me as soon as you can." That causes your heart to stop beating and your breath to catch in your throat as you frantically run through the list of the possible catastrophes. Only when you do make the call, you discover that it wasn't anything you had imagined.

At first, it might feel like you've been slapped: a fresh, but dull pain. It's distant, after all. Far away from your immediate vision. After a while, the news sinks in, and it grows to a light burn: painful only when touched. So you try to keep busy, keeping in contact with friends from home when you can. A little time passes, and you might even think that the worst has passed. It sucks, you tell yourself, but it's bearable.

It's only when you're in the middle of a light conversation — recounting the day's events with your host uncle — that you start to cry suddenly and uncontrollably, shaking and left without the vocabulary to explain.

But you're stuck. You know you can't just fall into a tear-soaked heap without giving some explanation. So you offer something vague.

"I've just had a really bad week," you say.

His concerned eyes flash briefly with skepticism.

"What happened?" he asks.

And then it all tumbles out. In between heaves you explain as best you can what happened. You try to gloss over the details while desperately searching for a tissue, a napkin — anything to save you from your blotchy face and snotty nose.

You know you aren't making much sense. You can't tell if you're even speaking Spanish anymore. And you don't really care. You just keep going until, all at once, you're out of words.

He looks at you and just says "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

We're family, he continues, obviously offended. When you don't let us in on your pain, it makes me feel like you don't love us, like you don't trust us.

No, no, you explain. It's just that in my culture, we deal with hard times differently. Sometimes, we share the pain with only those who are most affected by the situation. You don't know my friend. It's not your burden to bear.

It's not meant to offend, you say. It's just a different way of dealing with things.

He doesn't pause. Still very much offended and with a wave of his hand, he dismisses your explanation.

But you're not in your culture now, he tells you. You're in Peru.

At first you're struck into silence.

You think "No, that's not ok. I'm American. American — not Peruvian. I will never be Peruvian. And who are you to tell me how to deal with life?"

You want to tell him how 4 months cannot change 23 years. How the only thing you want to do is run and hide in your room. To silently allow the guilt and pain and overwhelming desire to be home, with your friend, shake every cell in your body. Because you know that actions speak so much louder than words, but words, at this distance, are all you have.

Instead, you reiterate your previous speech (adding a small part about our individualistic nature), apologize for any offense taken, and half-hazardly promise to keep them all informed in the future.

It was at this moment when I felt the fragility of everything I've worked for so far in Peru.

I thought I was doing so well. I'm busy with work, doing something I believe in, and where people believe in me. I'm getting along well with my host family. I'm not nearly as sick as I started out to be. I've been here 4 months! I boasted proudly — not expecting the alternate reality to strike so deeply:

I've been here 4 months.

Not nearly enough time to build the kind of confidence and trust that allows me to weep in front of someone without hesitation. Nor is it sufficient to bear my soul to a gathering crowd.

I am an American, I say to myself. My home, my family, friends — who I am — is in the U.S.

I'm just a visitor here. And I always will be.