when you trade one life for another

I can’t tell you when it happened or how, but it happened through a string of events that took place over the last 26 months. Paraguay became my home. There were many phases: I was enamored with the place and the people, I hated everyone and everything, and finally I came to appreciate the country and the people for what they were, good and bad. Here I am with only 3 weeks left in country, trying to figure out how to pack up and say goodbye to what has been my life for the last two years. Even as I write this, I struggle with what to say and what to leave out because there is so much to tell, so much that has happened, so many events that have made me who I am today. I have already started packing and cleaning out my house, sorting out what things to give away to other volunteers, what to give to my family, and what to leave for my follow-up. I have few material possessions that mean a lot to me, but I am leaving behind the things that mean the most and have been vital to my survival here.
When I started my women’s commission, it was painful dragging them through the meetings and making them participate, but at my last meeting, they conducted the entire meeting and made all the decisions, including when and where my pig would be killed for my despedida. Many of those women have overinflated ideas of what I am capable of, but I appreciate their faith in me nonetheless. I can not imagine a job more fulfilling than watching their progress these last two years. I will soon be trading these commission meetings on tajy benches under my mango tree for classes at Columbia’s School of Social Work in New York City. I don’t think I can speak full sentences in English without reverting to Spanish and Guarani phrases, much less write papers at a masters level. Rather than passing around a terere guampa with señoras, I will be passing around notes and ideas with my classmates.
Upon arrival in Paraguay, I got teased because I complained about the food more than everyone and would refuse to eat the greasy tortillas and dry mandioca. Now if I eat with Paraguayans, I prefer to eat with mandioca and my family makes fun of me when we make chipa guazu because I will eat as much of it as I can get my hands on. If we make tortillas, I ask to put cheese in it because they are absolutely delicious that way. I buy chipa all the time when I’m on the bus and there are very few days that go by without me drinking mate at least once. Terere is a must. I realize I am returning to the land of coffee shops, endless peanut butter, a variety of vegetables, good hummus, pickles, and cheddar cheese, but I will never again be able to gobble down half an asadera of chipa guazu, eating until my stomach hurts. Nor will Claudia ever send me home again with more chipa that I could possibly eat in a week. Also, the idea of having the amount of choices offered in grocery stores just plain intimidates me.
I have come to love and appreciate the outdoors in a way I never knew. I rarely eat inside and want fresh air if I am indoors for more than a couple of hours. I can name all the trees in my backyard and tell you which ones are used for remedios in mate and terere and will sometimes pick plants from the street to smash up later for my terere. I love listening to the rain and the thunder and am fairly good at predicting whether it will rain or not depending on the clouds and the air. I can also usually tell you about what time it is by looking at the placement of the sun in the sky. I am leaving a tropical environment full of trees for the semi-desert of California and the skyscrapers of New York. How I have missed the ocean! But I can’t begin to put into words the aching of my heart for the red dirt and the trees and the indescribable sunrises and sunsets of this place. I wonder how I can give up my wooden house for an apartment and trade my trees for taxis.
I remember the awkward feeling I used to have sometimes just walking down the street, or sitting with people because life here was not normal yet. I don’t know if the awkwardness is still there or if I just don’t notice it anymore because people look at me as one of their own. People have told me that I am an important member of the community, someone that is like family to everyone, and a Paraguayita. While visiting my friends and families, strangers who pass by will ask if I am a daughter, a cousin, etc. because I talk and act like them. My friend Aquilina has referred to me as a granddaughter, my friend Claudia has called me her daughter, and my closest and dearest host family always tells me that I am another member of their family. Even though I live by myself, I will often spend the entire day with my family, showing up for breakfast and leaving at bedtime. I sometimes spend the night and have shared beds with all of my siblings. My sister tells me her secrets and my little brother likes to see how much he can tease me before I yell at him. How do I even begin to say goodbye to that?
It’s not that I don’t miss my family in the states and it’s not that I don’t want to see them, it’s just that I still don’t know how to leave behind this life I have built for myself and transition into another. I will live within easier access to my family, with cheaper phone calls, and better internet, but I will live across the country and a three hour time difference, the same time difference there is currently between California and Paraguay. I am not “coming home” in the way that many people think I am. I am leaving a home I have created here and am going to create another one. It’s not even truly fair to say I am trading this life in Paraguay for one in New York because I will always keep a little bit of Paraguay in my heart just like I will always have roots in Southern California where I grew up and the sun always shines. I will perhaps one day allow the New York skyscrapers to take a place in my heart next to the Californian ocean and the Paraguayan trees.