It was THE SIXTIES. I was 21. Who decided I was an adult at 21? I certainly didn’t feel of age inside. I felt unready for the world. I should, I thought, be doing something activist about Civil Rights. I should march or protest or demonstrate. Shouldn’t I? Perhaps, but—first I should go to Spain. I had been awarded a Danforth Fellowship—money for graduate education, an investment in my future as a teacher of Spanish. I needed more than classroom Spanish. I should be with people who spoke real Spanish, like it was their first language. I found two families—one in Madrid and one in Santander—willing to house a college graduate at reasonable rates over six weeks in the summer. I stuffed a huge suitcase with my whole wardrobe—or at least everything my mother told me would make me both “presentable,” her favorite word, and sexy, my favorite word. Who knew what I’d need? Who I’d meet? Off I went—terrified.
In one way I was escaping into the world of cultural expansion that my scholarship demanded, and in another way I was pursuing something else. What?
Chapter XXI. Job
On the long flight I read a little, stared out the tiny window, ate my snacks, and slept—sort of. When nervous I often would try to think of a biblical character who felt like I did. How did they fare? What mattered most? What did God want?
The ancient tale of Job popped in and out of my mental musings. Annoyed, I tried to push Job away. I wanted something soothing, and sweet, and loaded with certainty. Job, plagued by loss, illness and trauma, ceaselessly badgered God, and all his friends and family, about his righteousness rights. He’d been good, so did he not deserve a life free of suffering? Didn’t God, being divine and all, have a duty to explain divine policy? Job’s wife suggested he curse God and die—not such a bad option, I thought. All Job’s friends and experts of the day offered justifications for traditional righteousness theology: Job must have done something bad to deserve his suffering. But Job would have none of it.
All this was very far from my own experience—but not far from my emotional state. I’d been faithful and tried to follow the traditional and expected ways of my day, yet I felt torn. I had no great sufferings like Job, but like Job, I wanted God to show me the absolute right way. Honestly, it felt again like wanting my birthday party and wanting Carol Lee to be there—both. I could not have both. Both mattered equally.
I mentally marked all the details of Job’s protest, so I could return to them. But right now the plane was preparing to land. They announced the time. It was early morning. I set my watch. I rehearsed in my mind how I would, in flawless Spanish, ask directions for a taxi to take me to my Madrid address.
I closed my eyes and suddenly laughed inside: God did listen to Job’s kvetching, did not solve Job’s moral dilemma, but did show up to parade Job all through the Creation—a huge panorama of wonders, all living things, even a leviathan. I didn’t know what that was, but it was big.
A grand vision like that satisfies religious types—like me and Job. Apparently Job himself mattered more to God than all Job’s woes.
Donde está la linea de pasajeros por . . . Right this way, Miss.
Chapter XXII Qué hay?
What’s up? That was my favorite expression in colloquial Spanish. What’s up? It covered a multitude of not-knowing-what-to-say moments, such as an invitation from a married man to join him in bed. Qué hay? I said, feigning ignorance. I added in broken Spanish that in las USA we did not do such things—a giant falsehood and myself a prude, but it worked. The man receded.
In Spain I encountered ‘those Catholics’ on steroids. Everyone was named some version of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, or all three. I spent more time kneeling on unpadded wooden kneelers than I wished. I learned traditional prayers in Spanish.
In Madrid, my host home wasn’t ready for me when I arrived so I stayed at a daughter’s house. Her overweight husband sweated profusely hauling my huge suitcase up two flights of stairs in their apartment. I felt uncomfortably American. I made it to my host home in a couple of days where the Señora welcomed me with abrazos. There I encountered a Smithie, another daughter in the family who adopted me, and a son named Paco, a nickname for Francisco, who dragged me to a bull fight.
Madrid is a beautiful city. Like most European cities it has large plazas where people gather for chats and drinks. In las USA we squish every ounce of concrete sidewalk together—no public space for social time. I learned to order cerveza (beer) and Cuba libre (rum and coke).
In Madrid, I gained weight. I didn’t realize that the main meal, which was as late as 10 p.m., consisted of three courses. The chicas or chachas (young girl maid-servants) kept removing plates from each place at the table, and moving other plates in, salad last. I loved it all and ate it all. When I went home I was almost the size of my bloated suitcase. I had, as my mother instructed, bought a mantilla in case I got married, and planned a strict diet.
In Santander (a town in northern Spain, and now the name of my bank), the Señora (there was no Señor) clapped loudly to summon everyone to the table for prayers. I learned to pray to Mary which felt strangely liberating. She was taking on flesh. I still say the Hail Mary every day in Spanish in my own prayers. God wasn’t constrained by gender, or at least, the spiritual energy generated for Mary was as much or more than the energy generated for the He-God.
I fell in love with a young man named Pépe, a nickname for José. He wanted me to stay. I thought my Spanish wasn’t good enough—a lie to protect my self-uncertainty. I cried all the way home on the plane.
In Spain I grew. There in this Catholic country I felt the immense capacity of God to imbue every wooden pew, every precious prayer, with I didn’t know what. But I was pretty sure that God did not create a one-size-fits-all universe. Who was I to decide that someone didn’t fit, including myself? My image of God stretched beyond race, gender, and nationality.
While I was in Spain my mother wrote me letters about what a nice boy Bill Brakeman was. She took him out to lunch. She was plotting my future. It was impossibly controlling, but I was leaning this way myself. I wanted the kind of intimacy that only a family of one’s own can give. Besides, Bill Brakeman was an Episcopalian and my type, and Job, in the end, got a new wife and kids.
When I came home my mother asked me what Spaniards were like. I thought for a minute and said: "People are people, Mom, the same the world over." It was a bit naive but nonetheless true.
Sunday, August 2, 2020
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