Imigrantes

I’ve done a lot of crazy things in this lifetime. But moving to a new country might be up there in the top five. Especially a country where I do not yet speak the language.

Well, yes, of course. I’ve studied Portuguese ever since we decided to look for a home in Portugal. Despite my dedication to DuoLingo – Brazilian Portuguese, I know - some private lessons and an abundance of YouTube tutorials, I essentially arrived with a tourist’s vocabulary.

My “obrigada” (thank you) is stellar. I over-use it to the maximum. “Pelo por tua ajuda” is another one (thank you for your help). Because I encounter over and over extremely kind and generous Portuguese people who go above and beyond to help me.

Yet, this week has challenged me.

Or, as I teach my students – it has challenged my mind.

Jill is a pretty okay lady. I like her.

Jill’s mind? She’s a bit of a beastie.

What trips me up most often is not something most people would deem negative or bad. I don’t get angry, typically. I react calmly in most situations and I have learned to manage my God-given talent at worrying. I don’t really doubt myself, even in major life-changing decisions. I appreciate my mind, and all that she does on my behalf.

But, oh, do I people-please. Me and my mind seem to care about what other people think. I don’t like anyone to disapprove of what I am doing.

Sigh

In astrology speak, I have the tendencies and characteristics of a Libran. Makes sense because I am a Libra Rising, with Mars in Libra in the First House. I lean towards balance. Justice. Fairness. Sociability. I’m a connector. A great lover of peace, love and calmness. Beautiful things and harmonious living.

And more often than not, I feel very much like a Labrador Retriever. Wagging my tail ferociously; Like me! Like me! Like me!

Even that trait has calmed considerably, mostly from suffering dire consequences of the deployment of that attitude. I’ve realized over time, that I’m not everyone’s flavor or cup-of-tea.

Not everyone is going to like me.

And yet, here I am. A Stranger in a Strange Land; and I want my new Country, and it’s people, to like me.

We settled in a small village in Northern Portugal; we didn’t want to be too rural, nor too citified. We struck what we thought was a lovely balance between the two, and I still don’t have regrets about the house that we purchased.

That could possibly change if I actually totaled up what we’ve spent on the place to make it water-tight and habitable.

But, yeah. Currently, no regrets.

Yet this week, my mind has been challenged.

First challenge occurred at one of the many little local grocery stores. One of the things I love about this area is tiny stores everywhere, versus one giant box miles away. You can see people walking to them. Here customers tend to go a purchase just a few things to get through the day. There isn’t this shrine to consumption like a Whole Foods or even a Kroger. These stores have fresh fruit, vegetables and freshly baked bread. Not just basics, and more than essentials.

I was there to return a wine jug, because here, if things are not recycled, they are often reused. Like the bottle return system of old in the US that is still used by only a few progressive states.

I set it on the check-out counter and went on to gather my few essentials. As I returned to the line, the young woman at the check-out asked the young man near the door (in Portuguese) who had brought the returned wine jug.

“As velhas” he said curtly, and a ripple went through the three of us waiting in line. The first woman was quite elderly, the one next to me probably in her 30’s and then me, late 50’s.

He had said “the Old One.”

I’m sure he didn’t think I knew what he said, but as I stood there smiling, my heart sank a little. Really? Do I look that old? I know that everyone else colors their hair here, but seriously? Isn’t that kind of rude? Especially in Portugal? A country that seems to honor and respect its elders? Isn’t this a more civilized place than the society I came from?

It was an “imigrantes” moment. A moment I know that so many people experience in the United States (and elsewhere, of course).

In the US I have seen horrible people who tell people to speak English, insecure people who feel threatened by people who don’t look or sound like them.

I honestly didn’t take it that personally; this person clearly wasn’t in a good mood, and no one reinforced his minor slight.

Still, this moment occupied a lot of space in my mind. A shocking amount of space.

It was hard for the part of me that thinks “Like me, like me!”

Next up for my humbling week, a neighbor observed me taking a garbage bag up of trash from the cleaned-out chicken coop to the trash bin. It was in a wheelbarrow, because it was super heavy and the hill is quite steep.

I can’t tell you exactly what she said, but clearly, I wasn’t to put old wood or construction debris in that bin. There are other bins for that. I was happy to know and that is somewhat easy to fix, but again. That “Like me” part of my mind felt sad and misunderstood.

I apologized, put the bag in the trunk of my car, and tried not to argue about the fact that over the Summer the two houses being repaired up the block put their construction debris in the bin all the way to the top. Not even in bags.

And finally. In between waves of rain, I wandered up to the fence line to try to relocate a rosebush. This rose was (formerly) 8 feet high and just as wide before it was massacred by our yard guy in a quest to clean things up. I am pulling at its remains; ever hopeful that it can be re-established closer to the house.

Another “vizinha” (neighbor) exchanges the afternoon pleasantries of “boa tarde” and “tudo bem.” And then, she starts in rapid-fire Portugues, pointing at the building we have repurposed as a chicken coop and telling me that it’s a refrigerator, too cold to have the chickens in there.

I, sadly did not have the Portuguese skills to explain that I wasn’t a chicken rookie. That they were in a smaller space lined with straw and wood chips and seemed cozy enough since none of them are too young. That we were good chicken parents! That we knew what we were doing!

But again; my heart sank a little bit, as I felt like I was being judged. Not accepted, not undestood and only told what I had done wrong.

It brings back feelings from childhood. Feelings of rejection. The experience of being surveilled or observed in a way that I don’t want.

It agitates Jill’s mind. It makes Jill’s mind want to build a very tall fence!

But as far as actual Jill; well, it’s good that I remember.

Because Jill herself remembers all the times that others criticized or judged or didn’t like me.

I remember building gardens in places that people said food wouldn’t grow. I remember starting businesses that others thought would fail. I remember making so very many decisions that were mocked, derided or misunderstood.

And I have to remind my mind. It’s okay to do things MY way. There are consequences for standing out and standing up.

Not everyone is going to like it.

Maybe the lesson is, I need to learn to be more brave.

Shanti,

Jill