Three Months Shy of Three Years (Re-entry revisited)

Saying “Hello” instead of “Bueno” when answering the phone came easily.  Language was never an issue in readjusting to living in the U.S. again.  English is my mother tongue.  English will always be the default mode whether speaking, praying, or answering the telephone.  Other habits are more firmly ingrained, and I’ve been amazed how many linger even after three months shy of three years living in Michigan.

For instance, this morning I found myself deliberating whether I should splurge and eat Grape Nuts for breakfast.  Too many years of savoring and hoarding treats like Grape Nuts, grits, and Laffy Taffy make me pause before freely digging into my stash – even now.  Never mind that several large stores are within walking distance of my house, and all are fully stocked with the foods we used to have to beg visiting teams to bring us.

Looking out the window at a rare but beautiful sunny morning in early March, I had to consciously remind myself that “that” kind of sun gives no warmth.  It’s merely a vague reminder that spring will eventually come again.  In contrast, my mind yearns to believe that sun equals warmth.  On the same tack, I often fail to check the weather forecast, preferring to forget how the winds shift suddenly in Michigan, bringing phenomena as surprising as Mary Poppins floating down from the sky with her umbrella.  I never see it coming.  Three months shy of three years living here, I have to admit that the sudden weather changes can be exciting, and not always dreadful.  That's improvement, right?

While I’m at it, may I boast that I finally stopped removing my seat belt as soon as I turn onto our street?  The joke’s on me on this one, because even back in Mitla my old habit is no longer necessary.  After twenty years of bouncing up a ridiculously rutted dirt road that all but ripped stitches out after my C-sections, the street is finally paved, and I no longer need to remove the seatbelt to avoid strangling myself on the journey.

In some ways, it’s a good thing I have retained my “Mexico” memories and habits.  Going back to host short-term teams in Oaxaca, the dogs barking and roosters crowing in the night don’t bother me in the slightest.  It sounds like home to me.  In fact, I love it.  I love almost all the sounds – the looms clacking at the neighbors’ houses early in the morning, the moto-taxis driving by, and the clanging of the garbage truck reminding me that it is trash day.  Even the cannon boom of fireworks announcing a birthday sounds familiar and comforting, even though a bit disconcerting to our visitors from the north.

Going back and forth between Mexico and Michigan, I'm finally able to embrace the good in both places and to not complain about the rough spots.  As I said before, I can freely move from Spanish to English and back again, forgetting things only the way I might call my own children by the wrong name.  For example, last month I asked a friend to take me to the airport in Grand Rapids, accidentally calling it “Oaxaca” (which would be a really big favor indeed!).  Going “home” from the city (Grand Rapids, that is), I frequently say “Mitla” instead of Holland.  

Still not sure how long this re-entry process might take, but to a certain extent, I suspect home will always be Mitla. At the same time it is encouraging to finally think about home and to sometimes picture Holland, no matter what I call it.  Either way, just as the warmthless sun reminds me that spring is coming, these "almost home" places remind me that I haven't arrived at my real home yet.