“I tried dick for the first time last weekend” and other things I’ve said to my fiance’s mom.

While visiting Chillán a few weekends ago I tried the fruit, membrillo for the first time. It’s like a pear, except sour and harder. They told me either you love it or you hate it, but I simply liked it. We brought back a gift for my suegra (an inclusive term that is used for both one’s mother-in-law and one’s boyfriend’s mom) and we had dinner with her the next week.

At the dinner table, I got my vowels mixed up and I announced proudly, “I tried miembro [dick] for the first time last weekend!” Silence. I realized my error. “Did I say the wrong one?”  I knew they were similar and that I had to be wary, so I gave it thought beforehand and yet my brain decided that miembro was the non-dick option. Nope. Absolutely wrong. We moved on with dinner.

During the same dinner, my suegra was describing a show where cameramen follow people driving who previously had their licenses revoked because of DUIs. During the week, I had done a writing exercise about a Supreme Court decision and I tried using one of my new vocabulary words, fallo, to describe the court rulings on the drunk drivers. Even though I know the double “ll” sound, I had only read the word before and it came out with only one “l.” I said falos, as in, “but do the police know about their falos [penises]?”

My poor suegra looked bewildered, it was not at all obvious what I wanted to say, and later I apologized. She’s probably used to me saying totally inappropriate things by now, but it’s still rude dinner conversation. Not my best night.

This probably wouldn’t even be a problem if I had more conversations about the male anatomy, although the chances of me learning even half of the words Chileans use for it while we’re here seems pretty slim.

This episode has been added to the “My Cat Doesn’t Shit” post, among me announcing an non-existent pregnancy and buying bread from the dildos. I’m sure I’ve said even weirder things, but most Chileans are too polite to mention it.

Erica and her Naïveté

“Do you have any idea why Chilean people would think every gringa is named, ‘Erica?’ Like is there some cultural thing where they think ‘Erica’ is the most popular name for white women or something?”

He laughs, “No, why?”

“Well people on the street sometimes yell that at me, and I’m not sure why. At first I thought they might be referring to the city, ‘Arica’ but that doesn’t make sense, either. The emphasis is different and why would they yell about Arica? It’s not like the people are whiter or blonder there. Does “ayyreeca” mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, it does. Oye…rica.” [hey sexy]

“Ohhhhhhh. Oh. Well. Now I feel dumb for not realizing that.”

“Who yells that at you?”

“Collectivo drivers waiting for customers.”

Ya cállense weones. 

Wittgensteinian Droplets

The limits of my language are the limits of my world.

When I moved to Chile my world expanded rapidly, but ironically, I only had the tiniest of pinholes to observe it through. My understanding of this vast new world was largely limited to what could be observed visually, or what I asked my partner.

New information was hard-won, with patience and determination, dripping slowly drop by drop through the pinhole of my language.

With each word and interaction, I can puncture a few more holes in that dark rock of isolating confusion. Sometimes large pieces crumble away with sudden, clear understanding flowing through. Sometimes it takes redundant force in the same spot, the same word repeated over again – it’s a thick barrier, but not impenetrable.

The drops are growing into a small, steady stream, and now that I can chew and swallow on my own, I’ve become even hungrier (because having Carlos chew all my food, as much as he was willing to, still felt like an imposition). It was like living in the dry Atacama desert, digging forever for the fuente, and relying on Carlos to bring me every single glass of water. [Survival metaphors don’t feel hyperbolic… For the first month I was almost entirely dependent on my partner for acquiring basic necessities and it’s amazing how social interactions can start to taste like “daily bread” when they are limited in quantity and quality.]

And now, as water bubbles up and the wet world begins to bloom before me, it’s exhilarating. The voracious desire I felt the first time I learned to read, the insatiable force that drove my childhood deep into books, has returned roaring. I seek out as many conversations with Chileans as I can. I’m clawing at that pinhole, dreaming of rivers.