Squares & bubbles

During my time here in Nicaragua, I’ve begun thinking back to my year in kindergarten, where at the ages of four and five I learned to sit crisscrossed, hands to myself and folded on my lap, in my square during reading time. And where every other child around me did the exact same. Where I didn’t touch anyone, and no one dared touch me. Somehow this, as an example of the first time I clearly remember being taught that respecting others meant keeping hands and feet to oneself, has been a concept I’ve carried throughout my life. Somehow this provided me and every other person in our society with a bubble of personal space. An invisible but clearly present bubble. A bubble that other people can’t see, but somehow know is there. And most importantly, we all know you can’t just step into someone’s bubble. It’s one of my favorite unspoken rules of the culture I grew up in.

Here in Nicaragua though, that personal space doesn’t exist, at least not in the context that I learned. There are no squares and there are no bubbles to shield me. And over the course of several months there are some things I haven’t been able to get used to hearing, seeing, or feeling. They’re the little things that pull me away from whatever headspace I was in and make me realize that I am somewhere very culturally different than where I call home. Not only is it physical invasions of personal space that catch me off-guard, often it’s prying questions that knock me off-balance as well.

Below are only a few questions and statements that are so common, you’d think every Nica is given a pamphlet titled, “Appropriate Topics to Discuss With Extranjeros Within The First Minutes of Meeting Them,” at birth. I’m not kidding. This is basically a line-by-line transcript of every conversation I’ve had after meeting almost every Host Country National I’ve met up until now.

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“Y dejó a alguien allá?” // “So did you leave anyone back home?”

“Ni un novio?” // “Not even a boyfriend?”

“No tiene hijos?” // “Do you have any kids?”

“No dejó hijos allá?” // “You didn’t leave any children back in the states?”

“Pero a de haber un pretendido esperando? // “But I’m sure someone’s waiting for you?’’

“Ah, entonces aquí se casa!” // “You’ll marry here then, surely!”

“Ya verá. La va enamorar un Nica.” // “You’ll see. A Nica will make you fall in love.”

“Ya no se va de Nicaragua!” // “You won’t be leaving Nicaragua!” [Because someone will, no doubt, enamor you and the life you dreamed of in the states will no longer matter. Because Nicaraguan men are the best, you’ll see. #cringe]

“Y es Evangélica?” // “So you’re Christian, right?”

“Y es Católica?” // “So you’re Catholic, right?”

“Y ese Donal Trum, verdad?” // “Donald Trump, huh?”

“No quiere a los Mexicanos, verdad?” // “He doesn’t like Mexicans, does he?”

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For a young adult that was born in a country where politics, religion, and personal life aren’t discussed right after meeting someone, these questions leave me unsettled. Sometimes even upset. Not only is it mentally straining to have to answer the exact same string of questions time after time, but also the content of the questions are slightly upsetting. Should I have a boyfriend? Am I less of a woman in the eyes of Nicas for not having a boyfriend? The interrogators often seem shocked (as if somehow I seem like someone that could and should definitely be married). Worst of all is the ever so slight change in tone some men have after learning you’re not engaged to anyone (an uninvited flirtation now that they know I’m not claimed).

There are days when I can handle answering these questions. There are others when I choose not to engage with strangers unless I absolutely must. Because it’s not like they just ask one question, as soon as they find out that no, I do not in fact have a boyfriend, the slew of why not’s and “a Nicaraguan will definitely make you fall in love” are unleashed. Why isn’t it perfectly okay for me to just focus on my work, and not want to pursue a romantic relationship with any Nica?

It may seem normal for me to not talk to anyone I don’t want to, or don’t feel comfortable engaging in a conversation with, but in choosing to do so I’m more or less, detaching myself from a norm in Nicaraguan culture where anyone can freely spark up a conversation about pretty much anything with pretty much anyone—on the street, on the bus, in a shop, anywhere.

Questions and statements are only one way that Nicaraguans constantly burst my bubble. Those lessons I learned in kindergarten really stuck with me. Personal contact or being touched by strangers is simply something I am not used to or ok with. Here though, it sometimes feels unavoidable. People often stand or sit too close to me, whether it’s at markets, bus stops, or on buses. I’ve had people practically sit on part of my thigh as they took a seat next to me. I’ve also had a woman place her grown child on my lap as she exited a microbus. And as a basic reflex, I proceeded to push said child off of me. I instinctively scoot closer to the window whenever someone gets a little too comfortable on the seat next to me. And when an older guy rested his arm on my thigh as he fell asleep, I squirmed in my seat in an attempt to wake him or simply get his arm off of me.

I don’t think I’ve thought back to my study abroad experience in Scotland as much as I have in the past four, or so, months. I think about all of the orderly queues people formed. Of all of the orderly queues I stood in with friends. Of the first time my flatmates explained the importance of queues to the very fabric of British life. And of all the crap people gave America and Americans for failing to queue properly. There are no queues here. It’s almost like an unspoken rule that in order to get a seat on a bus, you’ll have to fight your way through a mob of women, men, and children—all pushing and shoving to secure a seat.

Last, but not least, are the school children. As kind and sweet I tell myself that kids can be, sometimes I struggle with how close they can get. There have been times where I wondered to myself if others could notice the internal discomfort I felt whenever a kid wrapped their arms around me. I’ve wondered if I looked uneasy when girls played with my hair. I’ve wondered if I looked afraid of all the germs, bacteria, and viruses they could’ve potentially been spreading whenever they touched me. And I’ve wondered if I looked weary when girls took my cardigan and backpack from me (in an attempt to help me carry them) and one put on my cardigan and another struggled with my heavy pack. I wasn’t used to being around kids, and though I sometimes feel like I can handle teaching 15 or 25 of them at a time, when they begin to enter my bubble I question how much more I can handle.

I’ve found myself drawing imaginary squares around kids and hoping they wouldn’t cross outside of the lines I’ve envisioned them in. So far that’s not worked too well.

With time and repeated exposure though, I’m slowly learning to let go of the squares, and let go of my bubble.

Easier said than done.

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A look into the small moments I've been able to capture in the past month or two: