My Evil Spanish Mom
As I packed my suitcases with as much stuff as I could fit, an overwhelming feeling filled my soul. I was nervous to meet my Spanish housemother, someone who I would spend an entire month with. Questions ran through my head. What will she be like? Will she speak English or only Spanish? Will she be nice? As these thoughts came racing in, I was filled with doubt and concern that we wouldn’t get along.
My parents and I drove to the airport in Los Angeles where I was forced by the flight to say goodbye to them. I hugged my mom and, as tears filled her face, she said to me, “Be good, be strong, but most importantly have fun.”
I found my seat on the plane, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The plane took off and it was then I realized that I wouldn’t be back for two months. A day later I landed in Barcelona. I enjoyed wandering about the city for a few days. I then boarded a train to Valencia and the dread of meeting my housemother crept back.
My Spanish housemother waited for me and my roommate at the taxi stop and I immediately knew this wasn’t going to work. Her appearance was rough. Her eyes were level with mine but she stood as if she were above me. Her skin looked like dry grain leather. There was no hint of hospitality in the edges of her face. Words flew off her tongue at a speed that was impossible for me to understand. Before I knew it, she had grabbed my arm to usher me into her house. My heart sank.
My Spanish language skill was almost little to none, but I told myself to give it a few days. She possessed a strong, intense demeanor; her voice sounded as if she were constantly upset about something. As my roommate and I unpacked, she demanded several times for us to be quiet even though we were whispering.
I kept feeling like I was in her way. She never made me feel at home or how a mom should treat her daughter. I wasn’t welcome to sit in the living room to work on homework. I was not asked what foods I like and don’t like to eat. A few days had passed and the overwhelming feeling had not gone away.
Every moment I walked through the door she would be spitting words out her mouth that I could not understand but her tone of voice was very belittling. She would claim we talk too much and needed to be quiet. She squawked at me for things I didn’t even do like leaving a light on.
I was at my breaking point. I was with friends in a local coffee shop with beet red eyes, a puffy face and the shakes. I was having a panic attack. I didn’t know what to do.
I realized I had to leave. The culture clash became to much to bear. Her bitchy attitude was no longer acceptable in my life. And the language barrier was too much.
I was able to reach my professors and they found a new home with a more pleasant housemother.
Later on, I went with a friend to pack up my bags and make my move into a new house. As I left I accidentally slammed the door behind me, or did I?
