By Alyssa Sanchez –

In the summer of 2007 I experienced something that would change my life forever. It was mid- June and there I was with a big black Nike duffle bag and a suitcase that weighed more than I did. Dad said, “You will be okay. Just walk through the doors, wait in the line and hand the lady your ticket.” I was standing outside the terminal feeling nauseated. That was the first time I jumped on a plane all by myself without my parents trucking behind me. The last thing my Dad said was, “Don’t come back until you have learned something.”

After security check, I walked through the airport all alone. I was 19 going on 20 and I was one scared little girl. I felt like this was a trip that I needed to take to find out who I really was. I sat waiting patiently for a Mexicana attendant to tell me to board the plane. Once I found my seat, I took a deep breath. I thought, “Thank you Mom for booking the window seat!” My Mom was the best, and she knew that I loved being next to the window. It was something to make me feel more comfortable without her there.

As the plane suddenly took off, I sat there listening to Selena on my iPod balling my eyes out. I did not want to leave Chicago. I knew my trip to Mexico was going to be an amazing experience but I was so scared. I didn’t know what to expect. I couldn’t help but feel upset at my parents for sending me to Guadalajara a city in the state of Jalisco, Mexico, all alone.

I didn’t know Spanish except for, “Hola. ¿Cómo estás?” And how to ask where the bathroom was, “¿Dónde está el baño?” This was one big adventure to find out who I truly was. While I sat on the plane anxiously waiting to land, I read over the instructions packet given to me by the study abroad program that I entrusted my life and money to for the next five weeks. This five-page packet told me where I was going to go and what I specifically had to do once I landed in Guadalajara.

The seat belt sign flicked off and the pilot announced, “We are now in Guadalajara.” I was so excited. I had so many nerves going through my system and I wanted to make sure I made a good impression on the other students and program director that were awaiting me in white shirts that said, “Hecho en México,” or “Made in Mexico.”

And there I was in Mexico. I made it alive all the way from Chicago with one large  duffle bag, a suitcase and all the practice of Spanish that I received from listening to Selena for the past 6 years.

“Me canta así, así, bidi bidi bom bom!”

As soon as I walked through the automatic sliding doors a beautiful Mexican woman greeted me, “Hello, my name is Martha. How was your flight?” she said.

I smiled and said, “It was good. Thank you.”

She reassured me not to be scared and that it was OK that I did not know much Spanish. It was sunny and the five other students from the United States and I piled into a big white van. I was in the far back seat sitting next to Martha.

All the other students were trying to speak their best Spanish to get to know each other. “Alyssa, why are you so quiet?” Martha asked me.

“I’m embarrassed because I do not know how to speak much Spanish and I am Mexican,” I told her.

So there I was off to the school called the Universidad de Guadalajara para Extranjeros to meet my home stay family. The school building was a bright yellow with baby blue, nothing like what I pictured it would be. I jumped out of the van and pulled my luggage out of the trunk. I was the only student standing in front of the school waiting for my home-stay family to come pick me up. As time went by my nerves grew worse. I couldn’t stand still. My fingers were tapping so fast on the suitcase handle someone would have thought I was a pianist. With every car that passed on the street my eyes lit up in anticipation.

Finally, a little white car stopped 10 feet from where I was standing. Martha walked over to greet the older woman, wearing ironed polyester pants, a blouse and chanclas.

“Alyssa this is your home-stay mother. Her name is Conchita,” Martha said.

I raised my hand slowly and made eye contact with this woman who was supposed to be my Mexican mother. I didn’t say a word. In a snap of a button my suitcase was gone and I was rushed into the car.

I sat in a crammed car filled with women I didn’t know. The only thing we had in common was that we were all Mexican. My hands were sweaty and I prayed the whole car ride that they would not ask me any questions. I imagined they felt sorry for me.

“Ay, que pobresita esta Americana. No sabe nada.”

During the car ride back to the house Conchita spoke the fastest Spanish I ever heard. She sounded like the women on the Mexican novelas. There was drama in every word even though I couldn’t understand her.

Despite the language barrier, I remember what Martha told me, “Don’t worry, in the next five weeks you will be a pro.”