Turista, turista!

What is diversity anyway?
In what ways is my life shaped by the diversity of U.S. society?

During the summer of 1994, I was an idealistic, sixteen year old setting out on a journey to see the world. After years of classroom Spanish, I found myself on a plane traveling abroad to test my language skills in Costa Rica. My upbringing in the Northeast hadn’t come close to preparing me for what was in store. Raised in a predominantly white suburb of Boston, I had access to good formal educational opportunities, experience with different socioeconomic cultures via church community service projects, and a supportive family that held education as a priority. That said, my childhood was still quite sheltered and lacked a worldliness that only experience could provide me.

Upon arriving in Costa Rica, all of my “preparations” seemingly became obsolete. My five years of Spanish couldn’t keep up with even the most patient of native speakers, my experience with diverse people didn’t cover the isolation of being a blond, blue-eyed girl in a land of brown-eyed, dark haired Spanish speaking people, and I had left my supportive family behind.

The culminating moment of my trip occurred one day as I traveled to the University of Costa Rica where I was taking classes. Seated on a bus feeling bewildered, alone, and perhaps a bit frightened, I was jolted out of my thoughts by a banging on the side of my bus. At first I wondered if perhaps the bus had broken down. Only days before, the implosion of exhaust from the last gasp of an old engine had left me coughing and sputtering as noxious fumes filled the crowded bus. But the banging grew louder and more intense with each frantic strike. As I peered out the window, I saw an irate man looking directly at me and yelling “¡Turista, turista!” It was clear to me that I was not welcome in this man’s country.

Quickly turning away from the window, I wished with all of my might that the bus would pull away and leave the man behind in the busy street. I sank deeper into my seat wishing that I was not American, that I did not have blond hair, that I did not feel somehow responsible for this man’s anger, and that the other passengers did not share his resentment. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to cry out “I’m not like them!”, but instead I sank lower as the bus pulled away and I let out a sigh of incomplete relief.

Knowing I wouldn’t change my appearance nor reject my native country, I struggled to find a way to adequately cope with relating to a culture that at times appeared to resent my very existence. Costa Rica taught me that fear and misunderstanding are inherently tied to one another. While it was not possible to have a heart to heart with an angry man on the street, through time and patience, I was able to share my own diversity with those who I became close to. By taking the risks of putting myself out there, sharing my experiences, and accepting differences in those around me, eventually the intimidation and misunderstanding I felt was reduced. I can only begin to imagine what the experience must feel like for an immigrant in America.