Transitions

Hospitality, A Clogged Toilet, and a Dog

My family and I recently uprooted our life from Guatemala to the US. This has given me a way to think about many ideas, feelings, and time to reflect. As a result, I will be posting some scattered thoughts and reflections that come to mind for through this season of transition. These reflections are my way to stay focused on my humanity amid a disorienting time. I hope they are helpful to you as they are for me to process.

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Transitions are difficult. Moving countries after a living, creating community, and raising a family in a specific context is brutal. That is why I am so thankful for the hospitality my family and I have experienced during the first few weeks in a new country.

Two specific instances come to mind. Firstly, my father-in-law drove more than twelve hours across the country to pick us up and drive us home. Secondly, I am thankful that our first night in a new country was not in a hotel room. We were received with arms wide open by the parents of one of our really good friends. It was a welcoming environment with comfortable beds, a nourishing meal, and warm hugs.

After a good night of sleep, I went to use the toilet. As I sat down, I appreciated the neatness of the bathroom. It was so clean and nice. The towels were pristine, so white and clean that they almost sparkled in the light. The tiles, walls, and floor mats were white as well.

Photo by Jas Min on Unsplash

When I was done with my business, I proceeded to flush. As I stood there, I saw the water come up and not go down. I knew I was in trouble. The water kept coming up. It stopped just about an eighth of an inch from spilling out and making a mess of that beautiful white bathroom. My heart was racing. All I could think was: “these wonderful people received us with amazing hospitality, and I am about to destroy their beautiful bathroom.” In a moment of desperation, I grabbed the first thing I saw and stuck it inside the toilet. It was at that moment that my wife came in, and her face said it all. She yelled: “Oh No! What are you doing?” “Plunging the toilet,” I responded. “With the toilet brush?” She asked with horror. Then, I realized it. I had panicked and pushed the brush into the disgusting water. “Stop!” She said, “I will go find the plunger.”

There I was, standing up in the middle of a white bathroom, holding a toilet brush full of shit, and evaluating my life choices in a completely new country. I stood there without the possibility of running away from the problem I was in. Thankfully, the crisis was averted after using the actual plunger.

After we left the house, the first stop on our drive was at the CDC approved Kennel and Vet in Atlanta. Our dog had spent the night under observation, a vet preformed a health check up, and vaccinated him with a US rabies vaccine. At this point, I was feeling all the emotions possible. I had almost ruined our host’s bathroom, and we had been officially admitted as permanent residents after five years of waiting. For some reason, those two things were connected in my mind and heart. At last, we could take a deep breath and relax for a little while. We were together as a family, with our dog, and heading to our new home.

I felt a rush of emotions and thoughts invading my body and mind. I got the dog in the van, and I remembered a protest song from a Venezuelan band called Los Guaraguao. I could almost hear the tune of Casas de Carton (Cardboard Shacks). That song became a hymn of resistance against elitism, oppression, and inequality in Latin America during the 1960s, 70s, and 80s. It was banned in Guatemala and other Central American countries because many considered its lyrics inflammatory and subversive. One of the final verses says:

You are not going to believe

but there are dog [training] schools

that give them education.

so they don't to bite the newspapers [reporters],

but the boss

for years, many years

has been biting the worker.

These lines came to mind with daunting realization. My dog is safer than my brown indigenous daughter and myself will ever be living under the current state of things in the US. Believe it or not, it is easier for a dog to migrate than for a human being to search for a better life. Such is the irony of this world. This is a painful reminder of the different ways in which humans exclude others based on the color of their skin and social strata.

I know that I am moving, migrating, and starting in this new context from a privileged position. I married a white US citizen. We’ve had the community and support we need to make this move happen. We also faced many challenges and fell through the cracks of the system several times. Now, the task at hand is to live in a racialized body in a context that feels extremely disorienting and unwelcoming. It is like I am standing in the middle of that beautiful white bathroom, staring at the toilet, with a brush full of shit in my hand, trying to make sense of it all.