The (Ex) Host Family, or An Ode to a Failure

In my journal (Yes I have a journal. Once my Lit Theory teacher said journaling was “puerile”), is this passage written on January 29^th 2015, “I got my visa everyone this is real I’m going to Valparaíso Chile in 19 days. Then I will stay there for 147 days. Worst-case scenario there is a giant earthquake at the same time that I get kidnapped and lose all my contact lenses. Best-case scenario I find myself/figure out my whole life.”

This week I moved out of my host family home. What a phrase. Host, family, home. Before coming to Chile, the host family experience was the aspect of study-abroad I was most enthusiastic about. By far. I didn’t even know the names of any cities in Chile apart from Valparaíso and Santiago. I didn’t know what kind of government Chile had. I wasn’t sure even which countries bordered Chile. I didn’t know what classes I would be taking, when they would start, or whom I would be taking them with. I essentially came in blind. But I did know I would be staying with a host family. And for that reason, I could tranquilly float into the unknown.

It’s hard to describe now what happened, what went wrong if something went wrong, whose fault it was if it has to be someone’s fault. I feel simultaneously regretful, guilty, angry, confused, tired, and also euphorically relieved.

My host family consisted of a relatively young couple expecting a baby. Several years ago, they experienced an epiphany together that led them to revolutionize the way they lived. They chose to become vegetarian, to quit their jobs and work for themselves, to let their hair grow out.  They believe that life is beautiful and that the noblest thing a person can do in life is to endeavor to live in peace. I say “they” so much because they really seem to be of one mind on almost everything. When they speak, they almost always use “we” instead of “I.”

They believe that their house is a sacred space, that it is pervaded by energies, and that it is crucial to cultivate good energies by cleaning often, by burning incense, by removing shoes before entering. They reject drugs in all forms. They don’t drink coffee. They believe that alcohol is replete with bad vibrations, and they avoid it at all costs. It is not permitted inside the house. Nor are people who are drunk or tipsy.

They eat wholesome, healthy, fresh food, though in small quantities. They love Mapuche culture. They reuse almost everything. They hate finding hairs anywhere. You have to be really careful about hairs. They love music. They love dance. They really, really love each other.

What it came down to in the end, I think, was that the two words family and home didn’t apply to the three of us at all. And I felt like the parasite to their host. And the catalyst, interestingly, was an outbreak of parasites in my bedroom. Last week I woke up every morning with at least ten fleabites all over my arms and torso. I had brought home fleas. This is easy to do in Valparaíso, where there are thousands of street animals and everyone rides the same micros, but I brought them all the same. In fact, I had been convinced for a couple of days that they were bed bugs, which in the United States is equivalent in urgency with small pox. The week before, I had had a sinus infection, which had been festering for more than two weeks. There I was, sleeping in their house, eating their food, bringing in all sorts of plagues. With the baby coming, I told myself, it would be better to remove myself from their lives, to stop causing harm. It would be better to live without worrying constantly that I’m doing something wrong, even if it’s something I can’t control.

I told my program director, who asked them to come to his office, it was urgent, to tell them. It’s program policy that the program director informs families when the student decides to move. I hate this policy. They were shocked. They felt blindsided. When we discussed my decision after they returned from the meeting, they told me that they would continue to feed me as usual until the end of the week, and after that, they would never speak to me again. I tried to ask “And if we run into each other on the street?” But I accidentally used the verb chocar, which is pretty literal. “And if we crash on the street?” The answer is still no. We will not speak.

This whole thing has caused a shift in me that I’m still trying to identify. Why did I feel like a parasite? That’s a significant mental route that does warrant reflection. Granted, the three of us rarely spoke when we weren’t eating a meal together, which happened once a day at most toward the end. I had never sat on our couch. We had never shared a belly-laugh. Sometimes we didn't even look at each other. And now seeing how another host family functions (I’m staying for a few days at Jennie’s house), I feel so much better. But I really failed. I failed at the host family. There are people in the world now who don't ever want to speak to me again. When I decided to move, I hurt people, caused a lot of stress, burned bridges, or bridges were consequently burned really. All for the sake of no longer feeling like a burden. But I can't imagine not doing it now. I know this is better. I felt really uncomfortable and now I feel less uncomfortable. There's a lot there, I don't know. A lot to think about.