I sat in silence as the plane landed in Beijing, ultimately
aware that in a few moments, I’d be leaving the tarmac and seeing more ethnic
diversity than I had in nearly a year. Still, this knowledge wouldn’t prepare
me for the noise. As the familiar voices sputtering Mongolian drifted away from
each other, they were replaced by a cacophony of unintelligible noise. I zeroed
in on the high-frequency Chinese spoken by the workers directing passengers
through immigration, that is, until I heard English. I tried to keep from
staring as people who looked more or less like me were speaking a language I
could not ignore, masked in accents from England, Australia, somewhere Slavic.
It suddenly became a game to detect where these people had originated from. To
guess why they were here on this train heading towards baggage claim in the
Beijing airport.
Since last June, the only foreigners I had encountered were
expats roaming the capital or other fellow PCV’s. I stopped looking for them. I
forgot that when you are surrounded by people who look like you, no one notices
you. However, after my tour in the Beijing airport, I was back in the United
States, and I was invisible.
I arrived in Houston at nearly midnight and jogged to
baggage claim, fighting the urge to read every English sign I passed. The
previously abandoned carousel was soon after flooded with people. Everyone was
meeting someone. Though it was nearly midnight, I was giddy. Then I saw my mom
and brother from across the hall. In cinema-esque slow motion, we ran to
embrace.
“You smell like clean laundry!”
My bag finally dropped onto the carousel.
“Let’s go home.
I am wearing wool socks. It is so hot here.”
I’ve been asked what it was like to go back to America after
being away so long. The simplest answer is that everything has changed and
nothing has changed. I forgot about a lot of things that exist in the States:
Free refills. Self-checkout. Sales tax. Sweet, syrupy root beer. Traffic laws. Free condiments. Marketing campaigns.
Malls. Frozen yogurt. So many pillows on one bed. “Shotgun.” Canned biscuits.
Ice machines. Happy hour. Free samples. Radio. Icees. Right-of-way. And I also forgot some things that are customary to do in the States, like tipping waiters, or waving when
you cut someone off.
Overall, I was shocked at the excess. At times, it was
overwhelming to be in stores. There are
too many colors in here. Why are there so many signs? I don’t want this lotion
sample. I don’t need help. I don’t want to buy the one with 12 functions. Phones
were suddenly small computers that people used to log on to the internet to
send messages to one another to then be checked on the internet on a phone
instead of calling or texting.
America was loud. Advertisements were shouting at me.
Telling me what to buy, how to feel about myself. Pointless conversations being
held by teenagers behind me on an escalator could no longer be tuned out
because of a language barrier. I was inundated with English.
At the same time, I transitioned from the robotic English I
had begun to speak with my students quickly back to the fluency of a native
speaker. I could express my opinion eloquently and thoroughly. I could hold
intelligent conversations. I could argue. I could tell people what they meant
to me. English became so much more developed and useful. I found myself
speaking again with a southern drawl.
But after two weeks, I deeply missed Mongolia. I missed my
friends. I missed the simplicity. I couldn’t hide the smile on my face when
lining up again in Beijing to check into the last leg of my flight. I was
surrounded by Mongolians. I could understand them. I laughed as they tried to
check in 15 boxes marked “fragile,” wheeling them closer to the counter on an
unsturdy cart. As quickly as we dispersed from one another in Beijing two weeks
prior, we were back in the same line. Once again, I was surrounded by people
from the country I had grown to love. I find myself lucky to be able to call
two places home.
