Belonging in the in-between

The table was laden with meat platters and salads so that a stranger would think it was a special feast. But I was not exactly a stranger, so I knew that this was par for the course for this culture’s hospitality. Guests are to be honored and fed with copious amounts of food and drink. It was a small room, so we crowded around the table, a communion of food and conversation.

We had a common language—for both of us, it was our second language. And yet, they were torn between the wonderful intimacy and comfort of a first language and respect for me as an outsider. So in the beginning, the language hovered between our second language and their first. There was a slow slide into the the first language, and then someone would pull it back. “I will speak in Serbian so our dear sister can understand.” But as the evening wore on, those occurrences became few and far between. These were old friends who did not always get the chance to spend time together.

The stories began—and they seemed to be uproariously funny. With each story, laughter would break out for quite some time. I became invisible, although in truth I felt the exact opposite. Exposed, naked in my foreignness for everyone to see. What do you do when you are sitting around a table and people are enjoying each other and laughing together? Where do you look? What expression should your face make? I took turns uneasily looking at the table, the speaker’s face, the wall behind. My face quivered in undecided expressions—not knowing what I should reveal or mask.

I know that feeling of being at home with people—of speaking a common language that extends far beyond merely the linguistic, but a language of share experiences and perspectives on life. I didn’t want to interrupt that for my friends around me. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, to make it about me. And yet, my discomfort rose alarmingly. I am a person who values attentive listening, facial expressions that respond to what is being shared so the person feels heard. And so my body felt the conflicting forces of wanting to be a part and not wanting to deceive by pretending, to acutely feeling my outsider status.

The laughing and storytelling went on and on; I wished desperately a chance to escape, but I would have had to make the whole side of the table to get up and let me out. So I stayed; although in retrospect I realized I made the wrong decision. I should have politely excused myself to use the restroom and then stayed in the other room. I would have felt better and my hosts would not have had to worry about including me.

Finally, the evening drew to a close. We stood for a final prayer. We began to slowly disperse with goodbyes, more conversation happening as we drifted outside to the cars. Very slow goodbyes are part and parcel of the culture—a first goodbye happens inside the house, and then again outside, and then again as we load up in the cars.

In the car, my friend and co-worker said to me softly in our shared language, “Was that boring for you?” There was a time when I would have brushed this off and declared, “No, it was completely fine!” But I want to be real with my friend—we work closely together and I want him to see my struggles and weakness. I answered, “That is one of the big cross-cultural challenges, yes, it was hard.”

The next morning, our other teammate asked about the experience and I expressed to him what it is like to be on the outside of camaraderie and shared enjoyment. “I’m so sorry, that is on me,” he said.

“No, I understand—you rarely get to be in your first language and enjoy time with those people,” I answered.

Being in-between cultures is full of joy and richness—but also has moments like these. Difficult moments where you don’t know what is the best course of action. I’m taking a different approach these days—not trying to mask my discomfort or make it better for myself. I hope this leads to a wider sense of belonging, creating more understanding within our shared spaces.