Cómo vuela

There are certain perks to being an army brat. Having to list your previous addresses for the past ten years in a MacDonald’s job application is not one of them (“Where did I live in the seventh grade again?...”). However, all of that moving around does kind of transform you into some kind of champ for saying goodbye. We’re notoriously good at it. Best friends moving to separate states in middle school? No problem, make a joke about how you’ll probably move again and end up together elsewhere. Parting ways for college? Meh, at least now you get to pick where your restless souls take you. 

Maybe my parents were just really good at sugar-coating the whole thing: “Well, Clara, we’re moving to California...but the good news is that we’ll get to go to DISNEY LAND!” I think more than that, though, is that we military kids build up a certain kind of resiliency about the whole thing. From an objective point of view, the cold efficacy with which we are able to walk into a crowd of new people and point out the ones we’re going to devote time and energy to before we move on in a year is a little frightening. We’ve learned that with so little time, it’s just not worth cultivating friendships that aren’t going to last. Sometimes, we take this concept a little too far; sometimes we start thinking, “If I’m going to leave in a few months, why should I bother getting to know anyone?”

I let a wall come up as soon as I stepped off of the plane. Since day one, I’ve been resistant to getting attached to anything or anyone, knowing that this would be my shortest move yet. Put off by being surrounded by other Americans in what I thought would be a truly international program that would challenge me every single day, I balked at the idea of being friendly. I’ll be the first to admit that I built that wall up a little too high. I didn’t just stop with deciding who I wanted to be friends with and who I would ignore--I made damn sure those other people wouldn’t try to break through my barrier and try to be friends anyway. And that, honestly, is one of my biggest regrets. 

Still, though, a few have managed to squeeze through the cracks. I’ve made some friendships here that are sure to last a lifetime (thanks, facebook). And, despite my groans about my host dad’s latent racism or my host mom teasing me about my addiction to sweets, I have grown attached.

There's no crying in baseball or Spain, duh.

 I was just sitting in the kitchen with my host mom, talking about some of the logistics of packing and our departure, and I said without thinking, “Ya es la hora.” It’s that time already. 

She met my eyes a little wistfully and heaved a sigh I know she’s heaved twenty-two times before, with the passing of every one of her temporary children. “Cómo el tiempo pasa,” she said. How time goes by.

I looked around a little at what had become my home, at the cabinet Pedro had built himself, the walls Rosa could never keep one color, the goofy drawing on the fridge from their sassy granddaughter--and I was surprised to feel a little wave of something like sadness. I wrapped my fingers around my coffee mug and gave it a little squeeze before responding, “Cómo vuela.” How it flies.

A little horrified by the depth of my own emotion, I gulped down the rest of my coffee and bolted upstairs to distract myself with youtube videos. Right then, right there, I almost broke rule number one of the army brat’s guide to saying goodbye: I was about to cry. Every person who’s relocated ten-plus times knows that saying goodbye is like ripping off a bandaid: best conducted with a few firm back pats at the train station and nary a backward glance. The worst  thing you can do is spend the week, days, hours before you leave thinking about it. 

But it’s really not my fault for breaking my own rules, you know. It’s that damn facebook and all of those damn status updates from my study abroad peers; peers that are much more open about discussing their feelings and having a good cry or six. Don’t they know that talking about your feelings completely counteracts anything you’ve done to put hair on your chest? Sheesh, kids these days.

Anyway, I have nothing to worry about. I have tear ducts of steel. So there. 

What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by.  I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them.  I hate that.  I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it.  If you don't, you feel even worse.  

~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye