A Moment of Insecurity

Dinner time is promptly six-thirty in the household. I descend to the ground floor where the living space, den and dining area connect. The mellow music of 10,000 Maniacs leads us gradually from daytime to evening. I smile to myself; eighteen and my first night in New York, a long way from the small village of Newtongrange, my Scottish home. The clinking of dishes and the aroma of Italian herbs drift from the kitchen. At the table the children, whom I was hired to care for, chant ‘ghetti, ghetti!’ The atmosphere feels comfortable and amusing.

Conversation at the table is light, a cultural exchange. Then the host father says with stark directness, ‘You mean you don’t have Thanksgiving in your country?’ I blush and stammer, ‘No, but there is Harvest Day, we… um... put together food packages for the needy…’ I stare at the blue ceramic plate as if it held the secret for defending Harvest Day, my Scottishness.

The conversation moves on, but I feel strange. Twirling the fork in the big spoon with all the concentration I could muster, I think of Christopher Columbus and how New York used to be New Amsterdam. Suddenly I feel insecure, that I’m too quiet and take too long to answer. I am my own worst critic — reserved, oversensitive, and easily persuaded, agreeing even when I am not entirely convinced. What were the gaps in my knowledge? But did I need an express course in American culture?

My mind drifts to an earlier episode when my preferred genre, ‘horror’, was met with distaste, but my fluttering weirdness worries were in check: my friend, a fellow horror fan, liked to photograph cemeteries. Then, I had gone for a walk along a road not meant for walking, and some people stopped in a car to offer a lift, seeming perplexed.

It hits me like a wave that speaking the same language was not an automatic ‘gold card’ to understanding. Like a scrambled Rubik’s Cube reforming in shape and colour, I regain control. I see the direct questioning for what it is — curiosity without a life vest. My host father is a New Yorker indeed, quick, no nonsense and straight to the point, and I was a young woman with a certain naivete, several thousand miles away from home.

I leave the kitchen, after helping to clear up, and make my way to my attic bedroom. The children follow me in; the four-year-old picks up my Alice Walker book and pretends to read it like a little professor. I double up with laughter. The toddler has escaped his pyjamas somehow. Their father shouts up, ‘Leave Paula alone; she has been with you all day.’ He exasperatedly climbs upstairs to retrieve them. As he’s leaving he compliments my patience, ‘You are doing a fantastic job; we value your input.’ 

Later I write home and paint a picture of New York as I experience it — the picture-perfect island that is Manhattan and Queens where I live.