Nido Vacío (Empty Nest)

 

Growing up I can’t remember many quiet moments in our household. With four kids, how can there be a quiet moment? And I can't remember it ever bothering me. Aside from my teen years when I started spending more time in my room, I hardly enjoyed being alone. I'd rather spend time around other people, even if I was doing my own thing. Then as time went on and we got older there was less noise in the house, and also just less of us. One by one my older brothers finished high school and went on to college and by the time I reached my junior year of high school I was the only kid at home. The last to leave the nest.

When I came to Peru and joined my new host family I automatically switched roles, going from the youngest in a family with four kids, to now the oldest with three-younger host siblings.

Until summer hit in January, there were few moments when we were all in the house at the same time. But when my host brother came home from college for the summer, and my youngest host sister finished high school, there suddenly came a time when all of us were under the same roof—my host parents, my host sister and her 2-year-old daughter (and occasionally her boyfriend), my host brother and youngest host sister, and then me. Eight of us all under one roof, sharing one bathroom (with days where the water would go out) and all of us sharing the same computer and internet.

During this time I almost lost my mind.

In our culture we often take for granted our privacy and alone time. Many of us grow up with our own rooms, move out at 18 and begin the process of building our own lives and ideas of how we want our lives and living spaces to be. In Peru (and in most of the world) kids don’t leave the house until they have to or until they get married (and that doesn’t guarantee they’ll leave the house). Also, multiple people will share a room, even a bed.

While I didn’t spend many years in college living alone, I was still accustomed to a certain amount of personal space, time, and above all, silence. I still continued to enjoy the company of others even if I wasn't interacting completely with them, but we all needed our own time and personal space.

 Lucky as I am to be the only one in my house to have their own room, it does not promise me an escape. The sound levels in my house can make me feel frantic and crazy. In a summer afternoon sitting in my bedroom I could more than perfectly hear the TV, music blasting from the stereo, two-separate TV’s with gunshots coming from the speakers and boys hollering at each other as they played Play Station games (remember? My house was the local arcade) and more often than not, the baby screaming and crying.

Add the heat on top of that, and there was very little keeping me sane. There was just no “happy place” to escape to.

But as time went on things got quieter. My youngest host sister moved in with our uncle in the regional capital to attend classes to help with the entrance exams required get into college. My other host sister moved out and got her own place (which was, and still is, a sore issue for my host parents) and took the Play Stations with her. For a short while a host aunt moved in, and her voice more than made up for the lack of noise coming from my host siblings, but that was very temporary. And then a few weeks ago my host brother went back college. And now here I am in a quiet household, just me and my host mom and dad. I’ve become the last kid in the house, again.

It’s quiet. And kind of weird.

This morning I woke up and the house was completely silent. Normally the TV gets turned on at 6 a.m. and left on until mid morning.

I went into the kitchen, made my coffee and breakfast and sat alone at the table. The only sounds I heard were from cars passing outside and the fruit lady calling on her megaphone. I actually felt the urge to turn some music on.

In the past when I woke up earlier (or later) than everyone and had free reign of the kitchen without the TV blasting, it was a rare and welcome moment of peace. Now it just feels…empty. There’s a difference between the silence of respite and the silence of absence.

My host dad came into the house after running some morning errands and walked by my bedroom just as I was walking out and I scared the crap out of him.

“It’s just so quiet in here,” he said, clutching his chest.

“All of the kids are gone,” he continued. “No more noise, no more distractions…you always want peace, but then when they’re gone you miss it, don’t you?”

He looked genuinely sad.

This house that at times felt like it was going to burst at the seams now feels empty.  No one even sleeps upstairs anymore; all of the beds were moved downstairs. Even my host mom’s personal arts and crafts hobby area was moved downstairs. No one wants to be up there alone.

I’m not completely without host siblings. My host sister brings la bebita over every other day to come see her grandparents and my other host sister and host brother will be coming home on weekends.

I know I’m no replacement for their real kids, but I like to think I’m helping with the transition of the empty nest. I’m trying to spend more time hanging out in common areas even if we’re all working on different things. I sit and watch TV shows I hate because it lets them know I like spending time with them.

Somehow the transition my host family is going through allows me to feel more like a part of the family. I’m not just an outsider looking in; the change affects all of us. We all miss the things that drove us crazy and at the same time reminded us we weren’t alone.