Adventures and lessons learned by an Italian/American AFS Egypt, NSLI-Y Turkish, Beloit Russian major, CLS Turkish, and ISEP University of Turku, Finland, alumnus and current Fulbright fellow at the University of Iceland the world over.
I'm working on another post about the first two months of my Fulbright here in Iceland, and some of the biggest events that have taken place therein.
And even though I do intend to go into more detail about this there, I wanted to take a moment to highlight an achievement of mine which is truly special to me.
As I've mentioned a few times, I care deeply and am extremely concerned about the state of the environment and human-caused climate change. I've felt very anxious for over a year now about the urgency of massive, systemic change which is needed to mitigate the worst of its potential effects, and the closing window of opportunity that there is to act sufficiently to prevent massive suffering and environmental breakdown.
It's been one of the main drivers of my awful mental health over the past year (which, thankfully, has improved tremendously over the past two months).
One way in which I've been trying to more productively deal with this anxiety has been participating in climate strikes and other environmentally-focused events. I attended my first global climate strike here in Iceland on the 20th of September. Seeing so many like-minded and concerned people lending their voices, bodies, and presences to the cause was deeply validating and empowering, and made me feel, for one of the first times since I started dealing with all this, like I wasn't alone.
At one point, I was approached by a woman from the Reykjavik Grapevine, the city's English-speaking newspaper, who asked about my homemade sign - which, in a loving tribute to the great Greta Thunberg's now iconic "skolstrejk för klimatet" ("school-strike for the climate") sign, read "loftslagsverkfall fyrir jöklana," meaning "climate strike for the glaciers," meant to call attention to a truly crucial side effect of climate change which is very present here in Iceland: the melting of the country's glaciers. Most notably, the former glacier Okjökull lost its glacial status in 2014 when its ice was no longer able to move, and was recently commemorated with a ceremony earlier this year and a plaque containing a "letter to the future."
The reporter asked if she could interview me, which I of course accepted, answering some questions about my sign, my environmental concerns, what I'm doing here in Iceland, and how I try to live in a more environmentally-friendly way at an individual level in my daily life.
Here is the article, which was later shared by my favorite Icelandic writer, Alda Sigmundsdóttir as well.
I can barely begin to put into words how special this experience was, and how much it means to me. Earlier this year, I spiraled horribly reading about the state of the world and the climate, and began to feel massively guilty about my own contribution to systemic issues far larger than just me or anyone around me, and feeling like I was a burden on the Earth.
In addition to feeling united and bound to the other people around me who attended the strike, it was wonderful for the Grapevine and my interviewer for featuring my voice, and seeing something special in my contribution to the Global Climate Strike. To have this contribution recognized and celebrated in this way is indescribably empowering and validating. I'm honored and humbled. And I hope you all enjoy reading it as well.
"It's not too late. We won't give up. Let's fight for a better future."
At this point in my life, I've studied a total of ten languages to some significant beginner level or above. Every single language I've studied has been deeply enriching and life-changing in myriad ways, and opened my mind to new ways of building words and structuring thoughts, new mediums of expression, new music, new literature, myths, folklore, and most of all, new friendships and human connections that I would never have been able to have or access otherwise.
Among all of them, my experience learning Icelandic has been quite unique. Not only because of the unique challenges of learning Icelandic specifically as a language (my favorite Icelandic writer, Alda Sigmundsdóttir, very accurately describes her native language as "a bloody mess grammatically, a nightmarish mishmash of inflected nouns, verbs, adjectives, and pronouns, corresponding to four different cases, three different noun genders, moods, voices, and constructions, plus any number of exceptions that rules that seem completely arbitrary, and very often are,"). But also because of the odd ups-and-downs in my timing learning the language - absorbing lots of it in shorter periods of time, but then having it remain relatively dormant in my everyday life for long periods of time, consuming it passively through movie clips or music at best.
I first started learning Icelandic three years ago. I first found myself fascinated with Icelandic when I was falling in love with languages in general around the age of twelve, watching dubbed Disney songs on YouTube, and spellbound by its unfamiliar sounds and distinctive, old letters. But the language had been hovering at the top of my list of languages of greatest interest after I got greatly interested while I was an exchange student in Egypt in high school, and found myself watching videos by a girl who was on exchange in Iceland the same year and with the same program as me, AFS Intercultural Programs, and spent the year hosted in the tiny community of Seyðisfjörður in the Eastfjords. After hearing about her experience - how beautiful the country was and how comfortable she seemed to be there - I did a lot of research about the country and especially the language, and found myself fascinated by its unique history, its strong literary tradition, its expressive and beautiful way of constructing words for new concepts from existing root words in the language, and its importance to the sense of national identity. Being already interested in Nordic languages because of my American grandmother's Swedish heritage, it became one of my languages of greatest interest. When I entered college, I was awarded a grant from my college to construct a project of some academic or professional importance, and decided to take advantage of the chance to finally go to Iceland and try to pick up a little Icelandic.
I participated in the 2016 A1/A2 Icelandic immersion summer course at the University Center of the Westfjords, which was hosted in Núpur, a former well-known boarding school now turned hotel, on a breathakingly beautiful, isolated farm property on the shores of Dýrafjörður, about a half hour drive away from the 2,000-strong de facto capital of the Westfjords, Ísafjörður.
In the old classrooms in one of the far wings of the main building, with majestic views of rolling steppes home to fluffy, free-roaming sheep, and extinct volcanoes slumbering peacefully above the waters of the fjord in the distance, we all learned to express our first tentative and stumbling thoughts in Icelandic, and about the defining characteristics of the language - its cases and verb classes, its unique and sometimes maddening sounds, and its graceful and beautifully constructed compound words. From simple introductions, we passed to simple conversations. From simple conversations to numbers, then to directions, fruits and vegetables, to telling time, talking about ourselves, and so on. At the end, even though the program had only lasted three weeks, we left with not only incredible memories and pictures of the ethereal places we'd been which could barely begin to do them justice, but with a strong base in one of the world's most beautiful, complex, and oldest languages.
Then two years went by without actively studying Icelandic at all.
I did my best to try to keep my understanding of what I'd learned in the Westfjords alive by absorbing the language in passive ways - watching Icelandic clips and videos on YouTube, listening to Icelandic music, even reading passages and sentences from Icelandic Wikipedia articles, writing them down by hand in my notebooks, and underlining or translating unfamiliar words.
But that was about it.
Two full years and a few exchanges in decidedly non-Icelandic-speaking or Nordic countries later, I found myself back in Iceland, this time in Reykjavik, to study in the month-long summer institute at the Árni Magnússon Institute at the University of Iceland, which I had wanted to do since I was seventeen years old and had seen someone post about it in a language enthusiast Facebook group I was a part of, simply called "Polyglots," recommending it to those interested in learning Icelandic.
For a month, together with my dear Italian friend Sofia I'd met on my first program in the Westfjords, together with a whole bunch of fun and friendly new faces, I spent a month cranking my Icelandic back into overdrive. Having spoken scarcely a word of Icelandic in the two years since I'd been there the first time, I figured I'd be speechless for a few days. But in a few icebreaker activities we got started on the first day, I was struck by how naturally and effortlessly "Hæ, ég heiti Nico, ég er frá Bandaríkjunum," (Hi, I'm Nico, I'm from the USA) rolled off my tongue again.
We spent the month in class in a room tucked into a cozy room on the far corner of the bottom floor of Árnagarður, close to the heart of the University of Iceland campus, learning from a teacher named Gísli, who had been the teacher of the other class on my Westfjords program. Due to a month of intensive practice, thankfully with a particular emphasis on developing our speaking skills through rigorous debates, presentations, in-class discussions, and so on, my skills absolutely skyrocketed over the course of the month. Close to the end of the program, I finally met up with my friend Unnur, a Reykjavik local who my friend Salma met at a Youth Parliament in Vienna and put me in contact with, and we had a lovely, nearly two-hour conversation over coffee in which we barely ever resorted to English. Something which I barely imagined being capable of when I started studying Icelandic, and which seemed like a distant dream even when I'd started the month. But yet, there I was, just kind of...doing it, and managing.
That conversation took place two days after the two-year anniversary of when I landed in Iceland for the first time. And it felt like coming full-circle, in a surreal and amazing way - here I was, two years later, having just finished the program I had set out to participate in to begin with, and capable of having a two-hour conversation in Icelandic with relatively few grammatical errors, and scarcely having to fall back on English.
Then I left, and although I was already at work on my Fulbright application to come back as I have now, once again I didn't practice Icelandic almost at all for a year, as I focused on finishing my final year of my undergraduate degree, and dealing with readjustment issues on campus after returning from my year abroad, heartbreak, depression, anxiety, and just an all-around struggle of a time.
Now, of course, I'm back to do (at least - rain check on posting more on current thoughts re:future plans) the first year of the B.A. program in Icelandic as a second language at the University of Iceland through the Fulbright. I've been in Iceland four days shy of two months, and actively learning the language again for a few days less than that. Over the course of my time here so far, I've already improved my language skills tremendously compared to the day that I stumbled off my flight from Chicago back onto Icelandic soil, cheerily humming "Ég er kominn heim" ("I've come home," a famous Icelandic song about homecoming). But I've also reflected a lot on the evolution of my language skills, and come to realize that beyond the unique challenges Icelandic presents as a language, my own experience learning Icelandic has been quite distinct from learning any other language I've studied.
As mentioned, I've learned Icelandic in quite intense and concentrated bursts, with long periods in between where I barely studied it, perhaps occasionally absorbing it in passive ways. But within all the programs that I've done, most of the Icelandic studying I've done has been in immersive classroom environments where everything is done in Icelandic, including explanations of grammar and syntax, with only occasional deviations to English to compensate for moments of truly dramatic incomprehension, or to quickly clarify unknown grammar terms. Additionally, due to the fact that before I was taking part in shorter term programs where I was housed with and spent most of my time around other foreign Icelandic learners, I've only just started to make Icelandic friends this time, and so before I didn't have many chances to practice my language skills outside of the classroom with my Icelandic teachers, and lacked fluid, or especially more colloquial input from native speakers as a result.
As such, my Icelandic knowledge is full of somewhat bizarre contradictions, and areas of great knowledge and ease, complimented by others of total unfamiliarity, even if they're much more applicable to everyday conversations.
I remember quite complex terminology that I learned during the intensive speaking-based immersion of my second summer program, like "opinbert tungumál" (official language), "tvítyngdur" (bilingual), or "málvísindi" (linguistics) with great facility and ease. But when I first arrived this time, I found myself completely stumped by far simpler and everyday conversational words like "aðeins" (something like "[just] a little [more]), "klikkaður" ("crazy"), or "skó" (a ubiquitous filler word with no direct English translation which is usually used at the beginning or end of a sentence or thought).
I still remember numerous scathing and creative Icelandic swear words that I learned during an elective afternoon on my first program in the Westfjords three years ago (I'll do without listing or explaining them for now). But I still mix up "þolfall" and "þágufall" (the words for the accusative and dative cases) every single grammar class.
In the first couple of days, as the cogwheels started turning in my brain and my Icelandic knowledge started to come alive again, I found myself suddenly feeling comfortable doing things again very quickly that I never would have been able to access in my mind quickly and easily a few days earlier, when I hadn't been back or practiced in over a year. I suddenly felt quite capable of handling the simple bureaucratic matters I was running around trying to take care of during my first days in the country ("Góðan daginn, ég flutti nýlega til Íslands og þarf að skrá inn heimilisfangið mitt/sækja kortið mitt, o.s.frv." - "Hello, I've recently moved to Iceland and need to register my address/pick up my card, etc...). But I would go to the IT desk at the university for help with getting my router set up in my dorm room (as the building lacks WiFi), and stand in line like a dear in the headlights, with absolutely no idea how to begin talking about what I needed help with (uh...tölva...samband...herbergið mitt... - "uhh...computer...connection...my room....), so much so that I didn't even try, and in those cases allowed myself to just speak English guilt-free.
With constant and insistent practice sitting in the cozy loft space of my dorm, declining noun after noun and adjective after adjective for hours on end while slowly sipping cups of fruit tea, my grammatical accuracy is slowly improving, and the connections between various endings and cases are gradually growing stronger in my mind, and rolling off the tongue naturally and with greater ease. But I only just learned the phrase "að vera skotinn í [einhverjum]," literally "to be shot in [someone], meaning "to be fond of" or "to have a crush on" someone.
As I've started to get more involved in community spaces with locals, such as the University Choir and the AFS volunteer and returnee community, and make friends within them, my Icelandic skills have taken on entirely new dimensions, and I've been proud of what I've been able to contribute to those conversations, albeit often tentatively and with great trepidation. Depending on the context, speed, and speaking style of the locals around me, I find that I'm often able to understand great chunks of what is going on, and also to contribute, to extents that often surprise me. I played a game of "never have I ever" mostly speaking in Icelandic in a hot tub with people from the choir during our recent choir camp. During the AFS volunteer retreat I participated in earlier this month, I contributed a bit of niche knowledge of bizarre time zones in the Pacific Ocean (specifically how American Samoa and Samoa proper are twenty-three hours apart, in spite of being just over a hundred kilometers from one another) to a conversation about geography and the International Date Line. But conversely, there are times when I am barely able to make sense of anything happening, and have to struggle so much to express myself that my budding skills are scarcely given any benefit of a doubt. I spent a lot of time with the three Icelanders and my Icelandic-speaking Danish professor on a trip I recently went on to a conference outside Copenhagen, and did my best to speak Icelandic with them, but for some reason that I can't quite nail down, I just...struggled. To understand them, to get what they were talking about, to join in conversation. At times, when I feel nervous for what ever reason, my tongue rebels and my mind seems to stop working, and my normally decent accent and conversational flow just disintegrate.
Since people here are so used to speaking English with foreigners, they often switch to English without even thinking of it, or really realizing that they are. In the past, this was something that I struggled with a lot, wondering if that meant that my linguistic knowledge was insufficient or holding back efficient communication, and it would always make me feel frustrated. Due to the overwhelming tide of English influence around the world, but especially here in Iceland, I often feel guilty speaking English abroad, especially when I'm somewhere to learn the local language (which is usually the case when I'm living abroad). Since I worked so hard to get back here specifically to learn and study the language, I feel anxious or guilty for feeling like I'm not taking enough advantage of opportunities to practice with locals, or improving fast enough. But through many conversations with people about these very topics, I've gotten some great perspectives, and realized that it's usually something people do without thinking with foreigners around, just because they're so used to it, and it's not (in most cases, at least) anything that reflects badly on my own abilities or knowledge.
I've also learned over the course of my time learning Nordic languages so far in general to prioritize quality and consistency over quantity in interactions. While it might be frustrating sometimes when people switch to English in short, transactional interactions like paying for groceries or ordering coffee, I would so much rather prioritize having regular, dynamic interactions with friends of mine from the AFS community or the choir where I get much more practice in. Even code-switching occasionally to accommodate others in those groups who maybe don't know any Icelandic or aren't learning it as their exclusive priority of everyday life like I am, I've gotten so much practice and so much insider knowledge (aside from lovely conversations getting to know lovely people) in those spaces which I'm so grateful for.
Guilt and anxiety have always followed me a bit in my journey learning languages, and Icelandic is no exception. When traveling and learning languages, I always strive to be the one to immerse myself, to adapt to my surroundings, to work hard to be able to interact and connect with the people around me in their language since I'm in their country. And when I'm not able to do so, I often struggle with feelings of inadequacy, or complacency in English overpowering knowledge of local or native languages around the world (which is obviously a gigantic systemic issue far bigger than me or my own life, and for which I cannot reasonably hold myself personally responsible).
But among all the insecurities, even just in this month and 26 days since I got back to Iceland, I've been given so many beautiful compliments that have meant so much to me on my Icelandic knowledge, and specifically on my bravery in being willing to talk to people and just throw myself headfirst into conversation without worrying so much about speaking with completely correct grammar or vocabulary.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning (now already in the dark) for my 8:20 am grammar class, and feel so overwhelmed by the endless pages of irregular declensions for every word, arbitrary case changes that follow verbs and prepositions, and countless exceptions to every rule that I feel deterred and hopeless, like I'll never be able to learn Icelandic like I want to.
But then I take a moment to realize just how far I've come in less than two months, from barely being able to string a sentence together, to now being more or less back a graceful conversational equivalent to the one I had at the end of my second summer program, back to being able to talk to people, and to do most simple transactional things in Icelandic with no issue. And sometimes even if I do stumble in a way that clearly betrays my foreignness, I get a kind and sympathetic smile in return, as if to say "I see you, I appreciate that you're trying, don't worry because you're doing great."
And even just with those, I have all the motivation I need to keep moving forward, and not give up on trying to realize this eccentric, crazy, and cherished dream of mine.
So at this point in my life I've been an exchange student seven times in six different countries. Three of those experiences have been homestays, in which I've been hosted by local families. In addition, I've become a proud volunteer and member of alumni communities of multiple programs I've participated in.
As a result, I've gotten to know a great many people who have been exchange students, who have hosted exchange students, volunteered for exchange programs and worked closely with hosted students, or have been closely involved with the exchange world in some way.
Many people that I've gotten to know over the years have had difficulties with their host families, which have at times extended as far as them having to switch host families. At times, it's a simple matter, something which takes place for simple logistical or timing issues which are out of everyone's hands, greatly lamented, and they stay in touch with the original host family in a completely peaceful manner. Sometimes their departures are fraught, dramatic, and at worst even scarring experiences. Sometimes they move down the road or just a few minutes away, and the rest of the exchange life continues relatively undisturbed as usual. Sometimes they end up moving halfway across the host country, and the host family change winds up being a defining and life-changing moment within the exchange itself, spelling a completely new chapter within it where they have to start all over again in a new town, new school, and maybe even a wholly different province or region.
Back in 2017, I participated in a program in Baku, Azerbaijan with the Critical Language Scholarship, a US State Department-sponsored scholarship whose job it is to send American university students abroad on two-month summer programs to learn critical or less-commonly taught languages, to study Turkish. I mentioned while I was there that about ten days into the program, I wound up switching host families. It was the first time that it had happened to me in three homestay programs and four exchanges total that I had completed at the time. But I only described it in vague and evasive terminology, as at the time it was quite recent and fresh, and I had been pretty shaken up by the whole experience.
Now, I want to tell my story in its entirety, so that it can be helpful and provide context to current or future exchange students on the reality of such occurrences.
When I first arrived in Azerbaijan, I was one of a few students that were hosted in families that consisted of one single, ostensibly widowed woman, whose children were grown and lived on their own. Initially, things seemed quite promising. I was worried that being hosted in a family consisting of only one person would be awkward. But she was extra nice. She treated me in a manner that was welcoming and friendly. She was unbelievably generous, always brewing scaldingly hot Azerbaijani tea and cooking me heaps of tasty food that would give a trucker a run for his money. She had a lot of very interesting perspectives, having been born and raised in Yerevan, Armenia, back when Armenia and Azerbaijan had never been to war, and each hosted large communities of each others' ethnic groups, and would talk a lot about her childhood in Yerevan and Armenian friends and neighbors she used to have when she lived in Baku. I had a lot of space in her house, and felt comfortable and at ease.
But after a few days, strange things started happening.
It became clear to me that the second room upper level of her house, where I was staying, was being essentially rented out. In the first week of my stay, several people came and went, including some that were clearly making use of the space as a sort of love motel.
Then she dropped a bombshell: She was leaving for Turkey for three weeks (almost half the program, mind you) because her daughter lived there and was getting married. She assured me that she would have relatives coming in regularly to check on me, and that she would leave loads of food ready in the fridge for me to heat up. She also advised me not to tell anyone from the program or the Azerbaijan University of Languages where I was taking my Turkish classes, so that she didn't get in trouble.
After my knee-jerk reaction of "am I a cat or something??" I decided to do exactly what she had told me not to. I called my residential director and told her about the situation. As I was taking advantage of a long weekend we had off classes for Bayram (Turkish for Eid, the end of Ramadan) and traveling to a city called Sheki up in the Caucasus Mountains in northern Azerbaijan, she advised me to relax, and that this was actually a big help, so that I could be far away while the problem was dealt with, and wouldn't have to confront her directly.
Although I enjoyed Sheki, the drama of what was going on back in Baku hung over the weekend like a dark shadow. As she was contacted, my host mother changed her story several times, namely changing to length of her trip from three weeks, as she'd originally told me, to ten days, to two weeks, over the course of several times she was contacted. She messaged me on WhatsApp, seeming crazed and frantic in her wording. The gorgeous mountain views and lush forests distracted me, but it was hard to focus.
By the time we were heading back to Baku, I'd already been given the choice between several backup host families, and picked which one I wanted to stay with. I was very open about how stressed I was about having to go back and get my things from my host mother's house, as after everything that had happened and how unpredictable she'd revealed herself to be, I wasn't sure what she was capable of anymore. The whole CLS group that year was very tight-knit and close, and people were very good about checking in, helping me with anything I needed, and assuring me that they would be there for me if I needed any further help. I felt uncertain, I felt afraid, but thanks to both the support of my program-mates and the prompt, swift, professional, and tireless response on the part of my RD and the other American Councils staff in Baku, I never felt like I was fighting that fight alone.
After I got back to Baku, my RD and another staffwoman from American Councils met me at the bus station, accompanied me to my host mother's house, and came with me to help me get my things. I'd been quite nervous the whole trip leading up to that point, and my anxiety skyrocketed once we got close, and was at a wild high when I saw her, and she was acting in a manner I'd never seen her before, as if there was a storm brewing underneath that she was barely able to hold back.
At this point, I didn't even try to maintain any semblance of order or consistency in my packing job. I threw clothes, books, everything that was mine haphazardly into my suitcase with trembling hands, wanting only to expedite the process of getting the heck out of there. The whole time I was frantically packing, she was frantically talking, trying to highlight reasons that I should be allowed to stay with her ("...look at all this space he has, where is he going to get that anywhere else?" "...he hasn't met my daughter yet, she's so amazing, he can talk to her in Turkish, Russian, English, German..."). She did seem genuinely distraught that I was leaving, and seemed to direct most of her anger at the staff for removing me, rather than me for blowing her cover, at least as far as I could tell. Though I tried to remember the logical elements of the situation - she had lied, she had tried to cover her ass, she had violated her contract, which stated that we're supposed to have at least one adult host family member staying there and breakfast and dinner everyday, she had probably only taken an exchange student to benefit from the stipend, which was not a sum to sneeze at when converted into manat, and so on. But it was still hard to think of all that seeing how distraught and desperate she seemed.
The rest was a blur. I waited with my RD in the taxi outside. My host mother was allowed to come out and say goodbye to me, and when she did, she also threw a whole lot of shade at my RD and the American Councils staffwoman. And so we drove off, and I was checked into the same hotel where we'd stayed right after arrival for the night, to then move in with my new family the next day. In spite of still knowing that I was in the right, that I hadn't done anything wrong, that I'd made the right decision by letting people know what was going on and pursuing a host family change, I still felt deeply shaken up sitting in the backseat of that taxi, staring out at the winding streets. This was uncharted territory for me, as I'd been incredibly lucky in my high school homestays and placed in kind and welcoming families that I'd never had any issues with, and I felt even more grateful in that moment that I was dealing with this sort of thing as a 21-year-old with far more experience, knowledge, and far thicker skin, rather than as a teenager far away from home in a wildly different culture for the first time. But it still shook me more deeply than I imagined it would.
My second host family made overcoming all of those difficulties wholly worth it. I stayed with a 75-year-old woman named Valide, an easygoing and kind lady with henna-red hair who cooked buttery kurabiye cookies that were crunchy, but would melt in your mouth after a bite or two, and were absolutely to die for, and her niece Subiye, a warm 25-year old with a warm smile and short, curly brown hair, who had moved in with her aunt to study to become an Azerbaijani teacher, but spoke to me in impressive Turkish. Their apartment was much smaller, but it was so much more homey. I felt welcome, and comfortable, and able to breathe metaphorically in their home, in a way I was never able to in my first Baku residence. The host family change impacted the homestay element of my experience almost universally for the better, and even besides the shadiness of everything that had happened, I felt so much happier and comfortable with them.
The reason that I'm telling this story is because I'm absolutely sure of the fact that there are exchange students out there that need to hear one like this right now, who may be struggling in their experiences, perhaps not feeling so comfortable or at ease in their host families' homes, unsure of how to proceed, and feeling like they've done something wrong. Like their experience is somehow affected or tarnished by not getting along with the family, or made less valid by this struggle. Like they've failed as an exchange student, and can no longer consider themselves wholly at home within that label.
And to let anyone out there feeling that way, that they're wrong.
Switching families is not something which diminishes your experience in any way. To anyone who is thinking of switching, in the midst of switching, or has already switched and feels negatively affected by it, know that you are valid. Rest, self care, and take time to process your feelings in healthy and restorative ways. But remember at all times that if you were reasonable, if you were willing to communicate and make compromises and grow, and it still didn't work for whatever reason, or especially if you were treated badly, it's not your fault.
If anything, you are brave and admirable to speak up for yourself, and demand the positive and welcoming homestay experience that you deserve like any other exchange student. Don't let this experience fill you with remorse or self-doubt. You are doing the right thing. This will allow you to see other sides of your host community and its environments, ones that will hopefully be far more soothing, welcoming, and supportive for you. Things will work out. This, too, shall pass.
And especially if you feel poorly treated, unsafe, if your host family is not conforming to basic elements of what's expected of them, or expecting you to hide stuff from the program, as happened with me, tell someone. Tell your RD, your counselor, a volunteer you trust, anyone who you feel comfortable telling that will be able to enact real and immediate change and get you into a better living situation as soon as possible.
And if at any point you feel truly down and out, or with no idea of what to do, know that you can always contact me. My comment sections and DM's are always open, and I am ready to listen with an open heart and without judgement.
Recently, I participated in a volunteer camp with AFS Iceland, which was a fantastic experience (more coming up on that soon). Since I had significant prior experience volunteering, organizing, and being involved in the organization, I participated in the more advanced track of the two that we had, and had to complete a few extra steps and assignments beforehand. Most notably in the form of answering questions about teamwork and vulnerability, which we later used as material for discussion and reflection within our own specific track's activities.
Here are my answers.
Share and example from fiction (can be a novel, tv show, movie) of good or bad teamwork and explain shortly why. The Chronicles of Narnia (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe): The Pevensie siblings in the first Narnia film are an example of bad teamwork turned good later on. Initially, there is quite a lot of tension and disagreement between them as they navigate the difficulties of being far from home, separated from their mother, and of Edmund and Peter specifically butting heads over Edmund's bad attitude and acting out, and Peter's desire to live up to their mother's wish for him to "look after the others." Up until about halfway through, Edmund is constantly making fun of, snapping out at, and actively trying to prove himself better than his siblings, ultimately culminating with his departure to the White Witch's castle, which leaves his siblings and many Narnians in great danger. After he sees how calculating and evil the White Witch truly is, and realizes the role which his negative attitude and actions contributed to her advancement, his perspective changes greatly. When he returns to his siblings, he is apologetic, but doesn't seek praise for his change of heart. He joins his siblings as a united front, contributing insider knowledge that he has been able to gain about the White Witch's plans, intentions, and army, which is of great help. The Pevensie siblings ultimately are able to defeat the White Witch and fulfill the prophecy they fit, through a combination of Peter and Edmund working to hold off the White Witch's troops, which greatly outnumber their own, and Susan and Lucy rushing to gain reinforcements with Aslan's help (and magical breath).
Write a few sentences about the term "Teaming" and if you think that describes your experience within AFS. Although I do understand the thought process behind it, I'm not sure I agree either with Edmondson's assessment that teams have to be static in order to function properly. Although closeness and mutual understanding can certainly increase greatly over time, in other situations they can stagnate greatly, and new perspectives and beliefs introduced into a space, even just in temporary circumstances, can go a long way to introducing and precipitating substantial change. In my AFS experiences, as well as other similar exchanges, I've found that even groups of people I've been a part of for a very short time, such as a week-long Returnee Leadership Summit, or a semester-long exchange, can create very strong bonds and plentiful exchanges of ideas. In many cases, people continue to bring the ideas or information exchanged into places and contexts which they are a part of for a long time afterwards, rendering them highly valuable.
Put down a few points on when you think teaming can go well vs when it doesn't (can be the same points as in the video or something from you). Teaming can go well in situations where people are interested in similar things, open to learning and change, willing to make compromises and sacrifices, and wish to accomplish a common goal. It is much harder without willingness to learn things from other people, as well as to make compromises and sacrifices. In such situations, even when people are interested in similar things, tension can grow and worsen group dynamics, and cause people to remain fixated in their own ways and own knowledge.
How would you define vulnerability? I would define vulnerability as willingness to let down one's guard and openly express one's emotions and thoughts, and being willing to engage with others' emotions and thoughts when they are expressed, even if they may be different from what one is used to (assuming that they are posited in a respectful and non-threatening manner).
What’s your current comfort level with vulnerability? I consider myself quite comfortable with vulnerability, and believe that being able and willing to feel vulnerable is one of my greatest strengths. My willingness to be emotionally open with people has enabled me to connect with many that I hold dear at deep levels that I would likely otherwise not have been able to, and allowed me to open myself to entirely new ways of thinking, approaching problems, and visualizing the world that have been greatly enriching and empowering for me.
What’s been your best experience with receiving feedback? What about the experience was effective or meaningful? What role did vulnerability and/or openness play in the process? Three years ago, I was applying for a scholarship to study Turkish for a summer. As she was applying for the same scholarship (but a different language), I worked very closely with a very close friend of mine, who I had studied in Turkey with the first time we'd been there together. When editing my essays, she pointed out a number of flaws in the writing style I had used in my essays when applying for the scholarship the previous year (being subsequently rejected). Although I was confident in my writing skills from a young age, her blunt, but constructive and supportive feedback enabled me to understand ways in which I was applying writing techniques in these essays that would work in other contexts, but not there. My willingness to understand, process, and integrate her critiques into my essays enabled me to greatly improve my writing skills and taylor specific skills to certain contexts, which enabled me to get into the program and study Turkish the following summer, as well as to get into numerous other programs I have applied to using the same skills.
If you’ve had a negative feedback experience (either giving or receiving), what didn’t work? I have dyscalculia, which is defined as "a mathematical learning disability that impairs an individual's ability represent and process numerical magnitude in some way" (I often refer to it as "dyslexia's math cousin"). Throughout my elementary, middle, and high school education, I often received extra help from tutors, academic support counselors, and an individualized education plan that were theoretically supposed to help me. But rather than investing time and energy into understanding my learning disability in full and making true concessions and compromises in helping me to succeed, I was essentially made to believe that it was an issue of mind over matter: that if I worked hard enough and got enough help, eventually something would click and I'd understand. In high school, I realized that this was not true, and that my learning disability is not something I would ever be able to overcome and change. I felt deeply resentful and angry that I had been fed a false narrative for so long, and that I had spent so many years struggling with insecurity over my disability and feeling stupid for something that is innately part of me and that I cannot change as a result.
If you compare your answers from these first two questions, what’s the lesson? The two occasions described in my answers are quite different in their duration, scope, and implications. But there are important conclusions to be gained from comparing them: unlike many of my educators who largely overlooked my needs and fed me a false narrative from a flawed system they ultimately refused to deviate from, my friend Gianna, when reading my essays, processed everything she was reading calmly, comprehensively, and in context. She reflected upon it, and in a way that was respectful and thoughtful, mentioned what was strong, what needed improvement, and what aspects of my writing were strong in and of themselves, but would be better to use in different contexts of writing.So my conclusion from comparing the two would be that it is necessary to look into things thoughtfully and carefully based on their context and where they come from, in order to make a fair and determined assessment that will be constructive and not destructive.
Have you experienced receiving a giving feedback with people from another cultures? How have those experienced been to you? I have been able to learn from and interact with people from many different cultures and countries from my exchange experiences and language classes. These experiences have varied greatly, as there is a great variety of technique and approach in giving feedback at individual. contextual, and generational levels, in addition to at cultural and national ones. But many of them have been greatly enriching and interesting, as they have revealed different tendencies and cultural conceptualizations of various things. For instance, in my experiences as an exchange student in Iceland and Finland, I have found Nordic people to be generally quite direct and straightforward when communicating about most things, in ways that are, to an even slightly experienced eye, very well-intentioned, but that to many from other cultures could be perceived as abrasive or even rude. In contrast, when taking Japanese in my final year of college in the United States, I noticed that the way my professor and her teaching assistants communicated, particularly with each other within the expectations of their own culture, was often more indirect, and relied on numerous implications through intonation, changes in language or vocabulary, or unspoken cultural norms of interaction.
