The engine rumbles beneath me, syncing with my breath as I peer out the window. Looking out, I take in the warm sunset over grassy fields before an eight hour trip will transform it into a slippery blanket of ice. And it’s back to the States, once again.
I take out my phone and tap on Airplane mode, my mother’s silence piercing me from the row behind, her sadness leaking into my eyes. Every year, you would think the goodbye would get a little easier. It doesn’t.
The airplane soon meets the clouds, and the flat buildings of a bustling Madrid shatter into a million gray specks, slipping away. Soon, my father tells me, every Christmas won’t end like this. He says it almost like a promise, as if someday family won’t be a distant blur visited through glimpses of summer and winter breaks.
As an aching knot forms in my throat, my excitement numbs its pain: new anecdotes buzzing to be shared with my American friends, two purring cats cozily dozing, awaiting their owners, and a girl’s blue-walled bedroom, unslept in for what has been almost a month, peeking out of the window of my home—that is, one of my homes.
To prepare, I review in my head the usual adjustments: when accidentally bumping into someone, I must instinctively mutter a quick ‘sorry’, and not ‘perdón’. When I text my friends a funny joke, I must tap on the iMessages icon, not WhatsApp. At dinnertime, I must not prepare a cutting board—here, bread is not eaten with every meal. When greeting people, I must refrain from leaning in for a kiss on each cheek, it is not the norm here. Little, silly things. But also huge, important things that find shelter in the back of my mind, constantly switching.
Switch, switch, switch. On and off. Off and on. English to Spanish. Spanish to English. Then again, again, and again, the cyclical switch so often it begins to beat like a drum.
This rhythmic duality dances deep within me.
I like to think I have perfected the switch. Something as easy as turning on Airplane mode—a second nature. I have learned to accept that until summertime, what I know of family and friends in Spain will be dwindled down to periodic messages, calls, Instagram stories or TikToks, and that my days will be alternately dominated by English’s rigid phonetics or Spanish’s poetic whispers.
But I will also always miss out on something, the cultural barriers never disappearing. Between plane rides back and forth, professorships and opportunities calling my parent’s names in far away worlds, I will forever feel pulled in two different directions. As each side begs me to stay, just this once, I rebel, forcing two crumbly halves to awkwardly poke at each other and make up my whole.
In many ways, however, my halves need and seep into each other. I fluidly pick and choose elements from each world, privileged enough to assemble them into my best self. This duality has also allowed me to dive headfirst into new, intimidating spaces—a well underway AP math class after a late schedule change, a scary red-graveled track that reads Lane 2 as I crouch down to begin my first ever race, an echoing silence of an audience, as I bow and sit before a glossy grand piano large enough to crush me whole. During these huge, terrifying moments, I don’t feel so small. I feel ready, as if I have been here before.
As these two lenses help me enjoy this blurry world in all its colors, I begin to see Boston shyly peeking through the airplane window, the blurriness clearing into a frigid, snowy clarity.
I pick myself up, switch off Airplane mode, and step into my other half.
Here’s what Leire had to say about her essay:
The words “college essay” have loomed in the back of my mind since the start of high school. It felt like this big, intimidating task waiting for me in senior year that I constantly dreaded and kept postponing. I had plenty of ideas, but each felt either too cliché or lacked the depth to become a strong, compelling essay. So I avoided writing anything at all.
Eventually, though, my procrastination caught up with me, and I had to face it head-on in English class. That push, however, was somehow exactly what I needed. Forced to assign a fully timed period to just writing, I threw myself into the topic I felt most drawn to, and just wrote. I completely ignored word counts or structure, and solely focused on getting my thoughts down. What came out was a very, very rough draft that needed a lot of work, but it felt promising to have some physical part of it down. With what felt like half the battle won, I shared it with Ms. Ledoux, got feedback, and began the process of refining and cutting it down. It was frustrating, but trusting my instincts and diving into the topic that resonated with me turned out to be the best decision. In the end, I created an essay I was truly proud of that really spoke to the person and student I am today. I highly recommend people get over that first barrier and start literally anywhere, because that is already a huge step being taken!