Track 22: What Were Y’all Talking About? by Brian A. Salmons
Utrecht, 1998
Henk instructed us to debate—in Dutch—the environmental impacts of disposable cups versus reusable, ceramic cups. We did it—to our collective surprise—after having started the class only a couple of months before. Gathered in the breakroom, some in chairs at the small table, others standing around the room, each with a cup of tea or coffee in hand or before them on the table, Abdeslam posited that ceramic cups were better because you could reuse them endlessly by just washing them. Sven agreed while taking a sip of coffee from a thermos. Katarzyna countered that water is wasted that way and using disposable cups conserves water. Mostafa pointed out that you can still wash a paper cup at least a few times because of the wax lining, and this reduces the waste produced from manufacturing and using them.
These were not strongly held positions, merely a demonstration of the serviceability of our knowledge of Dutch vocabulary and grammar. We smiled at each other, and I felt comradery with this diverse group of people, young people and old, people from around the world, from places that had warred with one another. Henk freely pointed this out: an American and a Russian in the same classroom, learning Dutch together. Ivan turned from the hushed side conversation he'd been having with Sven, glanced at me, smirked and shrugged his shoulders. Mostafa, Henk pointed out, was from Iraq. He was a polite and modest man. His eye contact was kind, if reserved. I smiled sheepishly. We continued around the room telling personal anecdotes as practice. Aviv offered with an air of embarrassment that he only just realized that his country, Israel, has had a war in every decade of its existence. Mostafa nodded in commiseration.
I talked with Dawit about music after class. In patient disbelief, he listened to me explain that I truly like music from countries other than my own. He handed me a cassette tape dubbed from an acquaintance back home in Eritrea. Take this home. Tell me if you like it. I asked, I can keep it? With a concerned look, he replied, Oh, no, I do need it back. That made more sense. Yeah, of course. I'll make a copy and bring it back tomorrow. Thank you. The music was not what I expected. I thought it’d be “traditional” sounding, timeless and untouched by the West and America and “modernity”. There was an electric guitar and synthesizers and a distinctively 80s vibe. I didn't like it very much, even though I said I did the next day. Dawit could tell, and looked disappointed when he accepted the tape back, his doubts confirmed that I wouldn't accept the music as it is.
Most of the students in that class were refugees or immigrants, there to stay a while, if not forever. By contrast, my ten-month long romp in the Netherlands would be over before I knew it. We were foreigners, all of us. It was a given that we didn't fit in. Mostafa was friends with Paul, from what was then called Zaire. They met up in the breakroom every morning before class to talk with Habiba, Abdeslam, Aviv, and Juana. The comradery was real in that room on those mornings. I kept my distance. I was sad a lot then, despite a whirlwind romance with Daciana, having spent Christmas at home with family, and mastering a foreign language. One morning I sat down nearby this group, at a little table in the corner of the breakroom. It felt desperate, and must have looked desperate. Paul noticed and gestured to the others, palms up. Should we? Mostafa walked over and invited me to join them. Really? Yes, of course, he said. Come sit. Habiba pulled out a chair. I set my paper cup down beside other paper cups, ceramic mugs, and a water bottle. We're talking about Titanic. Did you see it yet? I hadn't. I don't remember which of them had. It wasn’t important. I only remember that they saw me sitting by myself—not doing well, out of place like them—and welcomed me into their circle for a while.
I still have my dubbed copy of Sami Berhane's 1992 album Seb-Dia Bareto. I enjoy it very much now. I’d like to believe this means I've changed, that I'm attuned to the importance of accepting people just as they are, from wherever they’ve come, especially when they need welcoming, and that what we're talking about is far less interesting than the fact we're talking at all.
Brian A. Salmons lives in Orlando, Florida. He writes essays, poems, and plays, which can be found in Qu, Marchxness, The Ekphrastic Review, Autofocus Lit, Stereo Stories, Memoir Mixtapes, Arkansas International, and other places. He's on Insta @teacup_should_be