My neighbor across the street, Anong, speaks Thai quick and sharp. Her words spill out directly to recipient, pushed out with emphasis so no words are left floating around, no sounds are caught lingering in the spaces between two speakers. She speaks with the determination of someone who will be listened to. And she speaks in a way meant for someone who does not like to listen.
Thus, the words are directed towards me and she looks on, silent with a mix of expectancy and doubt. She does not help me with hints in English though she knows many words in my native tongue. But I am in a small village with no friends. I have not seen my own mother in months. So I love her. So I cross the street carrying gifts; mangos, cakes, bowls of papaya, things that carry the heavy sweetness of my own ache for belonging. And I ring the bell and wait at the gate for her or her husband to let me in. These gifts are given only to her hands, and never to those of her husband, the one who will not listen to her, the one who treats me with so much kindness, as men inevitably do in the beginning.
I have spent so many days in Anong's courtyard with her dog Panda, a spoiled chitzou who only eats bananas. We sit and speak Thai in the mornings with coffee. We sit and speak Thai after I finish teaching at the public highschool. We sit and speak Thai in the evenings, sharing a meal that is too spicy for my stomach. We sit and speak Thai while her husband is away at work or with women.
I don’t learn quick enough, but I learn.