A cute white house with a nice little garden of lawn and
flowers. Would I have a younger host brother with blue eyes or an
elder host sister with blond hair? Would I go to church on
Sundays? These were the things I had imagined and thought of
before leaving for America for the first time. I applied for a
one- month home stay in San Francisco in April, 1986. 1 was 13
years old, in the second year of junior high. Though leaving in
July, I'd started thinking about the trip and getting excited as
the plan was becoming solid. My great imagination kept me busy
until I began to prepare, when I actually realized that I was
leaving. One thing I was worried about then was that I didn't
know who my host family would be. Except for that, I was as happy
as ever when the time finally came. Little did I know about
America of how the host family could change the image I had of
that country.
It was a sunny day when I got to San Francisco. At the airport
and on the bus, I was impressed by almost everything: people of
different colors, cars going on the right side, signs in English,
wide highway roads and so on. Even the things I'd seen on TV or
in the movies all looked different. I was filled with emotion and
didn't know what to say. On the bus a woman from the travel
agency came up to me and gave me a piece of paper which had the
names and ages of the members of my host family. The Co family
consisted of grandparents, parents and six children, ages
twenty-two, twenty-one, seventeen, sixteen, six and three. The
"Co" family. I repeated the name aloud a few times. I couldn't
help asking myself where they came from, though I had no
idea.
The time came for me to meet my family. They couldn't come
pick me up, so Minako, who was my friend's host mother, and also
my neighbor, took me to the Co's house. They lived in a hilly
suburb where most people had a decent house with a small front
yard. As we went up and down the hill, I found that it was a
quiet place, and almost all the houses had basketball goals.
"There it is, 1132," said Minako. She stopped the car in front of
the house across the street. I looked at the house and checked
the number again by myself.
"That?" I couldn't help asking because instead of a basketball
goal and concrete front yard, it had a garden full of colorful
flowers surrounded by a wooden fence. It looked totally different
and stuck out. Even though the yard was nice, I was worried
because it was so different.
Minako said, "I'll go check and see." So I waited in the car.
She rang the bell. I was watching it as closely as I could. And a
woman came out. Then I thought, "No. This can't be right,"
because she had dark skin, long black hair, brown eyes just like
mine and was wearing a long thin one-piece dress like the one
people on tropical southern islands wear. She was completely
different from the image I had of Americans.
In some minutes I was told to carry my baggage into the house.
I was totally confused, not knowing what was going on. I went
through the beautiful flower bed and entered the house. Then the
woman in a long dress told me to take off my shoes. I'd never
thought I would have to do that in America. The carpet felt good
to my feet as I went into the kitchen. In the kitchen I smelled
something different. I still don't know what it was, maybe some
kind of spice that they used. On the counter I saw a rice cooker
made in Japan (Figer). She also showed me ajinomoto, which is a
Japanese spice. My image of America helplessly started falling
down. We went to the living room and Ula (grandmother in
Filipino) appeared also in a long dress, only looking more
Japanese than the other one. They talked a little, in a language
which didn't sound like English and called the children: "Cocoy,
Tomtom, come here! "
"We're coming!"
I was thinking these aren't such typical American names as I
heard their boisterous voices and steps from the basement and saw
the six and three year old boys. Needless to say, they looked
Japanese, also. She introduced me to them.
The kids said, "Hi, Saeko."
"Hi, Cocoy and Tomtom," I said with a smile. But inside myself
I was still confused. I was lost. Nanai, as I came to call my
host mother, took me to my room. I lay on the bed alone and
thought I was going to cry. I had nobody to count on or talk to
about the shock I got from the reality, which was so different
from the image. I started to think what I would do from then on.
I was in a panic. But then I remembered the story I heard from my
friend who had had the same experience of home stay. She couldn't
get used to the family and the environment for one week. When I
remembered the story I made up my mind and promised myself that I
would get used to them in one day, because it would be such a
waste of time to be passive. I asked myself, "Why did you come
here? Don't you want to see and experience new things?" Gradually
I came back to my senses and started cheering myself up. I
decided to keep my own promise.
My home stay with my Philippine family was excellent. I loved
them and also the flower garden so much. While many others had
problems with their family I had none except the one on the first
day. I don't consider that a problem now. I learned that America
is a kind of "vegetable soup" from my experiences. I have two
host families in the U.S.: one in San Francisco, the other, a
typical white family in Michigan, where I stayed for one year,
three years later as an exchange student. It's an advantage for
me to be able to see America from these two different views.
by Saeko Higuchi
