Sorry, The Light Was On?

SORRY, THE LIGHT WAS ON?

To Terry, my wife

Southbank International School, London-England

By the mid-90s, I was living in London, England, and working for the maintenance department of the prestigious Southbank International School.

One of those days, I was in a classroom talking to Mirtha, a Bolivian employee from the same department. She was going through a difficult family crisis and telling me about her problems. I listened intently. In a world where people almost always spoke English, speaking Spanish was always a comforting refuge for us.

At the end of our long talk, as I was saying goodbye to Mirtha from the classroom door, I tried to conclude the somber conversation with a phrase in English. I attempted to say: “Life goes on.”

At that exact moment, Terry, a petite American teacher who had joined the school’s teaching staff a couple of months earlier, passed by the door.

Terry looked at me and assumed I was speaking to her. She said: “Sorry, the light was on?” My English was limited, and for this reason, the way I said “Life goes on” sounded to the gringa Terry’s ears more like I had said “The light was on.”

Blushing deeply, I tried in my “half-English” to explain to the gringa that I wasn’t talking to her, but to my Bolivian friend inside the classroom, whom Terry couldn't see from where she stood.

It was an awkward moment. And I just barely, I think, managed to get through that embarrassing situation.

Since her arrival at the school, whenever Terry and I happened to cross paths in the hallways or on the stairs, we had always smiled at each other with a mix of warmth and shyness.

I remember the exact date I said “Life goes on” (or, “The light was on”), because it was the first of November, my mother’s birthday. In fact, after talking with Mirtha, my plan was to call Peru to wish my mother a happy birthday.

But I also remember that on that day, standing at the door of that classroom, Terry and I talked for two hours. Another matter, of course, would be to understand how a Latino who could barely mumble a few words in English spoke for two hours with a gringa who spoke no Spanish. But that will be material for another story.

For now, the point is that when I said goodbye to Terry, I felt as if that first of November had been “my day.” But in reality, the true “day” belonged to my mother, and I had to call her for her birthday.

So I headed to the Earl’s Court district, where we Latinos in London used to make cheap international calls for fifteen pounds per half hour. Once there, I called my mom. “Happy birthday!” I said.

And since I still had my conversation with Terry on my mind, I added: “Mom, I think I have good news...”

New Hampshire, USA

October 2011

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