Terrified of Portugal

By Beth
 
I am about to reveal one of my biggest secrets: I am absolutely terrified of Portugal.
It might be the end of me to share that. Of Portuguese and Italian heritage, I spent a year living in Portugal in college and learning the language. I've worked in a number of Portuguese establishments since developing my language ability. When I'm in the States, I love hitting up every Portuguese restaurant, pastry shop and everything else that might give me a taste of the homeland. But here I am, back in Portugal, and I am scared to death to even leave my hotel room.

I don't know why, really. I love speaking Spanish to anyone who will listen to me, and my Spanish is terrible. And despite my intense fear of Portugal, I keep coming back. I keep coming back, and then running away. As if someone is going to find me out and banish me from the country forever.

It's strange to have a secret identity. But sometimes when I am in Portugal, I do. I look Portuguese enough to be culturally ambiguous. And when I open my mouth, I am hyper-sensitive to the fact that the person will know exactly where I come from not by my appearance, but by my accent. And for this reason, I do everything I can to mask it. To not speak when I don't need to. To hide in the crowd of Portuguese faces. To walk along the streets knowing exactly where I'm going, taking furtive photographs only when no one is around, to memorize maps in my hotel room before leaving so that I don't even need to glance at them. To practice quick “good afternoon”s and “coffee, please”s so that I won't be taken by surprise. I am like a CIA Agent, a ninja, an investigative journalist that has studied an identity for long enough to be able to act it in energetic spurts.

But recently I have challenged myself with the question of why. Why is it that I can't seem to accept my own identity as a Portuguese-American? Why is it that I feel I must deceive others for as long as I can? Am I embarrassed to be an American? Or am I scared to disappoint people that I don't even know when they realize that I am not one of their own?

Today I ran away from the museum when someone outside asked me something in a thick Sao Miguel accent, and I had no idea what he was saying. I turned right around and went back to my room. I had just gotten outside and I had already had enough. But, God, it feels good to admit it.