I recently made the vocational move, into a new building up the street, to start a new program replicating the one that I’ve been working with for the last 4 1/2 years. While it’s a great opportunity, it was a very sad transition [read; lots and lots of tears]. This new building means many new relationships, as well as the opportunity to assist in the actual move-in process (walking in and welcoming someone to their new HOME is by far one of the coolest things I have ever done/get to do) with everyone that walks through the door. This morning I met with a Spanish-speaking middle-age man to show him where he’d be living, help him with his lease agreement, etc. Now, my Spanish is certainly not amazing and to put it bluntly, I sound insanely white, but I can usually get by on what I’ve learned throughout the years. We got through the meeting/tour and I thought that all was well until 15 minutes later I got a knock on my office door….
Co-worker: Uhh, you met with Mr. R, correct?
Me: Sure did (getting a little cocky with the assumption that he was memorized by my amazing Spanish skills, “how did this blonde get so cultured?!”), why, what’s up?
Co-worker: Well, although he was excited with all that you said, he appeared a little confused; he said that everything looked great and he’s ready, but that he wasn’t aware he’d have a roommate and wondered if he needed to ask you first before bringing things in like a tv, comforter, etc.
Me: A roommate? I never told him that…no one here has roommates and why on Earth would he have to ask me? He can bring anything into the room he wants, it’s his home!
Co-worker: No, you’re right, you didn’t actually say he had ‘roommate’…..you asked him if he was nervous that YOU are going to be moving in with him.
Ay Dios mio.
Rachel Karman 