Thanks For The Cheese

The fun-loving, Venezuelan-oil-executives were my favorites, of all who studied at the D.C. international-language center. These lively people already spoke English well, were eager to improve their skill, and were “all about” enjoying the rewards of their months-long professional perk in the U.S..

Free afternoons followed intense morning classes and English-only meals, courtesy of our employers. These meals weren’t extravagant, just excellent, authentic cuisine from varied cultures in great, downtown restaurants. All the Venezuelans and I loved good food, good conversation, and Carlos Santana’s music, especially “Oye Cómo Va,” which translates to “Listen how it goes.” I learned the version I knew was the Mexican-born Santana's cover of an older cha-cha-chá song written by a Puerto Rican.

We had fun. Phrases like “Be haaappy” or “Don’t woooorry” and jokes filled the air. Lots of shrugs and nice smiles figured in to punchlines. One student confessed, “Before I learned English, I couldn’t tell between English and German—they both sounded like barking dogs to me.” He shrugged; he smiled. As we laughed over lunch, we spoke in rapid, excellent English, with some gentle, well-received correction, here and there, usually about pronunciation or usage.

If a student said something like “walk-ed,” for “walked,” or talk-ed,” for “talked,” I’d insert one of the fluency tricks, such as “wa-kt,” or “ta-kt.” I’d clarify meanings and confusing pronunciations, such as the difference between “soup” and “soap,” which do sound a lot alike. When necessary, I reminded a student not to ignore the hard sound of a final consonant, such as “n.” This one came up a lot, since they tended to call me “Mega.” We all learned a lot.

One day, a younger Venezuelan engineer took me aside and told me a serious story. “When I was young,” he said, “all we had was a small house, a big family, and a couple times per month big blocks, or wheels, of delicious, free cheese from the United States. Sometimes, the cheese was part of every meal. Sometimes, the cheese was all we had. We could make the cheese last until the next cheese came. I think, maybe, we could have starved without it. We were grateful. I always wanted to thank someone, so—Thank you, for the cheese.”

Geez. I didn’t know what to say. I was in my 20s and grew up with plenty of food in an old Pennsylvania Wilds borough, in a world far from those who decided to send this cheese.

Quickly, I admitted, “I didn’t even know our country had done this but I’m glad we did.” He waited, sadly. His words had been practiced, I knew, and delivered to me. His teary eyes made me feel about the same, so I stepped up and added, “There are better people to speak for this country, but, under the circumstances, on behalf of the United State of America, you’re very welcome.” He smiled. He seemed satisfied, even pleased, with my reply.

Since that day, decades ago, rarely do I see a big chunk of cheese without thinking, fondly, of him. Throughout his life, I bet he’s rarely set eyes on a hunk of cheese without thinking fondly of us, as well.

Out here,

Megan