By Michelle Parrott

When the pandemic found me in Saudi Arabia, our bags were packed and ready by the door.  We were prepared to leave in the wee hours of the morning for a weeklong vacation to rendezvous with my parents on their tour of the Holy Land. But when our alarm went off at 3:30 a.m., my husband and I checked the news on our phones one final time in tense silence, and then, with heavy hearts, we canceled the trip. It was the right call—Saudi sealed its borders a few days later—but it felt drastic in the moment. 

As I unpacked our suitcases and tried not to grieve losing a holiday abroad to another week of homemaking, I didn’t realize I was saying goodbye not just to one vacation, but to numerous facets of my life outside of being a mom. Our days at home turned into weeks and then months, and the all-consuming balancing act of being a stay-at-home mom to twin two-year-olds was intensified by not being able to share it with anyone in a non-virtual way. 

In all this—the paradox of so much to do and also nothing to do—I had an odd epiphany: I could learn a second language. It would fit neatly into the new margins of my life, right there with potty training twins and washing everybody’s masks. I had so much time at home, but what would I have to show for it when the world opened up again? I wanted the ability to pour myself into something outside of motherhood. A side gig. A hobby. Anything that would focus my mind beyond my four walls and all the wonderful, draining work I did in them all day, every day, during a year without end. And so, sometime between our first round-the-clock lockdown and our second wave, I decided to take my Arabic tutor up on her offer of virtual language lessons. 

Amani is not the first Arabic teacher I have had; she’s the latest in a long line of very sporadic study over the years. We had a few sessions together in the months before the pandemic, but inevitably I had to interrupt our time to change a diaper or feed a cranky toddler. I was hesitant, too. It had been months since I’d used Arabic regularly, and I was insecure about adjusting to Amani’s slightly different dialect. It’s hard to let down your walls with someone new when one of those walls is a language barrier. Our sessions were formal, or as formal as anything can be when trying to practice glottal sounds and clean up spilled sweet potatoes simultaneously. 

In addition to the awkwardness of our communication, the gravity of our different lots in life was never far from my mind. Amani’s family had fled war and poverty in Yemen, but their ambiguous status made it a challenge to find work. Not long after we started meeting together, Amani shared the exciting news that she, her husband, and young daughter had been granted asylum in Canada, but they now faced an indefinite wait to find out the next steps. Then, COVID-19 came. Indefinite started to feel more like infinite. And, like everything else that involved being face-to-face with other humans, our Arabic lessons went on hiatus. 

A couple of months later, when Amani suggested we resume our sessions online, I was ready to accept. The least I could do was continue my weekly arrangement with her, whether or not I was keen to have more Zoom calls in my life. In truth, though, I was excited about it. In a year that already looked like a loss, perhaps investing in a new language was a way I could “redeem my quarantine.” 

These virtual language lessons—strategically scheduled during naptime—immediately took on a new tenor. The onslaught of news from around the world guided our conversations. I learned a flurry of new vocabulary: “face mask,” “hand sanitizer,” “quarantine,” “vaccine.” In halting, disjointed sentences, punctuated by laughter at my mispronunciations, I gave my opinion on the latest restrictions we faced. We made hopeful predictions about the number of weeks and months this would go on. Then we made less hopeful ones. One day, Amani asked me why. Why did a black man named George die at the hands of a white policeman? Why does America have a problem between black and white? Before I began my fumbling, never-enough response, I wondered frantically—how? How do I find the words for this in my own tongue, let alone in hers?

Another day, Amani spoke with longing about her desire to start a new life in Canada, but how she ultimately hoped to return to the Middle East. Perhaps she would even live again in Saudi. Saudi, which had been a land of opportunity for both our families, albeit in very different ways. Hearing this, I found the courage to ask her a hard question of my own: How do you feel about the country that is your second homeland destroying your first in a relentless war?

I discovered that the woman who had shown up on my doorstep wearing a hijab on the first day we met was, in fact, an Arab Christian. We looked nothing alike, were born half a world apart in circumstances which could not be more disparate, and yet we prayed to the same Savior. Amani had many questions about what church was like in America. “A dozen churches in a single city? More?” She couldn’t contain her surprise and delight.  

A year later, I wonder, did I “redeem my quarantine?” I have learned a new language. It isn’t Arabic, not real Arabic. But this jumbled tongue she and I share each week is a medium of true connection between two moms. Whatever language is spoken in our homes, we both have days when our kids won’t listen to a word we say. Whatever financial resources we might have, no amount of money can solve struggles with toddlers who refuse their dinner or wake up unconscionably early or don’t understand why they need to wear a mask. These things are universal. 

In the midst of an isolating pandemic, I thought I was craving a sense of accomplishment or some form of productivity. I probably was, in part. But what I needed more than that was to be seen, heard, and understood by a friend. With regularity, with vulnerability, with empathy. Perhaps Amani and I share so openly with each other precisely because we know not every word is being understood correctly. It can be liberating to speak your heart to someone who can easily divine your tone and facial expressions, but will never be able to quote your exact words back to you. Today, I could not pass a grammar exam—that much I know for sure. But I can hold a conversation in my second-language and connect with my friend.

These days the pandemic lingers, but thanks to vaccines Amani and I now chat in person again while our kids play and create chaos around us. Mixed in with our discussions of war and disease, racism and wildfires, is the wonderful lightheartedness you would want from any mom friendship. We compare our toddlers’ foibles and celebrate our mom wins. We opine about the weather and social distancing and recurrent arguments we have with our husbands. She asks about my parents and I about hers, and these repetitive conversations are less a language-learning exercise and more an emotional touchpoint for the week. A check-in for the both of us, and the opportunity to open up about how we’re really doing.  

During a lull in our conversation one day, we turned to watch our children play. Her daughter and my son stood side-by-side at the play kitchen, busily preparing a plastic meal. Chattering in Arabic, Amani’s daughter asked for the toy knife and my three-year-old handed it to her absent-mindedly. Amani commented that my boys must have a knack for Arabic, but I just smiled, knowing this sweet exchange was possible only because of a truth children seem to instinctively know: even when the tongue fails us, the soul can still find a friend.

Guest essay written by Michelle Parrott. Michelle is a high school English teacher turned stay-at-home mom of two (and a half!). She and her husband left Washington state for Saudi Arabia in 2012 and discovered they love the expat life. When she's not chasing after toddlers Michelle enjoys getting creative in small ways, whether it's designing DIY Halloween costumes, trying new recipes, or writing essays—which, as it turns out, is a lot more fun than grading essays.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.