Coming to the international floor, I knew that my roommate and I would have very different cultures. I had expected them to be glaringly obvious. I had imagined strange forms of music, odd habits, and very different outlooks on life. To some extent, all of those are there; and yet, they are subtle enough to often be overlooked.
I look at her and I see myself. Not in her eyes or hair or skin, but in the way she carries herself. The way she considers a comment before replying. Her concern for my welfare, shown in small ways. Interactions with friends. Our long conversations long past when we should both be asleep. Religious beliefs, and views on how life should be lived. I connect with her on many levels, and I would count her as one of my best friends.
I find myself assimilating to her culture in some aspects. I listen to some of her music, and I’m falling in love with Portuguese. I picked up on her habit of wearing a wrap-around skirt rather than pants when we are alone in our room. I stop to ponder more, rather than being in a rush.
And I wonder.
She and I are so alike.
If she and I had been born in each other’s countries, would we be same? Would I be just like her now? Would she be like me?
Or would our relationship be drastically different?