Cultural Faux Pas

I'm not going to lie; I am a horrible English teacher.

English as a second language (ESL) is way more difficult than teaching Spanish because I speak it without thinking. I have no idea how to teach when you should use "the" and when not.  I have no idea how to explain "it." "It" is cold. "It" is important. What is "it" anyway?

Today, I tried to fix the common error of a run-on sentence; I tell them commas are just not strong enough to separate sentences; you must use a period.  They haven't a clue what is coming out of my mouth, but know it must have something to do with a very awkward body-builder. At least I'm entertaining.

For the most part my classes are well-behaved, but I have a few students who get up and leave class whenever they want; they have a montón de excuses for missing class, and I cannot remember who is who, who needs what homework, and who will be absent on what day. I threaten to take points away, in Spanish, to make sure they understand, and wind up getting a lecture on the words "sacar" and "quitar." Apparently I used the wrong verb.

I gave a quiz this week; for the majority of the classes, I didn't even say anything as I noticed eyes wondering to their neighbors' papers. I'd cheat too if I were my teacher.

But I adjust my lessons, review better, and offer conversation classes where I can teach how I want and what I want. I use my poor Spanish to show them they shouldn't worry about their errors so much when speaking - it is possible to make mistakes and still communicate what you want to say.

I still remind myself everyday how lucky I am to be living in Mexico. But the honeymoon phasing out into culture shock.

The paperwork is killing me. I am drowning in writing that needs to be corrected. My email inbox is full, my edmodo website is screaming, read me, read me! I sit sola at the taco joint next to my house every night and correct papers along side my Coronita con limón. Coke with lime keeps my stomach healthy, and Corona, my mind.

Comida Típica de México. Dos Tostadas de bistec, Corona con sal y limón y un montón de papeles.

Last night as I attempted to tackle one more class of quizzes (they are so much easier to grade than essays), my boss, Coco, called to invite me out with some of our coworkers. She makes sure to call me anytime she is out with friends; I know she is worried about me.  I never turn down her invitations because I see them as the cultural opportunities I missed out on because I was grading papers. I show up at a restaurant and find the two Coco's (my personal Izucar tour guides), and two other women I recognize from my departmental meetings. Coco tells me they think I'm too serious. I'm pretty sure she means rude.

In Mexico, personal connections are far more important than the things you accomplish. You see it in the streets, the cafes; no one is in a hurry, and no one is ever alone. They sit in the city center (el Zocalo) and chat with family members; they discuss passionately over cups of cafés americanos in the local coffeeshop, literally fighting with their gestures to get their two cents in. Interruptions are welcome and expected.

You see it in the daily greetings. The custom for a woman is to shake the right hand of the other, lean in, touching cheeks with a slight kiss. Two men, however, will shake hands with their right and pat their companion's back with their left; if they are really close, they'll perform a secret handshake. Small talk is also expected in this interaction.

However, I find myself avoiding these confrontations. My Spanish is blunt and to the point - small talk is extremely hard for me; especially if I'm not sure I understand the questions they are asking. I have yet to master the bilingual mind, switching my brain from English to Spanish in a split second. It's normal for me to walk into class speaking Spanish when I should be using English and then afterward, ask the secretary for assistance in English and watch as her face crumple in confusion. I also am thinking two hours ahead, of all I need to accomplish today, and often times, I miss eye contact with fellow coworkers who expect the typical Mexican greeting. And to be honest, I feel incredibly superficial when I do partake in the ritual because I usually can't even remember the other person's name. I don't know if Asperger's can magically manifest when you cross cultures, but I'm pretty sure I scream socially inept.

After a few drinks and some delicious chicharrones (the rice cake type, not the actual pig skin kind) with chili sauce, I am comfortable with the small talk; Betty lives in Puebla and commutes an hour everyday. She is the school psychologist  and speaks fantastic Mexican slang. The other has long, gorgeous black hair, is single, and very outspoken - she is afraid she has offended me with her sexual innuendos and jokes. I think she is hilarious. We sing, we dance, and my new friends finally drive me home at three in the morning.

I see Betty today before my first class; her yawn is contagious and we both laugh at how awful we feel. I lean in, put my cheek to hers and give her a soft hug. And I mean it.