La isla de las muñecas (The Island of the Dolls)

In November, I had a chance to tour the Palacio Nacional in the historic center of Mexico City. This is the home of many gorgeous murals of Diego Rivera - Mexico's most famous muralist.

Palacio Nacional en México D.F.

An amazing mural by Diego Rivera that tells the history of México from the indigenous people's point of view.

The canals of Mexico city.

http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx

One of our fulbrighters was knowledgeable in the murals, explaining that the small islands that appear amongst the system of canals were used as fertile agricultural plots during the time of the Xochimilca (a tribe of the Nahua - aka Aztecs) in 900s.  Xochilmico means flower fields, but the islands, known as chinampas, were used to grow corn, squash, beans, chili peppers and much more. I put Xochimilco on my mental Mexico bucket list, knowing I had to see this magical place before I left Mexico.

It was about six months later, I found my opportunity. Another fulbrighter, Jonathan, who was placed in a public middle school in the massive city, happily obliged to be my tour guide.  His roommate, a Chinese American who works for the US Embassy in Mexico, is hosting a bachelor party for a friend on the canals of Xochimilco (so-chee-MIL-co), so we head to the canals with about 12 Americans, and a few British embassadors as well. 

We hop in a large gondola-type boat called a "trajinera" and start our two-hour journey. Luckily, we arrive early enough that the canals aren't filled with too many families enjoying their Saturday afternoon. But there are plenty of smaller boats carrying merchants selling jewelry, mariachi bands playing "Cielito Lindo", and lots of chabelas (poor man's bloody Mary) and tacos to help you stay nourished during the trip.

On our journey, we pass a tree with four or five decaying dolls hanging grotesquely from the tree. Apparently, it's a preview to an island located 2 hours away. Jonathan's friend tells me the story of the Island of the Dolls.

In the 1950s, a small girl was playing in the canals off of one of the many chinampas. Somehow, the water overtook her and she drowned. The island's only inhabitant, Don Julian Santana, found her body, deeply affecting him. He was haunted by her spirit, engulfed in sadness for the poor girl, and so he began to collect and hang dolls from the trees of the island, both as gifts for the girl and also to protect his home against any additional evil. 

Our tour would not be taking us to this crazy island but I knew I would be returning soon.

About a month later, a fulbrighter who is about to end her fulbright experience, asks me to join her for one last trip to Mexico City. Of course I tell her of the island of the dolls.

We meet at "our" hotel the Holiday Inn Zona Rosa where we always stay on these reunions and head downtown via the metro. The Mexican Subway system is an adventure in itself - venders and beggars, selling everything from gum to a really bad rendition of Cielito Lindo.  But it's relatively easy, quick and super cheap. We maneuver our way to a Diego Rivera and Frida Kahloa museum to soak up some Mexican culture before we take our haunted journey to the island of the dolls. 

Then, we find a cab who takes us through the winding streets of Xochimilco. Our driver is led by an official tour guide on a bike who makes sure the tourists make it to the docks. We pick a boat and head out into the canals.

Where we are going, there are no mariachis, or nice señoritas selling food or drinks - so before we are hoisted over the dam, we wave over a young couple and ask for two chabelas, (clamato-tomato juice, tajin-chili/lemon pepper, salsa inglesa-Worcestershire and Valentino-spicy chili sauce) and of course, Victoria beer.

Our journey to the island is about 2 hours, but the time flies as we catch up on our last few weeks of teaching in Mexico. Our experiences are pretty similar, bouts of loneliness, frustrations with the bureaucracy and constant class interruptions, great students, and a few fabulous friends who have made our year worthwhile. Suddenly, we realize there are creepy dolls hanging all around us. We've reached the island.

We meet Anastasio Santana Velasco, the nephew of Don Julian, who has taken over the island. He leads us across a bridge to a small shed. Broken, tattered dolls hang from every tree, fence post, and from the shed as well. Entering the shed, we find a "Día de los muertos"-like alter, created by Don Julian in honor of the little girl who drowned. In the center is Don Julian's favorite doll - she is bigger than most of the other dolls, with long blond hair, and cold blue eyes. There is a bowl filled with small change, an offering for both Don Julian and the little girl.

Anastasio asks if we understand Spanish; we nod and he breathes in a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, there is no translator for the non-Spanish-speaking tourist. He tells us the sad story of the niña and her untimely death, and the obsession that haunted his uncle for fifty years after the accident - up until his own death, in fact. Don Julian died in the same spot as the little girl, 50 years later. Many claim he drowned too, but his nephew insists it was a heart attack.  Now Anastasio runs the place seven days a week, hardly sleeping due to the frequent night tourists as well. 

We are only on the island for 20 minutes. It's tiny, and we walk through the three small shacks and the tall trees quickly. Everything is covered in dolls. As we leave, we pass Don Anastasio and his family sitting around a rundown cabaña type bar. Two boys about 7 or 8 years-old play in a boat in the canal. Don Anastasio invites me to a shot of tequila. "Salud!" I say, and we head back to our trajinera.

La basura

I don't like to complain on my blog because I know my issues are petty compared to the people who actually live here and deal with much bigger problems (poor wages, corruption, crime, etc). But I do want to share some of the idiosyncrasies of this great country that some days make me laugh and other days want to scream obscenities from my window.

Many services here are not found in stores but rather in trucks rolling down the street, announcing their presence with loud piercing speakers. For example, the gas guy has a catchy tune that I like to sing along to every morning. The song reminds me of the Muppet Show theme song, and is followed by a long drawn out "Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhsssss" that swoops up melodically at the end. When you no longer have hot water, you simply wait for the tune, flag down the driver, and the guy hauls the tank of gas up to your apartment on the third floor.

Some nice fellow on YouTube managed to capture it; listen to this everyday for 3 months in a row and you'll be singing along too...

The bread truck is my absolute favorite, though, and makes me giggle every time I hear his catchy tune.

So, why then, can't the trash guy have a cool jingle to announce his arrival? 

In Izucar, there are no dumpsters to put your trash in and no bins outside the buildings. If you really want to tick off your neighbors, you can leave the bags out for the stray dogs to rip apart, but nobody wants to be "that guy" in the apartment. So you have to listen for a rusted tinny bell that a guy clangs down the street about 3 minutes before the truck actually passes. Then, you and your neighbors scurry to collect all your bags, run down three flights of stairs and then stand in line to hand your collection to the garbage man who throws it in the truck. 

The first time I heard the bell, I was also waiting for the señorita that does my laundry. I dropped my bag of clothes in the hall, scrambled up the 32 stairs, grabbed my two large bags of trash, ran back down the stairs, just in time to see my neighbor look at my laundry bag of two-weeks-worth of clothes as if he were going to throw it in the trash!! 

I don't have a lot of trash; I don't cook and so, therefore, it is mostly just a few take-out boxes. Oh, and have I mentioned I can't flush toilet paper?? (Sorry if that was too much info, but I feel you need to know the small details before you decide you should move here too). 

It would just be nice to not have to have one ear out the window each morning (and afternoon) when I become paranoid that my mini cockroaches will tell their bigger friends that I have plenty of goodies to offer them.  No one in my neighborhood seems to know when and what day the garbage truck will pass; the first time, it was a Thursday at 11:00 am, and the last time was a Wednesday at 1:30 pm.  I could barely hear the bell over the noise of la calle (street). Luckily, my building super yelled "BASURA, BASURA!!" and I was finally able to take out my 3 weeks of trash I had accumulated.

So there it is. I write about how much I love living in this beautiful country, but truthfully, sometimes Mexico stinks.

La vida después de 30.

Turning 30 was not something I was looking forward to. Last year, on October 24th, I was a mess. I cried a lot. I put myself together for my fabulous friends who were waiting for me at my party, but brought along my Visine red-eye drops just in case (I only had one breakdown, but no one noticed).

In your twenties, you have a lot of freedom to live single and carelessly, without worrying about your future. I realized on that day, that I had let 10 years pass me by. In my career, I felt like finally it was all falling into place, but in life, I hadn't grown up yet. There I was, still renting a tiny apartment, no husband, or even a potential prospect, no children, and still in the same small county I grew up in. It took way more miles to run off a second piece a pizza, and I had to start using eye cream.  I hadn't been on a date in over a year, and the single men my age were getting engaged or dating girls a lot younger than me. How had life passed me by so quickly, and when did I become so insecure?

My 31st birthday treated me a lot better than 30. I walked into my classroom on Monday with a bag of treats and of course, lots of English practice for my students. After the first small activity, a student tells me my boss needs to see me upstairs. Before I go, I spend five minutes getting the students started on their second assignment so they can work while I'm gone; I can't stand one minute of learning wasted. The student escorts me upstairs, which I think is weird, but it's not my country so I just stand and wait with him. After about five minutes of waiting (this is a LONG time for me when I suppose to be teaching a class), my student sees me checking the time and says,  "I am bad, I lied. We just need a little more time."

I give him a puzzled look and he laughs; we go back downstairs and a few more students are waiting outside of the classroom with a blindfold. They tie it around my eyes and guide me into the classroom. When I take off the blindfold, the room is set up for a party with a gorgeous chocolate mousse pastel and refrescos. The students sing about four verses of their birthday song "Las Mañanitas", which is much more complicated than "Happy Birthday." They all start chanting "Mordida" which is my signal to dive face first into the cake taking the first bite. Of course a student behind me smashes my face into the frosting. I cut the rest of the cake that doesn't have my nose print, and we play music and dance the rest of the hour. I learn that male students are much more willing to dance than female students; one shows me how to duranguese, another student teaches me the bachata, and another cumbia. I teach them how to line dance.

The next class has planned a similar party but has decorated the room in balloons and throws confetti at me. Their cake is a delicious tres leches topped with kiwi and strawberries. I make all students stand in front of me while I take my mordida. I know these students work hard for every peso they have, and to spend so much time and money on me to make me feel special this day literally brought tears to my eyes. 

Afterwards, Coco, her husband and the rest of the family had planned a similar party - I don't even fight it when Chucho pushes my face in the delicious chocolate cake they have prepared for me.

If you are wondering, thirty actually turned out to be a pretty good year. I spent it with a wonderful group of friends and family in little Lafayette County; I earned a master's degree, saw Jimmy Buffet, and was chosen to participate in an amazing teacher exchange program. Mexico, while it has its challenges, is giving me time to figure out who I want to be. I want to be a great daughter, sister, friend, and teacher. The rest I will leave to fate; it's treated me well so far.

Mexican Names

One of the hardest parts of teaching over 100 students in a year is learning all of the names. In a new country, where the names are unfamiliar and more complicated to pronounce, it makes it all the more difficult.

In Mexico, many of my students have two first names. I had my students sign their names to the attendance sheet the first day, and when I looked it over after class, I was very discouraged. There was no way I’d learn all 125 students’ names when each student had four names. Sneakily, I had them sign up for www.edmodo.com which requires just one first name, and, of course, they put the name by which they'd want to be called. I notice that the majority of them put their first, first name, and so, I decide that must be the name they go by. But then I make the mistake of calling a student, Luis, because on the attendence sheet this is what he writes for his first, first name. “No, I don’t like that name,” he tells me,”Call me Daniel,” which I would have thought was his middle name.

Sometimes they have a nickname on top of their two given names. For example, Obdulia is Duly and Lourdes is Lulu and my friend Jesus, is Chucho. Which makes me quintuplely confused.

So, finally, I just asked a student one day to explain the naming system here.

This student, who writes Guadelupe on all of her papers, tells me usually children are named after the saint that is celebrated on their birthday, but sometimes not, if the parents decided they don’t like the saint’s name of that particular day. For example, I have about four students named Guadelupe – named after the Virgen de Guadelupe (aka María, the Mexican Virgen Mary). The second name is just

a name the parents like. The parents, and then later, the child, will choose the name they want to be called. Guadelupe, however, only has one first name.

“I was born first, and my parents didn’t like the Saint for that day, so they named me Guadelupe. Then my sister was born on el 12 de diciembre (El día de la Virgen de Guadelupe). So, her name is Guadelupe, too.”

“So what do your parents call you when you are together then?“ I ask in amazement.

"Pues, I’m called Lupe, and ella se llama Lupita."

Lupe also has two last names. Her first last name is her paternal last name, and the second comes from her mother.

If a student comes in with a name of Pablo Francisco Aguilar Montana, he could be called Pablo or Francisco depending on his or his family’s preference. His mother’s paternal last name is Montana and his father’s paternal last name is Aguilar. Got it?

This is why US schools get into cultural trouble when Hispanic children enter our school system.  We assume Francisco is the middle name (which is not necessarily true), and we would drop the Aguilar because, in the US, we put the mother’s last name (if it has survived) before the father’s. So, the student is legally registered as Pablo Montana. And now we have completely wiped out the paternal apellido, which is a huge insult to the father. Confused? Yeah, it is better just to ask the family when they come in for registration.

“So, qué pasa when you get married?” I ask.

She says, “Es diferente acá than in the states. The woman doesn’t take her husband's name here.”

I’m shocked, “En todo Mexico?” I ask.

“Sí,” she says, smiling. “I will keep my name forever. A long time ago, women would keep their last names and then add “de” plus their husband’s paternal last name. Allá, in the states, some Mexicans adapt to the culture and will do this too, but here we are equals now.” She says this proudly.

Another interesting fact is that because of the Spanish conquest of the land and more sadly, the indigenous women, there really aren’t that many different last names. If two people have the same last name, you cannot assume they are related, or that they even know each other. So, a students’ parents could legitimately have the same last name, for instance, Ana Florisel Hernandez Hernandez. And, she could easily marry Juan Carlos Hernandez Ramirez, get married in the states and become Ana Florisel Hernandez Hernandez de Hernandez!

Culture Shock?

Fulbright sent me to Washington twice before I arrived in Mexico. Both of these conferences stressed heavily the importance of being aware of culture shock. Culture shock has four phases – the honeymoon, the depression, the rebound, and the return home. Our expert speaker told us that we would be in love with our placements for approximately one month, and by October, we would find ourselves angry, annoyed, and homesick. After a minor freak-out last weekend, I realize I may have slipped into that second phase.

This tends to happen to people in general if they move to a place for a long period of time. Check out this video from a foreign exchange student who came to the US to study business.

 

School is probably the most frustrating part. I haven’t figured out how to teach all I need to teach in the precious few hours I have with students. I feel like other teachers think English class is convenient to interrupt when they need their group for an extra hour.  I have not figured out my classroom management plan for my group of macho guys who can’t sit still for five minutes. (I have them for two hours!!). Also, I miss out on the important information, like being audited next week and needing documentation in my binder. My binder sits empty on my kitchen table.  When I ask where to find this documentation, I am told it should be online, but of course, they haven’t uploaded it yet.

We finally had our induction training this past Saturday where we learned all that needs to go into our binder. I am annoyed it is a month late and that I have to spend three hours of my Saturday at school.

I complained a bit to a friend in an email and received the reflective response expected from a good counselor: it’s frustrating not knowing what you are suppose to do or who to ask for help. After reading this, I realized it wasn’t culture shock I was experiencing; I am a new teacher all over again. Just like my first year teaching in 2006, I am figuring out how to manage time and materials, encountering power struggles with students and staff, and not knowing who to trust and turn to for help.

As for the actual culture part of Mexico, I am falling in love.

Let me give you an example. Last night I attended a birthday party for a three-year old. In Catholic Mexico, turning three is big. It is the age when Mary first presented Jesus to the church, and so here, at three years old, it is custom for the parents to present their child to the church.

Coco, my boss, invited me to this celebration – she and her husband, Jesus, who everyone calls Chucho, are the girl’s godparents. She gives me a gorgeous invitation and notes the time says 4:30, but it actually begins at 5:00. ”You know how impuntuales los mexicanos are,” she says. We arrive at 5:15. The birthday girl and her family arrive at 5:30. We are hurried into the tiny church by a very annoyed “Padre,” and mass begins.

Estrella is the girl to be honored tonight, and she is dressed in a beautiful pink evening ball gown. She looks like a tiny princess. She sits quietly in front of the altar for the entire 30-minute mass. It probably would have been longer had we all shown up on time, but the next family is waiting for their own special mass outside the church doors.

Afterward, Coco, Chucho, and I go to the little girl’s party. It is held in a school, and there are tables to seat about 150 people. The banquet room has been decorated by Coco’s niece, Lily. Lily owns a party store in the Zocalo in Izucar. Decorating for parties such as these is one of Lily’s many talents. Pink and white balloons form arches and columns surrounding the dance floor; the tables have been covered in pink and white as well, each with a princess candle and princess balloons as centerpieces. The tres leches cake sits on the head table and is stacked in three fluffy white tiers, decorated in a variety of tropical fruits.  There is another large table filled with presents and gift baskets for not only the girl, but also her many guests. Lily's son, Diego, who turned five today, asks who is getting married. I don't blame him for his confusion, it looks a lot more like a wedding reception than a little kid birthday party.

Dinner is a chicken leg covered in a mole type of sauce – sweet and spicy. A side of spaghetti, garlic bread, and refried beans make for a deliciously interesting meal. And, for beverages, two liter bottles of Coke and Squirt are placed on the table, as well as a big bottle of tequila.

After dinner, the entertainment arrives. Payaso Yoyito, a very funny clown, gathers all of the children around and does a stand-up routine that even the adults enjoy, much like, Bill Cosby’s show, Kids say the Darnedest Things. Besides being hilarious, he impresses us all with his balloon sculptures – here he is on YouTube making Bugs Bunny http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Evd7pD--7iM

After the kid show, the DJ starts playing a variety of Salsa, Meringue, Bachata, and Cumbia, and the couples fill the floor. There is even a Spanish version of “My Achy Breaky Heart” in which everyone does a Latin version of the line dance – which just means they move their hips a lot more.

I meet all of Coco and Chucho’s family – both sides have been invited; Chucho’s mom and I dance the twist as Spanish versions of “Rock Around the Clock” and “Nothing but a Hound Dog” play loudly. Lily’s younger sister, who is studying to be a lawyer, loves American music (and sings it very well). She practices her English with me as she tells me of all the concerts she’s been to – Cranberries, Madonna, Guns and Roses, and Aerosmith in a few months!

They ask what I think of Mexico – and I am honest when I say I absolutely love this country. Yeah, the sidewalks could use some work, I step in dog poop a lot, and poverty is on every corner, but I love the people. Coco’s sister says it best when she shouts, “Estamos bien jodidas, pero bien felices!” which loosely translates – We may be damned, but we are happy. They are all intent on finding me a Mexican to marry so I can stay. We dance until 1:00 am when the little kids finally start passing out on lined-up folding chairs or in their parents' laps. It is one of the best evenings I have ever spent.

My induction class, by the way, wasn’t so bad, either. It lasted about two hours instead of three, and I recognized our instructor immediately as he works in one of our academic offices. He’s very attractive with big brown eyes and a nice, big smile. Today, I notice he also has strong, muscular arms and chest that fit nicely in his slightly too-tight T-shirt. He is a great teacher, involving the class in conversation; though, I keep my head down, praying I won’t have to answer any of his questions in my nervously broken Spanish. While my conversation skills have greatly improved, I still dread speaking in front of a lot of people.

I make it through and leave the class happy. Under the warm sun, I decide it is a gorgeous day for a walk. After about 15 minutes, I am sweating and decide to flag down the next combi I see.

The combi comes in about 5 minutes; I climb aboard and greet the passengers with a Buenos días. A familiar voice calls me by name, and there sits my instructor with about ten other passengers. As his stop nears, he passes up a bill to the driver, and says to me with that great smile, ‘Te pagué por tu pasaje” – he has paid my fair. I watch him exit and disappear into the crowded downtown area. Yeah, I think I could stay here for a while.

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.

UTIM

View from UTIM - Volcán Popocateptl; photo taken by a student at UTIM

The Universidad Tecnológica de Izucar de Matamoros is located on the edge of Matamoros on gravel road, opposite from a field of sugar cane. If you are lucky, the clouds will part for a short while, and you can see the majestic Volcán Popocatépetl. I have been trying futilely to take a picture for the past two weeks and finally decided to steal this photo from facebook.

The University has two academic buildings where classes are held, a small library and information center, a greenhouse, laboratories for food technology and other science classes, and two cafeterias, which are more like outdoor pavilions in paradise, serving a wide variety of Mexican food, and of course, Coca Colas.

There is a gym for indoor basketball; it does not have air conditioning. Instead the doors and windows are wide open and birds have nested in the rafters. A dirt track circles a large soccer field, and there are two basketball hoops on the large cement block in the center of campus. I ask why there is an enormous yellow circle painted on this cement block, thinking it must be a sport with which I am unfamiliar. I am told it is where everyone goes in the event of an earthquake. They occur about every 4-5 years, and the last one in this region was in 2004. I thought about that fact as I was walking to the supermarket the other day, powerlines on both sides of the sidewalk...

My first day of class was Monday. I checked out a "Cañon" (a Canon-brand projector) from the Finance Department and arrived to my classroom early in order to set up.

It is like an American tech school or university where the professor must change classrooms for each group of students. That means on Monday, I am in Aula 6 for my first class, Aula 8 the second, and Aula 7 for the final class of the day. I carry a bag of goodies: toilet paper for a discussion game, cards for grouping, paperclips, folders, dry erase markers, etc. I also have my computer, iPad, video camera, my Antología (binder with all of my papers), and a small alarm clock to make sure I stay on time. My computer bag is from Walmart and ergonomic, it is not. I need to find a good masseuse.

Students are grouped by career (major) and section. They are with the same classmates all through college. Each day they come to one room to learn, and it is the professor who changes classrooms. My first class begins at 3:00 pm and ends at 4:00 pm, my next class begins at 4:00 pm and ends at 6:00 pm, and finally, my last class is from 6:00 pm until 8:00 pm. There is no passing time between classes, and this should make sense, but I haven't yet adapted to the complete obliviousness of time in Mexico.

Of course, I arrive fifteen minutes early for class to set up. But alas, the professor before me must have forgotten his watch because it is now 3:05, and I am still waiting to get into my classroom. At 3:06, I begin to set up and am ready to go by 3:10. The classes go smoothly, and I know it will be a good year.

I have approximately a month of two 2-hour sessions with my students each week to get through three units of writing. I am told to just do my best by the other English teachers because they know that this is nearly impossible. I know that if I prepare enough, I will be able to squeeze plenty of information into those precious four hours per week.

But, today is my one hour class. The "Cañon" I signed out yesterday is MIA, and I will be improvising my presentation today. The profe before me has forgotten his watch again, and I start writing my tech-savy PowerPoint on the tech-challenged whiteboard at 3:10. Four students rush in to get my attention, "Teacher, Teacher," they say. Titles are very important here - this is a sign of respect. The students tell me they will not be in class next week. "Teacher, Teacher," two more students need homework from Monday; they were not able to come the first day. This beginning-of-class chaos is actually pretty normal in Darlington too; I have realized students are students no matter where you are teaching. It is now 3:25.

I begin class; we start with a simple grammar review, and as I am explaining the word "brothers" is different than "siblings,", there is a knock at the door. Three tardy students ask permission to enter...again, as a sign of respect for the teacher. Another knock... Two students would like to survey my class for one of their assignments. I politely say no; I now have only 25 minutes to give an hour lesson...Another knock at the door. A professor needs to talk to a student. Knock Knock... Four more students, carrying plastic baggies of coins, explain a fellow classmate's mother, who has had a recent operation, cannot afford the costs. They would like a moment to ask my class if they can help. I say, "por supuesto" and go find some loose pesos while they give their spiel.

So, I have decided to plan only 20 minutes a day for each hour I teach. I have my bag of tricks and a guitar arriving soon if I should have any unexpected time left over.  I will also be purchasing my own "Cañon" from a tech guy I met at my favorite taco joint, and about half of my students have already signed up for my online learning platform where they can find materials and lessons I just couldn't fit in.

I will get through my curriculum, and students will learn. Tranquila.