Little White Lies

Remember when Rosie O’Donnell wrote that book about how kids say really funny shit? I should be writing a book these days about the lies I tell my kids.

For instance, I have this little kitty puppet named Cookie. Really, she’s pretty awesome and the kids LOVE her. They behave if Cookie goes back into Miss Cat’s schoolbag or if I tell them Cookie is sad because the niose is hurting her little kitty ears. One girl asked why she couldn’t go out and play at recess, and I said it was because she liked to practice yoga during that time. The girl just said, “Oh, ok then,” and continued splashing around in the puddles.

Or when little Alejandra, one of my three-year-olds asked who had caused me a “pupa” or booboo on my face. It’s a zit, but I told her a mosquito bit me in the middle of class and I hadn’t put afterbite on yet. Again, “oh, ok,” and flitting away.

As I walked back to my office, I passed by a class of three-year-olds. Two were crying because the other had bit them. The teacher, Seño Carmen, said, “Little girls and boys who bite others will lose all their teeth! They just fall out of your mouth! And they never grow back!” I wanted to add my two cents, so the little lie turned into a big story that probably sent kids home telling their mamás and abus that their English teacher said that her grandpa never ate his snack at school and began to get so hungry, he would start biting other children. Pretty soon, he had no teeth and can only eat flan, pudding and mashed potatoes.

These kids will believe anything. It’s actually quite amusing.

…y se acabó: Saying Goodbye to IES Heliche

If I have learned anything in Spain, it’s to not believe anything until it’s signed, sealed and delivered. Or, in the Junta de Andalucia’s case, signed, stamped and hand-delivered. But even without that piece of paper giving me a job back, I know the chances are less than a finding a Spanish vegetarian. I’m out of a job come the end of the month.

I did expect this all along, and I’m ready for something new. Really. I mean it. But it’s hard walking into my school, ticking off days, cleaning out my endless papers and lesson plans knowing that my days are numbered. No “Hola, Bicho Medio Gato Saborilla” greetings in the morning, no more having my tostada ready and waiting when I eat at the bar down the street.

I’ve been telling my coworkers and classmates little by little so as not to overwhelm myself or cry or both. Most expected me to come back, and I’ve gotten a lot of sympathetic looks which remind that, even when I feel distraught and worthless, I’m appreciated.

In the meantime, I’ve been exhausting every trámite possible to stay here. I keep running into brick walls head-on, really, but I’ll keep going until I get something. Forty-three CVs and counting…desearme suerte!!

Career Direction? ANDA YA!

This week, I taught my children the words: Muttonchops, FML and bullshit.

Maybe it’s time to rethink my career choices…

Discipline, Spanish Style

Last year, Nancy Bielski came to visit me. Since she’s in school to be an English teacher, I brought her along one day so that she could see what Spanish schools are like. Her reaction went something like this: “OH. MY. GODDDD.” Followed by, “I have never seen such poorly behaved kids in my whole life.”

While I wouldn’t liken teaching in a Spanish village to teaching in inner-city Chicago, we definitely have our share of discipline problems. Kids hit each other in the hallways, destroy our new computers and mouth off to teachers. I’ve had to yell quite a few times, and often end up tuckered out after a four-hour day. Teachers blame the lax education system and the reverence that Spanish kids receive. “Well, if my son/daughter doesn’t want to learn, I won’t force them” and “Well, if my son/daughter doesn’t want to learn, you should be a better teacher” are as common as teachers handing out partes, which are like demerits. I’ve given out just two in the 12 months I’ve taught at IES Heliche. In fact, students get partes just for not turning in homework! Most of them rack up several in a term and could care less if a teacher has to call home once or twice. To me, it’s totally unuseful.

Every other Wednesday, I’d like to jump off the highest building in Olivares (which is maybe 2 floors, unless you count a church) because I not only have five hours of class, but I also have 1D. For some reason, this class is always cursed. Year after year, teachers tell me, the students in 1D have the worst behavioral problems and the most partes, almost like being in the lead for the school food drive or something. When I came into class a little late (actually on time since the teacher has to go there immediately to prevent the kids from throwing the desks out the windows or something), the teacher was screaming at everyone to sit down and demanding to know what happened to the eraser for the chalkboard. Clearly, none of the kids fessed up, and my attempts to get them to behave and focus on the language village were futile. The teacher, a very calm woman, finally went to the equivalent of the dean for help. Fernando is tall and unnerving and in charge of all of the discipline in the school. He’s pretty good for the job, in my opinion, because he’s scary.

I tried my best to at least correct the worksheet we’d done last week before Fernando came. The whole room got SILENT and I thought some of the kids would have liked to crawl under their desks from the looks on their faces. “It’s been called to my attention that someone has spit gum onto the blackboard (oops, missed that one!) and a second person has hidden the eraser. Who would like to confess to doing it?” No one, clearly. He asked a second time. And a third, adding that now the crime had gone from bad but excusable to bad and not-so-excuseable. Finally, he asked the kids to take out a piece of paper and write down the names of the students who had committed the acts. After counting them, he announced the names of two kids – both huge troublemakers and smartasses. He interrupted me twice more to call out two other students before giving the students more partes and threatening expulsion. The whole class was quiet and not even one of them asked what kind of punishments they’d be getting.

That lasted a whole two minutes until I was back to, “CAAAAALLLLLAAAARRRROOOOSSSS!”

What to do about next year

This is the time of the year when I am sick of my job. Still lagging from the holiday season (and three-week vacation), kids still not focused, shit weather and me wondering about what I want to do next year. It’s a weird balance – half of me (well, a little more than half) wants to stay in Spain while the other half wants to move on, move somewhere new and try something different. After all, I won’t teach English my whole life, and if I do continue for another year or two, why not do it on the beach in Thailand or near the Patagonia in Chile?

This year has been different in so many ways at school, despite already knowing my students and their abilities well and having the newer members of the staff be even more welcoming and inclusive to me than last year. But I feel much more integrated OUTSIDE of the English department. Because I devote nearly half of my hours specifically to the Bilingual group, I generally only have class with the teachers once every two weeks. For instance, Valle no longer takes me to school, so I had no idea she’s traveling to India in Nepal in a few weeks!

This year it’s been easier to measure success. I can note the progress some students and many teachers have made since I arrived last year, even hearing more English in the teacher’s lounge than last year. Many greet me with “Hello” instead of “Hola” and I’ve been correcting homework and copying extra worksheets because people have been more interested in learning English. Very cool.

So, you can imagine my disappointment in learning that the Junta de Andalucía, my employer, is not guaranteeing that I’ll have a job next year. I’m welcome to reapply, but since they’re cutting the positions in half (that’s to say, one assistant at each school instead of two), it’s likely I’ll get ousted in favor of a new applicant. I’m just about done with my reapplication and am keeping my fingers crossed. After China, I’m going to start tackling all of the private schools in the area to see if they’re looking for a language assistant of sorts. De todas formas, I’m staying put in Spain for a while longer. I’m not done here yet.

La Vuelta al Cole

I woke up yesterday morning peeing in my pants, both from drinking a few beers before bed and from sheer excitement. It was finally October and I could finally go back to school in Olivares and start working.

I initially hesitated about returning to school before this date, mainly because I didn’t want to get attacked. I can get a little awkward with my Spanish and with forgetting people’s names (hello, we have 85 teachers in my center) and not even being a teacher. Moreover, I knew the kids would ask me about my dog and my boyfriend and my summer and, honestly, I wasn’t ready for it.

I sat on bus M-270 with a student from Valencina to Olivares, passing the same things I used to stare at four mornings and four afternoons a week. Nothing has really changed about the campo, which is actually refreshing. Even though Olivares is close to Sevilla (just about 10 miles west of the city), it seems a million worlds away. I remember bringing in postcards as a writing activity and having my students tell me most of them had never been out of Andalucia! Many of them only go to school until age 16, then drop out of school to become farmers, plumbers, bricklayers or gardeners. Their parents see no practical use for English, so many of them just tune out in class.

As soon as I walked in the door with Alejandro, I thought I was going to pee again. I was immediately welcomed by the Consejeria staff, which make the photocopies and dole out pieces of chalk. Emilio was poking fun at me as always and Meleni hugged me really tight, as she usually did on Thursday afternoons when I left last year. I snuck into the teacher’s lounge before any students could see me. I was greeted with lots of kisses and questions about Kike, of course! I have to say, I really felt like they consider me a colleague, not just some American kid who dicks around in class for 12 hours every week. Last year, I was twice as young as the other auxiliar, meaning I got on with the kids well, but didn’t relate to the teachers like Martin did.

But this year, I’m the only auxiliar. Nieves learned late last week that the other girl would not be coming to Heliche, so she called me to tell me she’d need to change my schedule. She didn’t want to make too many changes, so she was able to keep me working just three days a week (Monday, Wednesday and Thursday). She also put me in classes with the best-behaved kids who would benefit most from having a language assistant. I offered to go half the period or alternate weeks to accommodate more classes, but we’ll see. I’ll be teaching the bilingual group of kids, who receive 40% of their coursework in English, in their language classes, one hour of music and two of art each week. Then, I’ll be in English classes for 6 hours and have an hour for conversation and one for planning. Doesn’t sound too bad, but I’ll be the only music teacher. I won’t have to give grades other than participation and use of English.

I wished we had another person to help cover the classes, mainly because my director works so hard. She;s put in a lot of time to making the bilingual program successful and has had a lot of disappointment in just one month. Emilio, the music teacher, has left to finish his masters (leaving me with his lesson plans! YIKES me alone with 12 year olds!). Carmen, the history teacher, didn’t pass her English exam and cannot teach in the program until next year (which gives me incentive to stay again!) and now we have one less assistant. She can’t comply to everyone who wants to have one-on-one conversation hour, or even to kids who have asked if I can cover a class. It was hard seeing them and having to tell them I wasn’t teaching their class.

There are two new teachers in the English department, both younger males. This is better for poor Miguel, who was the only one last year, save Martin. One is new to Sevilla, and I hope I can help him meet people because he’s really nice. I greatly missed Angela and Silvia, the two young teachers from last year, because it seems like there isn’t a single young teacher in the school this year! Regardless, Neme was ready to give me advice about Kike and Lucia told me to get oil and not butter with my tostada. Everyone had the same things to say: You’re skinnier and your Spanish is better. Because Spanish people are so blunt, I figured they were telling the truth!

We’ll see how it all goes. Nieves is really open to my suggestions, and I feel like they trust me. It’s so comforting to feel like I belong somewhere and that people appreciate the work I’m doing. I don’t know how much the kids learn, but da igual. They’re getting exposure to a native and learning that not all Americans have guns!

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