The school on the hill, you know, the one that looks like a prison

Classes began on August 17th. I didn't feel as nervous as I normally do on the first day of school, but still went in early to observe an English teacher do her first day. I really didn't want to go in cold. Her classes watched her silently, with rapt attention. When I approached a couple of students to grab a chair, they jumped to their feet and wouldn't sit until I asked them to. I was thrilled.

Later, I began my first of six classes for the day. There were nearly forty students in the room. Some stood when I entered, others did not. Basically, they went ass wild. Some of the boys were visibly mocking me, howling with laughter, asking me if I actually spoke Spanish, though I was speaking in Spanish. I could hardly be heard. I know that I am an adult, but still don't like being an ass. The only time they shut up was when I turned to the board and began furiously writing my entire syllabus on it - grade weights, expectations, schedule of exams. Normally I would just hand them a syllabus, but this is Mexico - the land of no copy machines. I guess I figured something out: give them work, they shut up. I was horrified. And five more classes to go. Four of the five went well, nice quiet kids, writing furiously as I wrote furiously on the board. I guess they knew what my back looked like. Huge classes, all pushing forty. I was surprised by the questions they asked "What is our schedule of classes?" - basically "When will you visit us again?". Again, no copies. I told them, and they would carefully construct boxes and grids in their notebooks - just to figure out when they had each class. I actually came home optimistic; four out of six isn't bad. And, I had made it. There would never be a first day of school in Mexico for me again.