Many happy returns

After a completely pleasant conversation, way back in August during the second week of school, a smiling teacher looked at me and said: "A lot of really experienced teachers applied for your job and didn't get hired. I don't know what's going on. I think it's something political".

I remember being stunned, a little broadsided. Yeah, I guess it's completely mysterious why anyone would hire me over someone else.

"I applied for your job," the teacher at a neighboring school informed me today, after inviting me to her classroom so that we could coordinate our Spanish programs. "I wasn't hired. I'm too expensive, I have an advanced degree".

Well me, I come cheap. I'm a bargain. K-Mart prices. Maybe I'll get on over to college someday.
"After I saw your schedule I was relieved that I didn't get the job" she added.

"Ms. Maestra we missed you!!!!!!!!" the kindergartners shrieked. "We're glad you're back from Chicago!!!!!!" one yelled. Lola squinted and gave me an enigmatic smile as she sang the buenos días song. Dragon hissed happily. Gilbert slyly kicked the other kids at the table, raised her hand and said the children were kicking her.

I missed them too.

The Way Life Should Be

So I bolted from the school and went straight to the airport. We were off Monday and Tuesday for day of the first tourist to the Americas, I worked Wednesday and spent Thursday, Friday and Saturday at the Fulbright conference in Boston.

I personally prefer this type of work week.

It's a pretty frightening look at the American education system when experienced teachers from around the world spend a couple of months teaching in the U.S. and recoil in horror. "I cannot plan quality lessons in the time allotted for planning" one remarked. "I have no life," many others stated, "I am working twelve hour days and weekends to keep up with planning, grading and paperwork for my classes". The bottom line was that the demands on teachers in the United States are ridiculous. It does make one wonder if teaching in the U.S. is the smartest plan and if the grass is possibly greener in various other parts of the world, including developing countries. Go USA. We're number one.

And the behavior of the students...well that is another story. "I am not used to thanking my students for coming to school" one international teacher commented with painful sincerity. I am deliberately leaving out other descriptions of the student behavior they have encountered. It's too dark and awful and indicative of our failings as a country.

I am not sure what came over me when I had to address the entire crowd as an alumni resource. After describing my position in Tijuana and how to make the most of your exchange, I found myself wandering...."My host school also did not provide me with a lot of guidance or indication of norms and expectations. So I just did whatever I wanted....do whatever you want! Do what you do!" Even as the words spilled from my mouth I knew I was in trouble, especially when an American school administrator stood up to challenge me.

I'm not so fond of public speaking.

I love the Fulbright program. I really mean that when I say it. When I see their view of what public education should be, I am freakishly in agreement. Leaving them makes me sad. I departed the conference conflicted, yet oddly motivated to re-enter the classroom and um, do whatever I want.

Día de la Raza

"Take this leaf for good luck. When you go somewhere, think about what you want and touch it" Lola told me gravely, her small hand sliding through the chain link fence and slipping a green leaf into mine. "I'm moving out of my house," she continued, "I want to live alone. I'm going to the tree house. I watch you from there, but you don't know it. I see you walk to school".

"Jamal, we are going to design the butterfly wing. As a group, you will brainstorm your design and color the wing. We are going to design the butterfly wing...", "Do you know who I am?", "Yes, Jamal", "Do you know who I am?", "Of course, we are going to design the butterfly wing" Suddenly, a bright light shined in my eyes and Alec's face was in front of mine. I was in my bed, sitting up. It was the middle of the night.

"Joe, quit manhandling Laurie" I called to two kids about to throw down in the leaving line. "Manhandle! I love to manhandle!" the booty wiggling blond boy called out "I manhandle my sister. I manhandle my dad!"

And off I go to Boston tomorrow.

The Kids Are Alright

Some kids really can't sing. Most do alright with the little Spanish songs we sing in class, but there is usually one extremely nonrhythmic kid in almost every group. "BUENOS DIAS, BUENOS DIAS!" they thunder, completely off of the CD and louder than any other member of the class.

I give them extra points for that.

Let's just say things are not really going well on the job. I've decided to go Israel on them in the remaining eight months that I will work there. I can't win no matter what I do, so I'll just do whatever the hell I want. It worked in TJ.

I miss seeing signs that point to Los Angeles when I drive on the highway.

I don't know why the fire drill alarm startled me so much. I've done a million of those things. The Kindergarten teacher I was speaking to about my apparent ineptitude looked really stunned when I screamed in her face.

I was invited to Boston by Fulbright to help out with this year's teachers from Mexico. They always seem to come through right at the right time, when I feel the most maligned. "Well you may not approve of me, gross public school administrator, but the FULBRIGHT folks do!". I'm flattered and looking forward to it. I never thought I'd see them again.

"Maestra," the only serious Kindergartner of the sixty-whatever I teach stated "a bird pooped in our classroom today". He stared at me gravely when I burst out laughing and glanced out of the door, only to see my seventies-style bang wearing Dragon student walking by. He stopped, waived nicely, then hissed loudly and ran outside.

I guess it's all in a pinche day's work.

Al claro de luna reposa...

As I hung over the trashcan in my classroom vomiting, I heard the door swing open. "Hi Maestra!" a chipper parent called out "We bought you this book!"

"Today is day deux" one of my bosses announced to the kids. "Dos!" some of the kids howled back. "No, I took French" she retorted "I don't speak a word of Spanish. Well, except taco".

"My parents walked through the desert to get here!" I heard Ignacio state defiantly to another student. "¿Es verdad, Ignacio?", "Sí" he responded, "No sabía, Ignacio, no sabía yo. ¿Cómo llegaste tú, en carro?" "No," he responded "en avión. Nací en México".

I thought it was hard to have undocumented high school students in my classes. To watch them try to get through school, knowing it really wasn't worth anything. They could stack up as much education as they wanted, but not having at least a green card would always lead to working a variety of undesirable jobs reserved for illegal immigrants, in the country where they had spent the majority of their lives. I found it even more difficult to look into the hopeful eyes of the smiling, moon faced eight year old.

I put on my jogging clothes and waved at the old man the kids throw rocks at for being poor and black and headed to the park.

"DON'T SAY THAT YOU LOVE ME!" Fleetwood Mac howled in my ears as I ran. My mind's eye pictured the beige hills and scrubby vegetation of Arivaca that I saw while I drove the last section of paved road last summer, the part before everything turns to gravel and dirt. I pictured little moon faced boys. My stomach felt angry. I remembered Carla crying in my Spanish III class. "I remember those flat trees" she told me "the way that place looks. My back has scars from the barbed wire..."

"The kids have been a little, um, crazy" I told one of the lead teachers as she came to pick up her class. "Oh God, I know, I know. It's a full moon..."

Lord of the Flies

I knew August was going to be hard. Driving from Tijuana to Atlanta, finding a house, starting work immediately and quickly trying to figure out how to teach kids that can't even read...I didn't count on September being the same way.

"You got screwed," one of my co-workers told me. "we've never had a Spanish teacher teaching as many hours a week as you are".

I have started playing Norteño and Banda nearly everyday in the classroom. It puts me in a good mood. At the sound of the horns and accordions, the kids eyes widened and they started clapping and bouncing. Some of the ADHD kids literally started screaming. I'm glad they like it. I like it too.

I am not good at being a sucker. It burns in my stomach and sharpens my tongue. I wanted this to work, I really did. Even if I ever receive an equitable situation at this school, I don't think the bad taste in my mouth will go away.

It's okay though. I can work a brutal teaching schedule. The lessons will just become sub-standard and I will start getting not so friendly during four hours of non-stop teaching without even a bathroom break or two seconds of transition time. And during the hours that follow the way too short break. I know your kid is special to you, but I may not remember his name, because nearly one hundred and fifty kids have filtered through the classroom in under four hours and another eighty kids followed them a short period later. I hope it's cool. I'm cool with it. I'm a team player. I believe in this school and I really want to make things work.

The kids are freakishly physical. The don't ask, they grab. If someone's in their way, they shove them out of the way. If they want your chair, the sit in it and push you out of it. If they're angry, the hit. And slap. And scream. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laurie and Jonathon, two five year olds, with their shoulders back, chest to chest, chins jutting out. And then fists started flying.

They throw rocks at old people from the playground and call black men "hobos". They bully kids for being poor. They threaten the few Latino students and even have insults specifically for Mexicans. They use racial slurs.

It freaks me out.

Ignacio is a sweet, moon faced boy whose smiling shy face greets me three times a week in Spanish class. I don't want to know who threatened him. I think it's better that way. I know xenophobic kids learn from their parents, but it doesn't stop the dark feelings I have towards them.

You're lucky to have a job! I'm highly educated and wildly qualified. I am not lucky to have a job. I am supposed to have one. The supermarket doesn't take beads and sticks in exchange for food. Employers love this job market. It's giving them the "take it or leave it" attitude. Long days. No breaks. Low pay. You're lucky to have a job!

Actually, I'm not.

One Month

I live in a beautiful, green, very Southern neighborhood. Bungalows and Victorians from the turn of the century, err, not the recent one, the one before that, line the streets. I am constantly struck by how pretty and green and humid the neighborhood is, though I lived here for years and only took a one year hiatus.

My house is pretty swank too. For the first time in my adult life, I have central air conditioning. My school is even gorgeous. Parts of town I haven't been to in a while have suddenly developed in to enclaves of slick hipness. When did everything get so nice around here?

My wallet is not full of San Diego trolley passes anymore. Credit cards that I never carried in Tijuana have taken their place, along with miscellaneous video store cards and my driver's license.

"When I got out of prison, everything just felt surreal..." Mike Tyson commented in the documentary that bore his name. Strangely, I related to that.

My overloaded teaching schedule is quickly killing me. I don't think the one meal, two hundred student a day plan works for me. I walk home with my stomach burning and churning and sit behind my house and stare into space for at least fifteen minutes before I am ready to speak to anyone.

"I'm having some discipline issues with Rob and Warner," I mentioned to their lead teacher "any background information that might help?". "Well. I am very firm with my class. Very firm. They are not allowed to misbehave". Um, thanks. I personally just let my class go ass wild.

I came home from a year in Madrid five years ago. The gas stations didn't have gas and desperate people on rooftops flooded the television. "I don't have any ID!" the exasperated man yelled at the DMV agent when I went to replace my driver's license. "I'm from New Orleans!". When I started teaching a year later, strange area codes kept popping up when I tried to call students' parents because they were chronically absent, failing or had discipline issues. I finally looked up the area code: New Orleans. I wonder where those kids from four years ago are now and if they ever found a real home.

When I walk into the teacher's workroom, people don't even look up from their lunches. Not even a nod, let alone a "good afternoon". I find it rude. In Mexico, this would be heresy and would definitely haunt you with future dealings with teachers and administrators. Am I being too sensitive?

Another full moon passed a couple of nights ago. Two months ago, I was heading to the desert in Arizona. A month ago, I was beginning my drive home.

The borderlands have never felt so far away.