Big Brother Wins

It’s time to say goodbye. I tried editing. Removing posts. I started with the word drink as my post searcher.

Twenty-eight posts. (I might mention that I have 1,058 posts, the rest of which do not contain this word, but would it matter?)

During my search, I read about the beauty of my girls on a glorious Sunday. Of parties I’d had a great time at. Of weekend joy and love. Of coworkers having a moment of happiness after work.

And, gasp, about that awful thing that almost everyone I know does after work, but I’m not allowed to do since I’m a teacher.

This is one of the most frightening novels I’ve ever read. It bothered me so much when I read it, but even more now. I feel I share this room with Winston:

For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do. (1.1.12)

I sit here now in my living room in Cartagena, Spain. I have spent the greater part of two weeks sharpening my résumé, rewriting my cover letter, and completing online applications so that I can bring my family home.

They are counting on me. Trusting me. Just as they did a year ago when I told them we were coming here.

I cannot let this writing, soul-fed, heartbreaking, ever-too-honest writing, keep me from providing for my family.

And so, just as Winston faced his biggest fear of rats, took his sip of ever-bitter gin and ended the novel with, “I love Big Brother,” I am going to have to concede.

Big Brother wins. I am taking down my blog. And with it, so many pieces of my heart that it will never beat quite the same again.

Substitution

There are no substitute teachers in Spain. When teachers have to miss school, another teacher in the building must cover their classes. Since they have to do this, then they are not required to actually teach, as it is technically their planning time. Because they are not required to teach, the students automatically feel that this period is then free time. Their behavior and attitude change tremendously, so that they think they should do nothing in these circumstances.

While this does discourage absenteeism on the part of teachers, what a pain in the ass! What a loss! I know many good teachers back in the States who reiterate the importance of quality behavior for substitutes, leave behind valuable lesson plans, and make sure that their students don’t miss an entire day of learning when their teachers are absent. Not only that, but think of all the people on the substitute list who are at least partially gainfully employed. There are so many unemployed people in Spain who could qualify as substitutes. They could kill three birds with one stone.

Sometimes the logic here seems backwards. They sacrifice so many things because they think they don’t have the money, when it is obvious that the majority of the government’s money comes from sales tax. The more people who have jobs, the more things they buy… it seems like a simple formula to me. I know it’s more complicated than that, but they could really change their educational system just a bit. Substitute teachers can continue on with the much-needed education, and students would then benefit, teachers would feel less stressed, and others would be employed.

Just another reason for me to be grateful for what I have… back home.

Huelga de la Lluvia

bizcocho in bed
Spanish huelga on the streets
sunny ‘snow day’

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Drooping Blue Tents

we have a car
but are now so accustomed
to walking
that it sits in front of our building

we move across town,
the streets as familiar
as the smiles on their faces.
we order beer, wine,
and a baklava-like mirengue-topped
pastry that tastes like s’mores
and is gobbled up in two minutes

they stand in front of the circus sign
and we make our way across the bridge,
Reina Victoria in our back pocket,
coupons ready

for the first time we witness
the financial crisis
that weighs heavily on
the drooping blue tents,
kids as young as five performing,
throwing in camels, pythons,
and even Monster High,
holding up a sign at the end,
¡Viva El Circo!
while two-thirds of the seats
are vacuous reminders
of where people are
on a Saturday night

best. circus. ever.
is what my girls say,
never complaining once
about the long walk home

but all i can hear,
all i can see
as we move along rain-washed sidewalks,
their tiles as slippery as death,
is the American song,
“Unbreak My Heart”
whose Spanish rendition
and brightly-lit acrobatic act
brought tears to my eyes

the words
though they didn’t belong
the seats
though mostly empty
trampled out the desperation
that sits unspotlighted
in the back of every
slightly drooping circus tent

Dear America: Love Your School!!

You are so lucky!! I have always known this, and tried not to take advantage of your wealth. I mean it. We don’t have all the typical luxuries that many Americans have, especially in the past 9.5 years of having children and only one salary to support them, one TEACHER’S salary. But still. Now that I’ve been here, I realize day in and day out how SPOILED we are. We have a huge home with a huge yard, two cars, the ability to go anywhere at any time, and jobs that ROCK!

Let me tell you about what it’s like to be a teacher in Spain. To be a student in Spain. You will have, more or less, the same hours as in America. But the similarities end there. Students, you have to buy, and carry across town, all your textbooks. Your parents will put forward 300€-400€ every year just for this. Teachers, you can say goodbye to the dream of having your own classroom. You’ll move around all day, toting books and supplies, to white-walled, un-air-conditioned, packed-to-the-gills classrooms with teenage body odors seeping into every moment. And just when you thought you could make an amazing presentation to your students on the first day of school with the PowerPoint you spent hours preparing, filled with special effects and links to important sites crucial for their understanding? Sorry! There is not a computer here. Not a projector. Not even an old-fashioned, transparency-laden, ten-years-back projector, nor a screen! (Don’t even MENTION a document camera, please, or I might die!) A whiteboard? Please, a whiteboard? Of course not! Everyone loves the feeling of dry chalk dust on their palms for the rest of the dashing-through-hallways day! (Just in case you were under the impression that you could tote your Mac and projector from America and use Wifi to access everything you ever needed–God forbid you have such an idea!–I might add that Wifi pretty much doesn’t exist here, and if it “does” it’s a lie, sham, scam, and disappointment, because you might wait five minutes for one page to open!)

A couple of hours will pass, and it feels like it ought to be lunch time. A siren announces that it’s… not lunch time. Oh, I’m sorry, your parents can’t afford to feed you? Sucks to be you, no free-and-reduced lunch forms to fill out here! No cafeteria! Perhaps your parents packed you some pan and you can wander around the school for thirty minutes counting down till your main meal at 3:30, after the last bell.

If you’re a student and you need special services, such as, um, Spanish as a second language? Special education? A teacher might just come and pull you out of class every day with a small group of other students, a mixture of all types of needs, and you will neither know why nor have a single phone call or form sent home to your parents.

I know what you’re thinking, America. Sounds a lot easier, doesn’t it? There’s no stress about decorating classrooms, arranging desks in a special way, filling out paperwork and attending IEP/ELLP/MEETINGS! But come on! Just try it for one day, and you will be forever grateful for what you may have thought was a desperate situation, a no-respect, get-me-out-of-this-profession situation. Trust me. One day in a Spanish school, and you will learn to LOVE your job, your board of education, your rights, your Americanism!!

And that, over everything, I think, is why I’m here. 🙂

Dear Spain: I Have a Plan for Your Instability!!

Yes, I know, walking down these brightly lit, tiled-sidewalk streets with the happening cafes, shops, and panaderias, you think you have it all. But are you forgetting about your poor people who can’t afford to pay 653€ for a stroller? There are people here without jobs, and your solution is to raise taxes on children’s textbooks and raise gas prices?

I have a better idea. Why don’t you copy America and sell things. USED.

Yes, I know it’s a foreign concept (hence the America part). But my husband and I went into the only two shops in this city we could find that offer used products, what we would call back home pawn shops, and were able to buy a like-new scooter for our girls for 9.50€, when we saw the exact same one at the Chinese store for 28€! Why would anyone in their right mind pay 28€ when they can pay 9.50€?

But that isn’t the point. The point is, that pawn shop was PACKED. Every time we’ve walked by, when it’s closed, people are waiting outside for it to open. And everyone in Spain was there this morning trying to find something used. Or sell something to make a little extra money.

These people have a plan, but it isn’t complete. I know you’re obsessed with your clothing here (don’t tell me different–I’ve seen the coordinated, designer-clad two-year-olds walking about), but it’s time to market that desire. Have you ever heard of a consignment shop? A used furniture store? Play-it-Again Sports? You people are missing out on a market that could turn this country around!! Everyone benefits! People sell, people buy, the business takes a cut, we all get a good deal and have more money to pour into your small cafes, panaderias, and the like.

Forget your government corruption, your doomed banks. Find some savvy investors and open just one shop. Start with baby and children’s items. It’s a win-win. Everyone here loves families, and everyone here wants a bargain. I guarantee that within a few months you’ll turn a beautiful profit, enough to open an adjacent shop selling clothing… you get the idea. Screw your instability. As we always say in teaching, no sense in reinventing the wheel. It wouldn’t be the first time you copied an idea from America, nor the last…

Hey, I’m no business major, but a girl’s gotta survive. A country’s gotta survive. What do you think, España??

My Last Four Days

this will be my last four days.
i have one cardboard box,
a creekside path,
an empty laptop bag,
and just a bit of my soul
trailing me out the door.

i’d like to leave it open,
for you to say, Come back.
i haven’t asked for much–
and given so much instead,
but you don’t see the notes
i receive from a teacher
twenty years back,
the one who saw the light in me
when i was thirteen,
when i am thirty-four

instead you are blinded by dollars,
hassles, and paperwork
(aren’t we all?)
so much that the dream
that once burned inside you?
it has withered away
into a tiny flame
barely bright enough
to blaze beside my fire

Uprooting

could i uproot us all
for the fear that returns
year after year after year
for my sister’s presence
my life our lives their lives
could i uproot us all?

i wonder how much
you would hate me
you would learn to hate me
they would hate me
if i made such a choice.

Whisper

funny how you mask yourself
for their protection
and i wear the button
proudly on my jacket,
picture-whispering
my beliefs for all to see.

when your thoughts
bubble up out of you
in an eruption of disparity
from the tight-necked clothes
you’ve kept around you,
the lava stings my view
of who i thought you were.

you wait for molten rock
to form as ash settles,
but i am trapped underneath
the red flow from your mantle,
unable to break through the crack
in the crust you chose to expose,
unable to even whisper what i see.

Tide

her words flow over my shoulders
in waves of icy discomfort.
i watch your accepting faces
swallow the saltiness of
the ocean that year after year
never lets loose its high tide.

but you are swimmers
and her words won’t drown you.
you will build rafts
and zip up your wet suits,
ready for the relentlessness
of the moon-over-shoulder tide.

i wish i learned to swim like you.
when i spit back her wave of words
to him (hours later), my breath escapes me,
stolen by the tide. my arms reach
for your rafts, your suits, your warmth
that the icy waters swallow as i drown.