education

Just Another Day in Spain

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The first day of first, third, and fourth grade! In SPAIN!

It begins at dawn, though the remainder of the world would not consider 7:30 a.m. dawn. Perhaps the sun setting at 21:00 in mid-September and not rising till 7:30 is just one of the reasons Spaniards wander the streets till the middle of the night, why they sleep in the middle of the afternoon.

I rise and get myself ready, everything about my movements pins and needles. The first day of school is always nerve-wreaking to mothers, but for my girls to start school (and not the one I wanted) that will be wholly in a new language, in a foreign country, where none of us know a soul? It’s no wonder I didn’t sleep.

They don’t particularly want to go, either, but are happy to put on regular clothes rather than the silly uniforms required by their charter school in the States. Before I know it, dawn has passed, dishes are washed, and we’re walking down the six flights of stairs to the street, where we see other mothers and children walking. This brings instant relief to my girls, who love pointing out all the children, noticing their backpack types, their shoes, their clothing.

We stand outside the gates of the school with the other parents, taking pictures like we always do on the first day… until we realize that we are the only ones taking pictures. Of course, let’s put a spotlight on our Americanism. Soon a nice mother comes up and speaks in English (albeit broken), telling us what to do as they open the doors and letting us stand on the patio. In a few moments, a siren-like bell rings, and all the kids shuffle in the school, parents left outside. Bruce and I exchange looks of panic. We don’t even know what classes the girls are in. How will they? But before we know it, the secretary comes out and allows us in, only for us to discover the school is so tiny that there is only one section per grade! (And I thought we were lucky at their class size limitation of twenty-three!)

We look through the doorways at all our girls’ apprehensive faces, wave goodbye, and head onto our day of adventure.

All I need to do is make copies, pick up my debit card at the bank (26€!!—must everything cost an arm and a leg??), and spread out flyers advertising my English tutoring. We are interrupted in front of the copy shop by a huge strike moving along in front of the Ayuntamiento, men in blue uniforms holding signs about the government robbing them, all plugging their ears at optimal moments before letting loose cannon-like firecrackers in the streets, their voices and faces a mixture of jubilation and angst. The fluorescent-green uniformed police stand on the outskirts of their demonstration, their raucous and cannons just a part of their day.

We move on into the busy morning of Cartagena, taping up flyers and stopping at the grocery store where everyone in Spain is shopping before school gets out. We tear off giant pieces of French-style bread on our way back to the apartment, and before we know it, the arduous four hours of school are over, and we stand again with the rest of the parents outside of the gate.

The same siren releases our girls, who come out with giant smiles and tales of their day so similar to the tales from home, relief washes over all of us. Mythili made four friends, has multiplication homework with four numbers on top, and is adamant about us buying her books and supplies by morning. Riona admits that she understood only some of what her teacher said, but she made a friend who shared crayons with her. Isabella, sentence by sentence, tells me all the grammatical errors and vocabulary she fixed for her English teacher, pointing out that she could teach that class (I have no idea where a daughter of mine would get an idea like that!!).

I then set out on an adventure of my own: shopping for the infamous libros de texto I’d been told would cost a fortune. I ride the bike across town, Mythili’s school supply list in tow, to Carrefour, Spain’s Wal-mart. It is only when I enter the store and begin looking at her school supply list that I realize, again, that I don’t speak Spanish. Libreta? Carpeta? Caseras? As if school supply shopping isn’t difficult enough, I am searching for items that I have no clue what they are! Can Mexico and Spain make an agreement and share the same language, puuhh–leeez!!

Then the books. NONE are on the shelf. Lined up behind the counter are all the organized-people-in-the-world’s preordered, boxed-beautifully libros de texto. I start to panic, and take out my iPhone, quickly typing in the ISBN numbers the school provided, hoping Amazon will save me as always. After four entries of “No disponible,” I begin to realize the truth behind what my Spaniards had warned me was a huge publishing scam. No one can buy these books on discount or order them online. We are victims to overpriced bullshit!!

I send a Skype chat to Bruce that just repeats FUCK four times, then finally have my place in line fulfilled. Giving the sales associate my iPhone and Mythili’s list, he disappears into the back to retrieve my books. Well… two-thirds of my books. The remainder he doesn’t have, and as usual, I don’t know the right words to ask him if they’ll order more, and I’m running late anyway, so I book it out of there, penniless in my pursuit (ummm. 5€ for a NOTEBOOK??)

I fill my backpack and two saddlebags with all the supplies, patting myself on the back for at least having the adamancy to bring my bike! What a relief! I rush up the six flights of stairs with all that in tow, thinking, I sure as hell don’t need a gym this year. Then shower, dress, off to my first appointment with potential clients, who meet me in front of the giant JCPenney (AKA Corte Inglés, twelve stories in the making), and of COURSE we go to a café. Ironically, I order my Spain-usual café con leche, and they each order a Coke.

We talk for more than an hour, and somehow manage, with my broken Spanish, to arrange tutoring with their three- and six-year-old sons for four hours a week! (No need to mention I have no idea what I’ll be doing, and I think it’s just glorified babysitting in English, but whatever!)

Then Bruce and I make our first Spanish tortilla, for the most part successfully interpreting the Spanish directions on the baking powder package, and it’s a hit with all the girls, who BEG to go to the park after dinner as those are the hours that kids will actually BE there. And they’re right. It’s party time at the park, and Isabella makes a friend who comes up to her parents on the adjacent bench bragging about her American friend, with her parents’ response being, “Que suerte.”

We are lucky. While in the park I receive four emails inquiring about tutoring!! On the walk home at eight-thirty, Mythili has switched her ever-imaginary talk with dolls to Spanish, and we put the kids to bed so I can head to Corte Inglés for one more attempt at books… to no avail.

But it’s just another day in Spain. There’s always tomorrow between nine and two, where I can witness a strike, have a café, and make the most of every moment.

The Spanish Siesta is NOT a Myth

/ lovizmytrio / 2 Comments

Today I left my girls in the park with Daddy, ready to ride across town (it’s only a mile) so I could put up flyers advertising my English tutoring. The park was new to us still, a dirt ground, a paseo of palm trees, bougainvillea, and hibiscus bushes intermittently spread among playground equipment. It was empty, totally empty, at 3:30 in the afternoon. The Spanish siesta is NOT a myth.

I pedaled across the ghost town of my city, seeing only a few cars. All the garage doors and persianas were closed up, waiting for tomorrow or the five o-clock hour. Only a few cafés were open and bustling with activity. I rode through the neighborhood adjacent to the harbor, at a slow pace as I still found myself mesmerized by all the shops, cafés, and architectural varieties. I managed to find fifteen poles/phone boxes to tape up my flyers, and came across the small park with the lorikeets that was close to one of the first apartments we looked at. Everything here, I realized, is becoming familiar to me. Soon I will know all the street names in my neighborhood, the major interchanges in other areas, and all the bus numbers we could possibly take to get across town. I won’t have to question which roundabout to turn left at, or which direction La Plaza de España is.

And while it is a relief, a burden lifted, at the familiarity of it all, there is also a sense of loss. Of fear. Eleven days into this new adventure, this almost still feels like a vacation. Yes, the four months of hell and paperwork beforehand kind of tainted the vacation feeling, but once we arrived, we’ve been eating tapas, spending the day at the beach, meandering around mesmerized by the warmth of the Spaniards, the intricacies of their city planning, and taking everything in with new eyes.

But tomorrow? Reality sets in for sure as the girls have their first day of school in their new country. Soon I’ll be working part-time and filling in the extra hours with tutoring sessions, and I will be traveling all over our city. And it will be ours, to keep, for a year.

So why am I afraid? Feel like I am losing something? Because I fear that with the newness wearing off, the vacation-like feeling disappearing, I won’t be so enthralled. I will be irritated with the deserted park at three, the dinner I don’t want to wait till nine to have, the cafés we can never afford to visit. And it might be just us. No family. No friends. Just the five of us, the girls getting into fights as they’re trapped in the apartment alone playing with the same old ten toys we lugged across the ocean, Bruce and I, trying to manage a lifestyle in a country neither of us are familiar with or accustomed to, the language barrier a thick wall that sometimes feels insurmountable.

It’s scary, isn’t it? Strange, unreal, many words creep up into my pedals as I take in the salty air, as the breeze from the Mediterranean pushes me up hill beside the Roman Theatre, as I come across a park, a roundabout, a beautiful view I haven’t seen until this moment. Am I crazy for choosing this, for putting my family in this situation? I’ve asked myself that thousands of times in the past months, and the only answer I can come up with, as we make ourselves at home, is that we’ll never know. There is no going back from the choices we’ve made. I will have to pedal further, see new sights, take in a different view, perhaps, to keep the adrenaline of the past couple of weeks burning in my blood, making me grateful for this amazing place, this amazing experience that I know in my heart we were meant to have.

A Simple Plan, Interchangeable Anomalies, and a New Side of the Coin

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

So this morning I started out my day with a simple plan, telling my husband I’d be back in an hour: I was going to retrieve my girls’ school registration papers from the cultural liaison at the school where I will work, go to the bank, and go to the girls’ school. The cultural liaison was meeting her colleagues at nine for some coffee before work. I pedaled over on my “American” bicycle (a Fuji, I would explain later, made in China like everything else!), and arrived right on time, right on American time. While waiting for the Spaniards to make their usually-tardy appearance, I took a photo of the dumpsters here. Strange, I know, and not typical of a tourist attraction. But the segregated dumpsters that specify glass, plastic, paper, and trash are what make this place special to me. For one thing, all residents have access to them at all times. For another, why can’t America do this–segregate our trash (I mean, we segregate everything else, right)?? Perhaps if more cities adopted this idea, everyone would recycle!

After I took my photo on my iPhone, a nice Spaniard approached me and introduced himself as one of my colleagues. He already knew my name–though I think I blend in quite easily here in my Western clothing, with dark, curly hair, standing next to my fancy bike with my fancy phone make me appear all-American–and of course his name was Carlos (I think there are only four Spanish men’s names!). We were still waiting on Flora, the cultural liaison, so I sat down and ordered another delectable café con leche. All the cafés on all the street corners carry these tiny cups of espresso-like coffee that is quite simply a culinary orgasm with every taste, and I have found myself quite addicted to them.

We sat with two other colleagues who immediately began chatting away with me in fast-paced Spanish. I have learned to nod a LOT. Because all I do is introduce myself in Spanish, say a few simple sentences, and everyone assumes I’m fluent! I picked up most of what they were saying, but by no means all! There were quite a few funny moments over the next hour, especially when I thought they were asking if my bike was made in America, and when I said it was made in China, they laughed and said, “No, did you bring it from America?” to which I affirmed and received the response, “Wow, you brought your husband, three daughters, and a bicycle to Spain? Very unusual!” I would have liked to have responded with, “You will find me unlike most people you know,” but of course with my lack of vocabulary I just nodded and said, “Sí,” my current favorite word.

Finally Flora came, papers in hand, but I was not allowed to leave. No, por supuesto! After a time they all stood up, I discovered the bill had been paid, and we began to walk across the street to the school. Since I don’t officially start my job until October 1st, I was not expecting to follow them. After all, it was already past ten, and the Spanish work day ends at two, and it being Friday, I knew that two meant one, and I had to register my girls in school and go to the bank. But one of them said, “Come with us, Karen,” and before I knew it, they were clearing a space for me at the huge table where all members of the English department were having a meeting.

It was with deflated hopes when I quickly realized that the English department does not hold their meetings in English. Instead, Flora took charge of a fast-paced meeting where everyone began talking at once, sharing ideas, writing down book titles and schedules in these tiny little planners (not a single laptop!!), and throwing my name into every other suggestion. (“Karen knows all about the American culture, she can teach us!” “Karen can make a notebook of different food and clothing of the US!” etc.).

It wasn’t until almost noon when I heard my first English words of the day. Carlos engaged me in a conversation so he could hear how I speak, and broke into a ginormous smile when I began to talk. “Your accent is so easy to understand! I don’t know anything about Colorado, but I like it very much! Last year our native speaker came from Northern Ireland, and no one could understand anything she said! You are our first American, and we are so glad to have you.”

So… I barely made it to the bank, where there was a line out the door (everyone is restrained by the siesta schedule), and by the time we walked over to the school at 1:30, the secretary was locking up the building. All the same, she took my papers, noted to her assistant, “These are the Americans!!” and told us, “See you Monday at nine!”

No matter where I go here, or what I do, it always takes longer than I think, and the people are always nicer than anyone I’ve met anywhere. I am just as much of an anomaly to them as they are to me, bringing our interchangeable experiences to a new side of an old coin.

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Our Visa Miracle

/ lovizmytrio / 2 Comments

clouds, mountains, lake, sun
a beach day like no other
WE’RE GOING TO SPAIN!!!!

image

Beginning, Middle, End

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let me tell a story.
it will begin with 25 hours
of uploading documents,
calling colleges,
begging for recommendation letters,
watching my perfect English writing
get butchered into
fucked-up Spanish by Google Translate,
sealing it all up a month in advance,
and moving on with my life
(mostly indifferent)

it could begin with
my 19-year-old dream,
thousands upon thousands of dollars
poured into a degree
i always hoped to utilize
upon its fulfillment

in the middle:
i’ve lost count of crying sessions–
my tears are too deeply rooted on my face
for anyone to really see them (me).
maybe i could find them in the house
i’ve spent a month packing
into one tiny room,
or in the resignation paper
where i signed my life away,
or in the credit card statement
i will never be able to pay back

in the end:
i could be here,
homeless, jobless,
relentless in my pursuit
of everything i thought i wanted,
when all it took
was putting it all on the line
to realize that line
should never be crossed

My Last Four Days

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

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

You Are Unforgiven

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i told him
FROM NOW ON
i’m writing in extended metaphors
then no one can get pissed
feel left out
never forgive my words

YOU ARE UNFORGIVEN
don’t quote your
classroom time
don’t try to be
the person you are not

the teacher
you are not

it would take
less than one day
less than one hour
to step into that classroom
and see the deepest connection
to students
that you will ever witness
it would take
ten minutes
sticks in hand
plethora of patience
resting on lips
less than the time it takes
for you to compose
the first draft
of your horrific email

I WILL NOT WRITE IN METAPHORS
because you need to hear
that the teachers you claim to support
are fleeing like migrating birds
and soon you will be
in the midst of mediocrity

go ahead
tweet your latest
run out teachers
who know better than you
how to form
the society
you claim to adhere to

Crossroads

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every morning
as i come to my crossroads
just after dawn
touches her fingers to sky,
i make my decision–
an uphill battle
breaking my muscles,
the wind of the highlands
an ever-greater challenge
than the meandering creek

i pedal for simple sights:
the middle-aged blonde
with two matching goldens,
(sometimes leashed, sometimes free)
the bright yellow spot
of a SmartCar, and me
always wondering just where
on the curvacious beauty of
a road i will pass it,
the ever-silent deer
who peer intently at my machine
as they stand cautiously
at the edge of civilization.

and today? a gift,
the top of the most tenuous climb,
the wind bending back leaves
and straightening out flags,
pushing against my will,
when what should cross the road
but a lone pronghorn,
its native spirit leaping
over barbed wire and into
the chaparral, leaving me to
finish my ride, open up
a starvation-induced chocolate
whose wrapper reads,
You are exactly where
you’re supposed to be

(i don’t throw it away,
its aluminum words
imprinted on the crossroads
that may lead me elsewhere tomorrow)

Letters of Idealism

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i see the sky saving sprinkles
for after my ride home,
and tears are close
to making my face fill with moisture,
not because i’m afraid,
but because the mountains,
so far, so close?
they’re touched by the clouds
i can’t quite touch,
their gray-blue beauty
my reason for loving it here

i read two letters today.
one from Frederick Douglass
to his former master,
one from a substitute teacher
to my principal.

the first? a slur of
nineteenth-century idealism
intermingled with self education,
shared amongst
twenty-first century students
whose idealism reads
in between the lines of hatred
that bleed through generations

the second? a slew of
twenty-first century truths
about our shattered system
and the bright light
that shines through
in my second home, my school,
the place where i know
the idealism can break
the mold of those same clouds
that bring beauty,
that save me from rain

Tree

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in one week my life
will sprout a new leaf–
i hope to know
just where the wind will take me
as i add another ring
to my tree

will i blow to the east
and the sun that rises
so coldly each morning,
or stay west
where my roots are buried
as deep as my soul?

i wish i could see
the color of the bud
as it blossoms from my branches,
but only time will tell
just which way the wind will blow