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30 November 2011

Mrs. C

In a written address to me, a student accidentally wrote Mrs. C.

His lament: "I messed up." Then, more hopefully, "Are you secretly married?"

Miss Awful

My 7th and 8th graders just read a story about a terrible teacher. She is strict and bony with witch's eyes; she makes the students march to their rigidly lined-up desks and tells them their spelling indicates they will become dregs of society.

(This was written before Facebook statuses made it easy to keep grammatical errors on permanent display. I still don't think the kids believe me when I tell them that there are people out there who will rank your intelligence by your writing. Also, they really don't believe that résumés with typos get thrown out. Sometimes I don't even believe it myself. I once proofread a résumé for a someone. After I'd marked it with a thousand friendly corrections and suggested that it be retyped, that person told me, "Well, I don't really care; I'll just turn it in like this." The next day, she got the job.)

Anyway, we began our reading yesterday by talking about the characteristics that make a good teacher. (This was partially compelled by an oh, crap moment: the mom in the story reflects on the school's welcoming atmosphere--but lack of rigorous grammar instruction. We all acknowledged that good teacher must exert equal parts strictness and compassion. I then mentally willed them not to tell their parents that their English teacher struggles with a severe imbalance. I'll let you guess which side is not my strong suit. :)

The story ends with the kids stripping the leaves from the teacher's plant, an act of defiance. With teary eyes, she tells them that her aim was only to make them better citizens; if just one of them... And the slapdash little hero steps up to the desk, spelling correctly (for the very first time) the word "flower."

"Teachers are people, too," I told them (to which a boy cheekily responded, "What? Teachers don't sleep here?"), "--and we're going to write thank you cards to some of the teachers in this building." The point was reflection and encouragement, and I didn't expect to be a recipient of many of the cards, especially since I was trying to point them toward other staff members. Still, at the end of the period, one boy handed me a big, white sheet of folded paper, filled with crunched-up pencil letters.

This boy completely bombed last week's test; I'd allowed him to retake it. Entering my room 7th period, his face was wound up with trepidation. "What'd I get? What'd I get?" I handed him the test, which, averaged alongside the other test, scooted his grade up to a cool number in the lower 70's. Still, he let out a giant, "YEEESSSSSSSSS!" and left the room, grinning in Cheshire fashion.

Earlier that day, I had read his card: Dear Ms. C Thanks for giving me an extra try. In the English test you are an awesome English Teacher thanks for all.

That's exactly how he spelled it, full of random capital letters and weird punctuation, and grammar and writing and good communication are what I came here to teach. But, I am learning over and over, they're not the most important thing.

27 November 2011

Thankful

At 11:00 am, the sun poked its fingers through my bedroom window and pried apart my eyelids. Tiempo para comprar barras, SharBear. Time to buy bread.

I threw the comforter off and pulled on a little jacket and scarf--to balance out my natural, grungy, unkempt American look. With hair that insisted on jutting out in the back, I walked onto the front patio and into glorious sunlight. 56 degrees. At the end of the block, tufts of grass poked up, fresh with green after this week's rain. I reached over and touched them: the feel of April.

Coming back from the panaderia, barras in arms, I began to sweat. By the time I got to the crosswalk, it felt like May. By the front door, June.

I remember one other snowless Thanksgiving--in 1997 or 1998. I remember overcast skies and brown and not being able to sled; I remember wearing a boy's sweater from Target, a sweater I thought was fashionable for any gender. I think there was another mild Thanksgiving a few years ago, because I remember walking down a winding hillside highway back toward my aunt and uncle's house. I remember the snowflakes that came after that, the inches and then feet that pushed against our doors the way mean older siblings do, holding us captive in our rooms and houses for Christmas. I remember turning my head to be able to hear last year, thanks to the infection in my right ear.

I could list a million of the things I'm thankful for today, including grassy Novembers, healthy ears, and better taste in clothing. But the thing I remember right now is the Sunday in high school when a little girl walked up to me and said, "You kinda look like Dracula."

She meant my teeth, which were gapped and crooked and looked slightly fang-like. I had been dropping the hint about braces to my parents for years, and the Dracula comment pushed me over the edge. It was during my junior year, at 16 years old, that I finally got them, that mouthful of metal scraping at the sides of my cheeks. But I had made a resolution to myself: since I'd begged for braces for so long, I was not ever going to complain about them. And I didn't. For nearly two years, I felt awkward and kind of ugly and lots of pain every time my teeth got cranked in another direction, but I held firmly to my vow. I didn't speak a word of complaint out loud.

There are few things about my high school self that I admire now (including dying my hair with peroxide and wearing boys' sweaters), but one thing that makes me proud of my past self was my resolve. I was much more disciplined in high school.

Over this four-day weekend, I traveled with friends (Hi, Sarah! I know you're reading this!) and accidentally made a fool of myself several times. And it was great. We had a slumber party and slept in and talked about boys. I had a conversation with a cute old man in a souvenir shop in Toledo, and that made me want to jump back into hardcore Spanish study and learn the language well enough to stay here forever.

I adore living in Europe. Sometimes Spain and I fight over things like its lack of Hobby Lobby and its demand for paperwork, but there haven't been real dealbreakers yet. Living overseas comes with this requirement that you go through a period of disdain for your current country (every book and diagram and seminar has told me so). I think Spain and I hit that point early on, but now we are in love. Granted, the stress of teaching probably takes the focus off lots of cultural stress, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Anyway. Weren't we talking about pointy teeth?

Yes. Here's what I think I was meaning to say. Life is stressful, and stress is hard, and part of being honest is admitting your stresses before they gang up and cause you to face-plant. However, there's a tension between honesty and complaining, and I often allow myself to cross the line, painting over my complaints with words to make them look like honesty (or, dumber yet, just saying negative things so I have something to contribute to the conversation). That's when I need to remember the era of Shar of the Braces and keep my mouth shut.

I thought of it over and over again this weekend: my life is so full. I live in Spain. My Thanksgiving was snow-free. I have friends in multiple countries. My students are hilarious. If I give myself a bad haircut, it will always grow back. We didn't get lost in Toledo this weekend; we didn't miss our train; we spent Saturday walking cobblestone streets; we live in a place where it's customary to follow up a meal with sweet coffee and hours of just sitting around and talking. I adore Spain, even though I know I still don't entirely get Spain, even though I'm sometimes more enchanted with the idea of all the things I could do in Spain than with the things I'm actually currently doing.

Tomorrow will be a Monday, and I know these last few weeks before Christmas vacation are going to be full-to-exploding with correcting and grading and making worksheets. At several points, I'll probably sigh and feel frustrated again and again. But I can't complain, I shouldn't and I won't, because these pains--pulling and twisting me like wire on crooked teeth--are part of living in Spain. Living here, not just traveling through. Collecting memories along with postcards. Being a part of Spain, not just being in Spain.

I love Spain.

And so I want to be honest, yes, and tell you about the way I get stressed sometimes. But I want to keep this at the forefront of my brain to make sure my honesty doesn't dissolve into complaining: I am experiencing these stresses because I am in Spain, because I am doing the thing I want to be doing. I would rather have the stresses and the Spain right now than not have stresses because I'm not in Spain. Does it make any sense? To choose the painful braces over the painless Dracula smile, knowing that it's being shaped into something better all the while?

Perhaps thankfulness is not so much about a list of things I am grateful for. Maybe it is also--and moreso--the practice of remembering that if I had no desire to complain sometimes, I also wouldn't have whatever it is I'm complaining about. Maybe gratitude is just as much about keeping quiet as it is about praising out loud.

Today I am thankful for Dracula teeth.

22 November 2011

Excuses

Best one I've heard so far: "I couldn't finish my homework because I was in Austria, and I couldn't bring my book." I love it because it's true--at least the Austria part.

20 November 2011

Michael Scott: Getting me through Sunday

This is the best representation I have found of what happens to me when it comes time to grade papers. It's called The Procrastination Cycle. (Courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half)



Right now, I have a monstrous paper mountain sitting by my side, and I think I've figured out how to get through it: grade one class, watch one episode of The Office. Grade the next class, watch another episode. I haven't watched TV regularly for almost ten years. This is what homework does to me!

(I also need to direct my gratitude toward the Mulan and Hercules soundtracks for adding to my productivity.)

On a side note, a few of us went to Madrid yesterday. There were all sorts of street performers out, as usual, including many patriotic Mickey Mouses. My favorite, though, was the silver Jesus we met earlier this summer--having a good conversation with Jack Sparrow. They stood talking for a minute; then Jesus with his cross and Jack with his suitcase walked away together, and I thought, You know, that's just like Him.

17 November 2011

Big Girls Don't Cry (A Size 11 Tale)

...until they go shoe shopping in Spain. Because, at least in some stores, it's a contact sport requiring aggression. Fabulous. Two of my least-honed skills.

I went into a shoe store a couple weeks ago, shuffling around until I found the perfect pair of boots. Unlike in your local WalMart, where all the shoes are arranged on the shelf, in their boxes, by size, here you must pick up the shoe from the display, then find a salesperson willing to bring you the size you need. I grabbed my boot and walked around the cramped little store one time, looking for someone who appeared remotely sales-y. They were all ringing up purchases behind the counters.

Ah! But there was a stray lady who had just disappeared into the massive back room, the room with the boxes and sizes and organization and loveliness. I waited for her to come back from her current shoe search. And waited.

And waited.

Also, I waited.

A woman and her daughter brushed past me to one of the cashiers, the one at the very end of the counter. They began asking about sizes, and she told them that, yes, she could help them, just a moment. She was rummaging through a bag.

Still no sign of the back-room lady.

Eventually, the mother and daughter scooted away. Aha! Now was the moment to snatch their saleswoman. I looked down at the back of her head, willing her to look up at me. Come on, come on, can't you feel me looking at you? Come on... Seconds later, there it was. She turned her head upward. Eye contact! Eye contact! I started to speak. "Es posible--"

"Un momento." She held up a hand, then disappeared. And that was the last I ever saw of her. Not that I waited much longer to find out.

In the States, I hate trying stuff on in stores where the employees have to unlock the dressing rooms for you. I hate when they knock on the door and ask how you're doing, and I hate when they offer to bring you something in a bigger size, and I hate handing back a pile of clothes and telling them that none of it fit, but thanks anyway. I like finding my own shoes and not answering questions and not feeling the pressure of someone I don't even know hovering nearby, waiting for me to admit that I can't squish my legs into a pair of jeans.

The grass is always greener. Oh, Spanish salespeople, can't you see that I'm floundering when the largest size you offer is a 41? (That's roughly a women's 9.) Are you laughing at my new fuzzy, purple slippers because my heels hang just a sliver over the back? Will anyone offer to help me?

Juliana and I made a second shoe-shopping attempt on Tuesday night, wandered Calle Mayor for a few hours, slipping into every little shoe shop we found. But the prices were too big and the boots were too small. At least the salespeople were kinder. They asked if we needed help right away. Juliana would explain that we were looking for a size 43, 44 maybe? And their eyes would get wide, and they'd offer to look for something in the back, or--more often--they'd shake their heads and apologize, saying that the store had nothing bigger than 41.

You know what this means, don't you? It means that multiple trips to Scandinavia are completely warranted this year.

11 November 2011

11 Things

In honor of 11.11.11 (and because I forgot to have my kids cheer at 11:11 this morning), let's celebrate this acutely mathematical moment with 11 random awesome things from the past week:

11. Watching a students-vs-staff game of football after school. I spent 8 years attending high school and college football games and still don't know the rules. Still don't care to. But I love the ambiance of football, and I love that even our little school in Spain can participate in such an autumnal tradition.

10. Said by a 9th grader during a presentation: "It is wrong to ascribe the death of Poe to rabbis."

9. 7th grade boy: "Does this say 'Babe Ruth'?"
Me: "Yep. Babe Ruth. One of the greatest baseball players of all time."
Boy: "Babe Ruth? That's a guy?"
Me: (internal Sandlot moment)

8. While discussing rhyme scheme--and after reading the line in The Raven that says, "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping/As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."
8th grade boy: "It was just P. Diddy/He said, 'Here, I found your kitty!'"

7. During a class project--a TV interview with Montresor from "The Cask of Amontillado"--one student's tender heart kept itself on display.
Interviewer: "So, why would you kill your friend?"
Boy: "Why wouldn't I? Oh, I'm sorry, that's so mean!"

6. Tuesday night. Girl: "When you finish that book, can I read it?"
Me: "Sure."
Wednesday morning. Book is waiting on her desk. She runs to me, wraps me in a hug, and cries, "Thank you!" Girl is seen toting said book around all afternoon.

5. Written on my whiteboard after yearbook club: "Ms. C = best teacher EVER." Only because I have the best 8th graders ever. Thanks, kiddo.

4. Going all the way to Barcelona and finding out that the supply of Barcelona Starbucks mugs had run out. Then coming into school and being handed a Starbucks bag. Yes, Caitlin brought me one of the magical and elusive treasures this morning...after finding it in Madrid.

3. Waiting in my email inbox, the sweetest gift from a friend at home: un cheque regalo (gift card) from Amazon.es. For the kids.

2. Starting a new lit. unit titled "Places in the Heart"--and talking a bit about what we mean when we say "heart." The page had a picture of the big love sculpture in Philadelphia, and I commented, "This statue--it's like a shrine to love. Anyone know where this is?"

Said the boy who's been sopping himself up with dreams of love all week: "My bedroom!"

(He meant that quite innocently, but they laughed for about a thousand years anyway.)

1. In that same romantic vein: writing similes and metaphors. I asked one boy to compare a heart to a box. "Oh, I know, I know!" said Leprechaun, nearly bursting out of his chair. "My heart is a box full of you!"

It probably doesn't hurt that the potential object of his affection is sitting next to him in class.

Happy 11:11pm on 11.11.11, everyone!

04 November 2011

I live in Spain, in case none of us were aware.

This morning, we started the day out with the middle school prayer breakfast, a healthy meal of churros y chocolate. Sitting at my table was the boy who spent all yesterday in drooling reverie over the wedding in his book, and today was no different. "I had a dream about my book last night! It was so nice! They got married!"

I had a dream the other night, too, in which visitors from the States came and complained about Spanish dinner times. I think this was prompted by Caitlin's and my attempt at ordering Chinese a few days ago. We were calling both phone numbers listed, wondering if the restaurant was closed for All Saint's Day...and that's when we realized it was only 7:30. In my dream, the visitors balked at the thought of waiting for supper until 8:30. "We could get on a plane and fly to the UK in the time it'll take us to eat!" they cried.

And I tore into them, screaming and crying, "This is Spain! You have to love Spain for what it is, and here we don't eat until 8:30! The restaurant doesn't open early. You need to stop! You need to just be patient and stop expecting everything to be American because you are in Spain."

It's possible that I am now releasing pent-up stress in my sleep.

However, I do wonder what it will be like when I go back to the States in a thousand years. Am I going to know what to do with all the space on those giant sidewalks? Will my heart sink at the lack of old people sitting on their plastic chairs in the median at night, just chatting away? Will I miss the men carrying man-purses and the leash-less dogs and finding plazas on every block? Am I going to be devastated that most restaurants don't have outdoor seating? Woof. I sometimes think that in 2013, I'll step off the plane and feel like Lucy tumbling out of the wardrobe. I will step back into the exact time and place I left, knowing that behind me is some other world, rich and deep and blazing with color, and I will be unable to pull others through rows of fur coats to find it again.

No matter how stressful my school days get, I do love being in Spain. Sometimes, as I walk to my friendly neighborhood ATM, I look up at the stork's nest perched atop the bell tower that towers over Camarma's town center, and I think, "Oh my goodness, I live in Spain. I LIVE IN SPAIN." I don't know if things like this ever hit you full-on, or if they only sink in slowly, little by little, small slaps that remind you of who you are and where you are and what on earth you're doing.

03 November 2011

More notable middle school sayings

You may remember the "sociable fellow" from the other day, the one who couldn't recall a single awkward memory. He and another boy had done a particularly good job reading aloud in class--these are two of the three boys I'm usually getting after because they blurt out answers or fall out of chairs or just can't figure out why they are standing up while waving a pencil in the air. I pulled them aside after the bell rang to make sure they knew I had noticed something good about them. "I just wanted to let you two know that you're doing great at showing expression without being over-the-top. Thank you."

The one smiled vaguely, nodded, and walked away. But the sociable fellow beamed. "I know, Ms. C. The people in this class are all over the place, but I behave myself."

Um...not exactly what I was going for. Not wanting to crush his spirits with the truth, I tried to rephrase the compliment: "Well, everyone in this class can be a little crazy at times." (Emphasis on the everyone.) "But today I was really pleased with your reading and the way you put your heart into it."

"Yes, I listen much better than the other kids. Sometimes they are just not paying attention." No wonder it's so hard to think of a time he felt left out! It's hard to be on the outside if you're sociable enough to reinterpret everything you hear. :)

---

"Leprechaun" returned to class after two days of being sick. He was simultaneously pale and flushed, eyes drooping. He hadn't finished the homework, so I excused him from the room to work on the assignment while the others corrected theirs. "If I don't come back," he groaned, "don't call an ambulance. Call the morgue."

That prompted the others to plead, "Can we act dead before he comes back in the class?"

"Sure," I said, and with that, they drooped into various comatose positions on the floor. That is, until I told Leprechaun he could come back in. He stepped through the door, glanced at the boy sprawled across a desk on his back, and asked, "Why do you look like a cockroach?" It all went downhill from there, 'cause you can't laugh and be dead at the same time.

---

One of 3 boys in English 9 (3 boys, I should mention, and 13 girls) noticed an upcoming assignment worksheet on the corner of my desk and groaned, "Group work. I do not like working in the group."

"Why not?" I asked.

"I like to do this in Korean. No one in the class speaks Korean. Well, [boy] does, but he is a patriot!"

I'm still trying to figure that one out.

---

Finally, one of the 8th graders swept into the room today with a dreamy look cast over his face. He was smiling a goofy smile into the air until I asked, "What is happening?"

"I finished my book last night...and everyone got married! It was sooooo cute!" He dropped into his desk. "I just can't stop smiling! I have been smiling all morning." Once the other students had entered, he handed the girl his book and cried, "Read the last page! It's so sweet! Read it out loud!" And we all listened as she read about the marriage ceremony and the final kiss. Meanwhile, the boy was nearly melting out of his clothes, so warm and mushy had he become in the glow of this fictional love.

In the middle of the lesson, I noticed him gazing off again and smiling. "All right, come back to me."

He snapped to attention but grinned the entire rest of the class. "They all got married! I'm just so happy right now. I can't stop smiling."

With kiddos like this, I can't, either.