Good News: Part two in an occasional series about how much I love my life

After returning home from a great trip up to the north of Spain with Joseca, I came home and checked the status of my application for a third year of teaching in Andalucía. My stalking payed off.

Application Status: Admitted (3/1/11) 

Which means I have successfully completed the triple whammy of turning this:

Málaga school year calender '09 '10

into this:

2009 - 2010

2010 - 2011

(Calender of Málaga 2011 - 2012 school year should go here but does not yet exist. Use your imagination benevolently and think of a calender full of colored vacation days.) 


Normally the Spanish government lets you have 2 years maximum, but a private American company, CIEE, allows you to apply for a third year provided that you meet their requirements. They are responsible for a number of auxiliar positions in Andalucia. Applicants pay a program fee which covers an orientation, travel insurance, assistants with visa things, optional Spanish classes, and other things that would have been great my first year but kind of redundant in my third year. But I will be getting another year at my same job working for the Junta in a bilingual public school.

I have been really worried these past months from Christmas break onward about the upcoming year. After much thinking, perhaps even reflecting (what a pretentious word), I couldn't produce a single desire to leave Spain yet. I'm not finished here yet. I have more Spanish to learn. I have to be a better teacher. I have to continue my relationship and friendships. I have to keep up with my French and private classes and flamenco and volunteer and tapa outings and everything. I have to travel around Eastern Europe. This is the first time I'll be in an apartment or house of my own for more than one year. I'm thinking about going to Ikea right now and buying decorations for the walls because I'll be here long enough to make it worth it. It just isn't right to leave now. I love my life here and am so excited about it I'm updating my blog at 4 in the morning because I'm too excited to sleep. 

Which means that I am staying in Andalucía, hopefully in Málaga though I don't know yet, for another year as an English teacher! This is exactly what I wanted to happen, my best case scenario for next year, and it came just as the cherry on top of a fantastic week. Love love love love it.

I'm getting old

To fulfill the culture portion of my "North American Language and Culture Assistant" job description, an English teacher in the 5th and 6th year classes and I decided that it would be a good idea to give short presentations each week in class on an aspect of American life.

To you know, counterweigh things.

Benalmádena, and indeed the entire Costa del Sol of Málaga, in Southern Spain, is host to an astounding number of British expats. A 2005 survey indicated that the number of registered British citizens in Andalucia is 63,472. Most live on the coast in Málaga.

In my school, a large number of blond kids, who stand out against the darker Spanish kids like the protagonist of that hit 1995 movie Powder, are enrolled.

Anyone remember this movie?

Myself, being blond and Anglophone, am therefore obviously British.

Can you spot the foreign children in this photo?

In my presentation today I included at the end a brief list of awesome things the United States has created. This list included things such as cowboys, the moon landing, Hollywood, Google, jeans, and hip hop.

I took advantage of the hip hop slide to show a photo of some b boys and to put on Changes by Tupac, because I'm so hip hop. ...And because none of the kids would notice that I put on a video that drops the N-word in school.

I was expecting the standard "Ahhhhh!" gasp of approval that comes with putting on a cool song. But it never came.

IT NEVER CAME.

The kids were sitting there, oblivious. "Do you know that song?" I asked.

"What song... Oh that rap one? Nah," they countered.

They just sealed their fate. Week 2 in my presentations reminding the kids that I'm not English will cover American music. And there WILL be a quiz.

Sharpening the weapons: Part four in an occasional series of observations on the Spanish public school system

It must be razor sharp. Razor sharp or the job will be difficult. A blunt instrument is not acceptable in our line of work. Nope, sharper. Test it with your finger. Can it draw blood just by touching it? Good, now you're ready. 

The kiddos, as previously mentioned, have an unhealthy obsession with coloring. They take it very seriously. On Monday, as it was Valentine's Day, we of course made Valentine's Day cards. One little boy, Juan Luis, in 2nd year even gave one to a little girl, Carlota, that he has a little crush on. She blushed. It was so cute.

Cuteness aside, the creation of such serious items is serious business which requires seriously sharp instruments. For example, this:

 or this:

are clearly unfit for duty. Look at that point. Shameful. You couldn't dot a lowercase cursive j with that. It would look like an accent mark. And that crayon? How am I supposed to draw the pollen centers of these flowers with that? HOW? TELL ME GODDAMMIT!!

The kids require something like this:

and this:

Look at those points. One quick jab in the jugular or the eye and you are finished.

I can appreciate the satisfying feeling of writing on a nice crisp piece of A4-sized white recycled paper as much as the next girl, but I also know there are limits. If I am shading an entire piece of paper blue over which I will draw stars or flowers or telephones or whatever, you don't need a sharp crayon. Turn it on it's side and press hard.

As a teacher, I struggle with the kids need for surgical-quality office supplies. Mainly because the only means of achieving these sharp points is this:

One old-fashioned plastic box with a razor blade, screw, and a hole. These pencil sharpeners are also notorious for making points that fall off two seconds after you sharpen it. Which of course means another trip up to sharpen your pencil.

Also, only one sharpener per classroom.

This one-per-classroom thing would make sense on paper, since only one child could come up to the trash can to sharpen their instrument at a time. In practice, however, it creates longer lines than a discoteca on a Saturday night. I imagine the kids are thinking this:

"Hmmm, I've written three whole words already, including my name; this tip is getting a little dull. I should sharpen it before continuing. Aw crap, there are already 7 kids waiting for the sharpener. The teacher said a maximum of two at a time, but she's all the way over there. Hey! My buddy Antonio is up there! I haven't seen him in like 9 whole minutes! I have something urgent to tell him. I have to tell him that my dad is going to Antequera tomorrow to see my grandma because she has a cold from all this rain and that he might bring back 90 bags of extra produce they have and maybe we can pawn off 73 lemons on that blond girl who comes to my house to speak all those nonsense words in English or whatever at me. Yeah, this is urgent. I'm going to get up..."

And another gets in line.

This goes until I turn around and notice the gaggle of children congregating in the front of the room (which you cannot do by the bathroom on an airplane anymore, something those kids should learn lest an incognito fire marshal were to be aboard their next U.S.-bound flight).


"HEY! One, two, three, four, five, SIX niños. Laura, Juanmi, Marimar, Victoria, y Miguel a tus sitios. Sólo puede salir UN niño a sacar punta a la vez!"

I have many a schoolday thought of what would be the ultimate solution to these minor crowd control issues, and if I had a means of obtaining this item, which I have never seen in Spain, and the money to buy it, I would become a golden goddess in the teacher's lounge.

 BAM! Problem solved.

The Scarlet Letter: Part three in an occasional series of observations on Spanish public schools

The letter went out last week.

You know, the letter to the parents.

I proofread the English translations so that all the parents would be informed, even those who don't speak Spanish.

It's important news. Critical, really, to the functioning of the school.

Scary head lice man! (Artist's rendering)

It's lice!!!

Public elementary schools, with all the kids crowded in groups of thirty and hanging their coats side by side at the back of the room and wrestling on the patio during recess and whispering secrets with their heads really close to your ear provide an optimal breeding ground for head lice to thrive, like Boulder, Colorado is for hippies. Or Portland, Oregon is for hipsters.

When I first found out, my reaction was threefold.

1. How do you say lice in Spanish? (It's piojo.)
2. Maybe I could teach the kids that lice has an irregular plural form. As in one louse, two lice. Or one foot, two feet. Or one cactus, two cacti. That idea was scratched (get it! haha).

Lastly, and most importantly:
3. Where are they? Because they better not be in the classes I'm in.

The usual suspects. But look how cute they are!

I casually began to ask questions and observe attendance levels in the classrooms. Rumors are everywhere. I don't want to be hasty in branding any class or student in particular with a scarlet letter, but I refuse to get lice.

I never had lice as a child and I'm not breaking my record now. The idea of a 23-year-old going to the pharmacy to get lice shampoo would indicate either that I'm dirty or I'm the teen mother of a child who is dirty, as I look to young to be a teacher. Additionally, I always go to the same pharmacy, for everything. They recognize me. I'm not going in there for lice shampoo.

Luckily, it was determined that the lice were probably in the 3rd year classes, though I'm suspicious because there were quite a few 1st years missing last week. I spent the week keeping my distance as best I could from the kids and their hair. So far I've made it lice free, but another bug did get me.

The Spanish Influenza!!

Well, not actually the flu, just a cold and sore throat that I blame on a combination of changing temperatures and working in an elementary school, a bigger haven for germs than Torremolinos is for gay people. (It's fun making comparisons! Try it out below in the comments section if you so desire!)

I've been recuperating at home for a few days, and missed two days of work. The reason being is that the most common cold medicine is a beast called Frenadol.

The entire family of Frenadol products.

Frenadol is a powder you mix with water to create a pale-orange concoction that you take like a shot of tequila, because of how bitter and acidic it is. It's hard to decide if it's better to be sick or to take Frenedol. It leaves me sleepy, hazy, and unable to focus on anything. Sometimes when I walk it feels like I'm floating. Therefore, when I woke up this morning and took a Frenadol, I knew I wouldn't make it to work today. So here I am, updating my blog in a Frenedol-induced drugged state, as drugged as Hunter S. Thomson was when he wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas!

....sorry about that, that was a stretch. It's the Frenedol talking. I promise a better entry soon.

Seño, ¿se colorea?: Part two in an occasional series of observations on Spanish public schools

A rather odd fact about myself: I kind of like vacuuming. It's somehow really satisfying vacuuming the carpet in the living room and making parallel lines. It's methodical. It's calming. It's my inner obsessive compulsive. Don't get me wrong, there are a million things I'd prefer to do rather than cleaning the house, but of all the activities involved in cleaning, vacuuming is probably my favorite.

Those kinds of mundane, methodical tasks are satisfying because you can see the progress. It's not a challenge, it's not difficult, and you get instant results, just like all of those New Years weight loss commercials say. Another thing that is strikingly similar to vacuuming; creating straight lines and uniformity, instantly seeing results, is coloring. Kids will color absolutely anything they can get there hands on. In elementary school, with the abundance of coloring items, including but not limited to crayons, markers, colored pencils, oil pastels (whoever let THAT into an elementary school apparently has never tried to wash that stain out of a white shirt), paint, glitter paint, felt-tip pens, etc. etc., and the steady flow of worksheets, is the perfect storm for coloring madness!

Lucía going to town on a Christmas tree.

So everyday, in every class, whenever we have anything that is paper, the question comes up:

"¿Pero seño, se colorea?"

Every.Single.Day.

The paper could be a math worksheet, with numbers and lines, and they bust out the colored pencils and start coloring in the squares.

Starting them young.

Coloring is great, I don't have too much against it. But when you are in school, supposedly learning to read and write in Spanish and English, coloring becomes a battle field between teacher and student.

For example, today with 2nd years we are talking about the environment. We are going to learn about the water cycle and the different forms that water can take: liquid, gas, solid. I want you to label the pretty diagram with the waterfall and snow and steam with the name of that form of water in Spanish and English. Whilst writing on the board, I hear the sound...

A scraping, shuffling, clacking sound of little hands combing through the boxes of crayons that are situated on their desks like a donut shop in a fat camp, looking for a red or blue or whatever colored crayon.

Whipping around and zeroing in on the noise like predator.

"NO se colorea!!!"

The offending child lets go of the crayons and sits straight up. Silence reigns, I return to attempting to write these words neatly in cursive, which I haven't used since I was those kid's age. Faintly, a rustling is heard in the back. Not the sweet sound of pencil and eraser scratching softly on paper, but the hush of crayon laid sideways, painting in huge blocks of color on a background.

"NO SE COLOREA chicos! Estamos escribiendo las palabras en inglés! Nada de colorear! Suelta los colores!"

Silence. Pencils on paper. Making the rounds to check spelling and have them pronounce the word. Suddenly, a tiny hand begins tugging on my shirt.  

"Seño I'm finished." 

It's perfect. Spelling is correct. Accent marks over the correct letter in Spanish. Capital letters. It's begun... Soon, another hand taps me on the arm. And another. And another. They tug on my shirt. They grab my wrist. They step in front of me. They grab my leg. They're closing in from all sides!

"Seño what do we do now?"

It's the early finishers! The kids who pay attention the first time I explain things and have the skill to write more than one letter at a time without double checking it on the blackboard. Quickly getting bored, they get up to talk with their friend on the other side of the room. With 7 minutes left before the bell there is no time to begin a new activity and half the class has not finished. The talking distracts them. They start talking. Things are spinning out of control. It's getting louder. And louder. And LOUDER...

"Chicos! Si hayais terminado, COLORÉALO!!!"

Color it.

The kids run back to their seats and start scrambling for crayons. They outline, they shade, they dot, they add stars and flowers to the pictoral water cycle scene. Absolute silence in the class. The kids who were dawdling while writing the words somehow magically find the focus to get them finished, eager to get on to coloring. The bell rings, everyone has the words copied, everyone is sitting, everyone is smiling.

Coloring: a teacher's best friend and worst enemy.

"Muy, muy mal hecho": Part one in an occasional series of observations on Spanish public schools

Let's go back in time for a moment to an internet sensation I'm sure we all remember. Circa 2003-2004 a disgruntled computer programmer from the Midwest named Maddox created a very simple website in which he vented his frustrations at the world and proclaimed his manliness to all of internetdom. One of his principle schticks was making fun of children's artwork. Apparently this has spawned its own website. 

For example, on this piece of art, drawn by John, age 8, Maddox wrote: "Ding Ding! Here comes the shit-mobile. I've never seen a fire truck that needed to be shaved. I would rather be burned to death than be saved by this hairy piece of shit."
 

Maddox gave it an F.

Now, I think he had some sort of point. It's a very American thing to coddle your kids and to think that everything they do is absolutely incredible and proof of their genius. The self-esteem philosophy that schools, councilors, daycares, and any table of mothers at a Starbucks espouse states clearly that you cannot, under penalty of your kid feeling like a failure and dropping out of school and ending up as an addict on the streets, criticize their work.

There is a limit. Not everything your kid does is exceptional. You may think it's awesome that they drew a firetruck, so creative, but statistically little John (no relation to L'il Jon) up there is not going to grow up to be the next Picasso. Praising everything a child does condones the idea that they always do incredible things. It breeds mediocrity, and future Arizona State Sun Devils.

But it's understandable that a child does not really have the motor skills to color masterpieces. Or to write perfect cursive. Or to cut a razor sharp line with a pair of safety scissors. Therefore, understandably, most people's reactions to Maddox's website are negative. Why would you make fun of a kid like that? Who would do such a thing?

Who would do such a  thing? The entire staff of the Spanish public school system would. No problem whatsoever in absolutely reaming these kids. Seriously, none.

"Está muy mal hecho! Muy mal! Quién eligiría este color?"
"Has saltado la linea! No se colorea así. Hazlo otra vez!"
"Eso qué es? Ni puedo leerlo. Ni una palabra. Escríbelo bien, anda."

(In front of the whole class, holding up the offending document for all to see, look of desperation.) "Mira lo que ha hecho Javi. Mira. Se colorea así? No. Para nada. Lo ha hecho muy, muy mal."

The kids, however, seem to be totally fine with it. Nobody cries. Nobody tells their mom that the teacher hates their drawing of their dog. They stare earnestly at the teacher for a while and then erase it and do it again, while I pick my jaw up off the floor and think about how many parent-teacher conferences would be required if that were to happen in the US.

For me, I find it hard to yell at them. Twelve years of self-esteem focused public school will do that to ya. Plus the kids are adorable. So cute. And they say funny things. And they think I'm cool (I hope). Thus, I have a hard time getting mad at them when they misbehave. It's like yelling at a room full of puppies. Loud, messy, hysterical puppies.

So last week, in a class of second graders, we were working on some form of coloring/writing worksheet when one of the kids was just scribbling all over the page. This kid, and there are a few in every class, just screws around the whole time. So I, annoyed, grabbed his page and started to yell.

"Eso es lo que he explicado? No. Yo pensaba que ésta es una clase de segundo. Estoy en infantíl? Me he equivocado?"

Suddenly, I realized what I did. I just called this kid out. I gave him back his paper and have spent the last week praising things he does right. Oops. Probably should find the balance between the two extremes. Don´t praise everything, but certainly don´t put on my seño face and scream away. So this entry is for you, Pablo from 2ºA. Color away.