The Wormlips Scrapbook

Things could always be worse. Still, the situation is increasingly bleak on the domestic and teaching fronts. I’m grateful for Kim and Sarah, to whom I sent an e-mail a few days ago canceling our lunch date because my spirits are too low. They both called to check on me, and Sarah encouraged me to meet her for lunch the next day, which turned out to be a Very Good Idea.

But I love my students in two of the classes. The kids, on the other hand, remain a challenge. But I’m undeterred, working harder than ever to think of ways to engage their interest in material that’s a mile over their heads. Thus, on my return from Mexico City on Monday, it came as a shock and a serious soul-crusher when the school director suggested she take the class over from me. She has no faith in my ability to handle the situation, which doesn’t do a lot of good to my own shaky self-confidence. Nor did she stand behind me when a parent complained that a child hadn’t done exercises in the classroom workbook. (That’s because the child didn’t bring her book to class.) But I refuse to stand down. In yesterday’s class I was able to wrangle the kids into a semblance of order.

Here’s a cautionary tale from yesterday’s class with the kids: “Lupita, come show everybody the game you played last week with your hands,” I said, waving my own paws to illustrate. “NO!” Lupita shouted. She turned to the others and warned in Spanish, “She’s going to cut off our hands!”

I expect to be deported any minute now. My defense will be that I never dreamed of having their hands decommissioned, but only their mouths.

Not sure what the moral of the story is. Let me know.

Here’s a video I took yesterday of the little shkitters playing aforementioned game. I don’t know why the video quality is so funky. Maybe it’s the subject matter. It’ll take a wee bit of time to load.

And here are two cool drawings of made-up creatures that the kids made for an assignment I gave them. About the first one, Lupita wrote: “It lives in France. It eats snakes.” And the second, by Luz: “He eats bad boys. He lives under my bed. He is extinct.”

Let me stop talking about the reason I’m here and get on to the stuff I’m fitting in on the side. I really do like México. I don’t know exactly why. I like the desert. Overall, the people are wonderful. It’s rich with scenic and cultural and historic beauty. I like the Spanish language, except when I hate it for eluding me. Of course there’s the food. And I even love the chivalry.

Sometimes, though, I find myself wishing I could have gone to South Africa instead. I’m such a pain.

I promised you more pictures of my trip to Puebla and Cholula, which I visited with my supervisor Elka, my jefe Magdalena and my amiga Kim. It was a tense day. I don’t know what I would’ve done without Kim and the mole enchiladas for lunch. I’m glad I had my bandanna to hide behind during the car ride.

Puebla (known as City of Angels) is huge. Various sources say it’s the third, fourth or fifth largest city in Mexico. The old area (circa 1530s and beyond) was the only part we saw as we raced around behind Elka and Magdalena, trying to keep up. A pretty place, but deficient in good coffee. Looming on the outskirts are two snow-covered volcanoes: Popocatepetl (or Popo, which is Mexico’s most active) and Iztaccihuatl: the second and third highest spots in Mexico. I couldn’t get good pictures of them, but I did capture some mole images. Yes, Puebla, too, is famous for something. Many things, actually: its chapulines (those spicy fried crickets); the moles poblano and pipian (with ground, toasted pumpkin seeds) and rojo; and talavera (a kind of blue pottery).

Oh, gross. I’m sitting on my bed with my computer on my lap, and my stomach is bulging out over my blue jeans. How can this be? I’m down to only 19.2 kilos with my boots on. I guess the only place I ever lose weight is in my face.

Okay, I’ll shut up and you can look at pictures, or not. We made our trip on Valentine’s Day (Día de San Valentín), which is a huge deal here. Hey, that’s cool: I just looked up the old Saint and learned something. (My Internet connection knows I’m searching from Mexico, so all I get are Web pages in Spanish.) I just read that the first mention of Valentine’s Day was in a Chaucer poem:

Porque esto fue el día de san Valentín,
Cuando cada ave vino aquí a elegir su pareja.

Well, whaddya think about that Chaucer — decent Spanish for a Middle-English guy.

Cholula is essentially a suburb of Puebla, and home to the ruins of Tlachihualtepetl, The Great Pyramid of Cholula. According to Wikipedia, the name comes from the Nahuatl word for “artificial mountain,” and it is the “world’s largest monument and largest Pre-Columbian pyramid by volume.” I don’t know what they mean by “volume.” Did they weigh it? Fill it with water and then pour out and measure the contents? ¿Quién sabe?

Historically, Catholics have loved to build churches atop the worshiping grounds of other religions. At the end of the sixteenth century here in Cholula, they plunked Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de los Remedios (Church of Our Lady of the Remedies) smack on the crown of a pyramid begun in the third century BC. [Why do people call it BCE now? What does that stand for?] The majority of the ruins is buried under what looks like natural hillside, but is in fact earth-padded construction, still unexplored by archaeologists.

Okay, here are photos. [In the next post: last weekend's trip to Mexico City.]

I hate children, which is too bad because I live in Cuidad de los Niños (named after the giant orphanage nearby) within Colonia Boulevares de San Francisco.

One of the things I’ve always known about myself is that I never wanted to teach kids. Oh, sure: they’re fine at times, like when they’re asleep. But like dogs in a pack or Nazis in a mob, they are dangerous when clustered.

Ironically, here on this very blog I wrote nice things about these same children a while back. But they’ve transformed from a nice little set of Jekylls to a Hyde, a Frankenstein, a werewolf, a zombie, and A Thing That Shall Not Be Named.

It came to a head on Tuesday. I had a brilliant lesson plan, full of drawing and role-plays and hands-on stuff about dinosaurs. I’d scoured the city for plastic animals and had printed out really cool color photos from the Web. I was excited. I was well organized. It was going to be perfect.

Only moments after class began I noticed a shift in its personality. Even the two sweet ones got an evil glint in their once-studious little brown eyes. The others were jumping out of their chairs, hitting each other, talking loudly to each other, and of course laughing. The progression from bad to worse was visible: Jack’s beanstalk shooting toward the sky — or maybe in the other direction. None of my diversionary tactics worked. By the end of class — two hours is a long time for anyone under any circumstances — I was irate, embarrassed, frustrated, addled. To be outdone by a cloud of demons whose combined age doesn’t begin to touch mine — that’s humiliating. They even stole my eraser.

Dena: Boy, did I need you! You’ll have to tell me one appealing thing about working with a herd of children.

They’re sweet kids. A lot of the problem is that this class is way over their head: not my doing, but something I’m stuck with. I’d be the same way if I were they.

At any rate, the woman who runs the school seemed quite pleased by this turn of events. It proved, once again, her pedagogical superiority. Those forty years of experience do give her that slight edge. I’d like to see her produce a radio documentary. However, a few days after her gloat-fest she acknowledged that she doesn’t like working with this bunch either.

Here’s a picture I encountered when I was researching stuff for their class. It cheers me up:

Oh, Syd: Thanks for your help with the rock versus mineral thing. I guess I should’ve taken my cue from the name of the museum: Museo de la Minería de Pachuca, not El Museo de Peñas y Piedras. (Actually, minería is “mining,” but still I should’ve known.) If “mining” comes from “mineral,” what is it called when you’re digging out a rock? What is silver: a mineral? I’ll show you the cuarzo oscuro that I bought; it’s a mineral.

Monster Update: Reina (the Queen) is still at it. I spend as much time as I can away from the house. I’ve lived here five weeks and still she doesn’t bother to remember my name. When she talks about me, she calls me The Gringa which is overtly rude. There are a lot of things I want to call her, but none about her race. It’s so weird: she’ll either be outright aggressive and cold, or she’ll be all faux nicey-nice, but then talk about me to la maestra behind my back. I can’t even imagine what she has to complain about. I’m sure she makes it up, because I’m really quite perfect, except when I use the orange plastic cup instead of the yellow one.

The good thing about her is that I usually can hear her approach. Flapping footsteps across the shiny tile, and quick single knock, and a query: “Puedo pasar?” However, by the time she’s asked me if she can come in, there she is. She’s like my ex-husband. He would turn on the car’s turn signal after he’d begun to turn; I called it his “I-have-turned signal.”

While I’m trying to work she sits at the foot of my bed and chats. As perhaps I’ve mentioned a few thousand times here, I don’t speak much Spanish. When I don’t understand her, she rolls her eyes and throws her hands in the air.

Two weeks to go.

Here, I’ll show you the picture I took of her the other night, just to see if a camera could capture her image. Had it been film, it might not have worked.

Two shocking sights today: Reina beating the crap out of the dog, Karlotta (a huge Rottweiler) who was crying and cringing. And a man whaling on his three-year-old son and calling him a puto. The child was sobbing, as would I if my father accused me of being a cross-dressing male whore. I haven’t seen much of that kind of violence here, fortunately. Mostly I think Mexicans adore small ones.

Two weeks to go.

And I do like Mexico a lot. It’s just that the living situation, the teaching situation, and the town itself aren’t too great. Initially I tried to let all this roll off me. But after sustained exposure, it’s now embedded deeply under my skin and working toward my vitals.

Two weeks … and then onward, to two thousand feet of snow in Vermont. But I’ll be in my barn without people complaining about how much of which water I use.

So I’ll bet you all want to know how much I weigh now. At Farmacia Guadalajara, you can pay two pesos to find out your peso, your altura y your I.M.C. (indice de masa corporal). If your IMC is 19 or less, you’re underweight. If it’s 24.9, you’re normal. If you’re mas de 30, you’ve got a problem with obesidad.

I’m 19.5. I didn’t know that. Nor did I have any idea that I’m 1.72 meters tall. I wonder what that means. Let me check online…

No, the machine is lying. I’m way taller than 5.6430446194225725 feet. Why, that’s 17 hands! I’m thinking that’s about right for someone who weighs in at a little over 9 stones.

And there are other things that are good. I really get along well with my other two groups of students. They’re challenging to work with because they’re at a low intermediate level in English (equivalent to my Spanish, mas or menos) so everything has to be very slow and simple. With more advanced classes you can do more fun and imaginative stuff. But they’re full of character and are respectful, so I couldn’t ask for more. I’m very excited about the progress my conversation class is making on the group project about México. My boss looked chagrined when I started to rave about the students’ ideas and involvement. “This is supposed to be a conversation class,” she reprimanded. Well, they’re talking, and they’re reading and writing and listening. So I’m moving forward.

I have several pictures to show you but I have to get ready for bed. Oh, here: I’ll show you what I almost stepped on at the ruins in Puebla:

I teach a four-hour class tomorrow morning and am then jumping immediately onto a bus to México City where I hope to be able to negotiate the subway system and find my way to my hostel and meet up with my colleagues. Sunday I plan to stay all day at the Museo Nacional de Antropología and after that I’ll watch the Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández. For years I’ve wanted to go to both. Coming back to Pachuca on Monday.

xoxoxo [besos y abrazos y besos y abrazos y besos y abrazos]

P.S. Bully-stick: Thanks for the digital Valentines. An extra x and o to you.

In México, some night watchmen make their rounds in the daytime. You can hear others at 2:00 am, sounding their presence every few seconds with a deep, flutey whistle. It’s mournful, like a faraway steam engine approaching and fading away. As I understand it, the function of the noise-making is to make sure they get paid: without noise there’s no proof that they were watching at night.

I’ve been here long enough that most of the time I no longer feel I’m in a foreign place. When I walk down the street, I’m just walking down a street, albeit one with gaping holes and homicidal drivers inches away. Lining the roads are scores of closet-sized tiendas with people talking in the doorways. I recognize isolated words — enfrente, but I don’t catch in front of what; pequeño, but I don’t know which small thing they’re talking about.

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day. Walking downtown is tricky, negotiating around the vendors hidden among clouds of balloons, and threading through the clinging lovers holding balloons of their own. People are big into bootlegged stuff here: hand-copied DVDs and CDs for a dollar or two: cheap enough that I took a chance on a few unknown Mexican music recordings tonight. I just listened. It’s good to know I wasted only a pittance.

I learned a wonderful thing the other day: if I can’t get a job teaching (if, in fact, I decide I even want to teach), I could become a prostitute in Mexico City. There’s an entire section of the red-light district designated just for the older set. And here I thought my career possibilities as a streetwalker (puta, puchacha or mujer de calle) were only in the past. You should also know that puto and puchaco are transvestite prostitutes.

Tonight I went with Kim to Santa Maria, the ice cream place that makes a score of flavors fresh every day. I had chamoya — mango and chili — on a sugar cone. As we sat there slurping, next to us a guy played a piano: mostly Beatles standards. Then he transitioned to a quiet version of Für Elise (played much better by my daughter) as another guy recited romantic poetry. Obese children frolicked with effort on a McDonald’s-like inflated structure. It was almost like home. At one point I looked across the room and started to read a sign. It startled me. I commented to Kim, “That’s weird. That sign’s in Spanish!”

I still like it when my students get my attention by calling, “Teacher?” I don’t know why I like it. It’s got a slightly more respectful ring than Ho-bag.

I have my conversation class working on a final project that I’m really excited about. I think they are too. Each student will report on a specific aspect of life in Mexico, and I’ll produce it into a video. One person is doing insects, another obesity. One girl wants to do something about fighting-cocks. That seemed a fine idea, until I had to correct her pronunciation. “Cawque,” she said melodically. “Cock,” I said. “Cock.” Then I had to stand in front of the class and correct them one by one: “Cock. Good. Cock? Cock. Cock. Okay, now together: Cock. COCK!” It’s humiliating.

Most of my time here is either in or preparing for the classroom. As is my wont, all my plans go out the window as soon as I embark. When I go on a roadtrip, I map a route and then change it with minutes, as I find a road that looks more interesting. My lesson plans — intensely considered, laboriously prepared — endure intact for five minutes at most, before I abandon them and veer into uncharted territory: sometimes at the peril of my students. I suck at schedules, plans, timelines, instructions. Too many possibilities call me in other directions.

I can’t say I had a great week of teaching. My poor little ones — nine- and ten-year-olds — were subjected to what I considered brutal testing. It was hard to stand by and watch, and all I could do to keep from yanking the power cord from the audio console and shouting, “STOP! Can’t you just leave them alone!” After an hour of this torture, they came to my class. By that time even the tame ones were wild and I had no idea how to reattach them to the planet. In fact, I didn’t blame them. It was an hour of chaos until I could let them go, at which moment they became human again. The littlest — who also is completely out of her element at this level — reached her face up to mine for a Mexican cheek kiss. She has my heart.

I invited Kim to come to my class today because I wanted to do a native-speaker exercise or two with my conversation-class students. They’re pretty low level in English — maybe about where I am in Spanish — but they’re my most advanced group. It’s a four-hour class, which takes tons of prep, but what’s great is that it’s the only class in which I make up my own curriculum. I really hate the two books I have to work with for the other classes. They’re everything I’ve hated about language learning.

Anyway, Kim and I pretended to have a disagreement. First we did it politely, to try to demonstrate the American English tendency toward softening requests and disagreements. Did you know that English uses something like ten or fifty times as many hedging words than any other language? Then we tried a similar dialog, but rudely. That was quite fun. The students were amused as we got into our angry roles.

I graded my first tests ever today. I didn’t like it. I wanted to sneak in extra points for the poor students who weren’t given enough time to understand the instructions. They deserved it for having survived. Don’t tell anyone, but I gave two students an extra point-and-a-half (out of 65): enough to make me feel a little better. It’s amazing how subjective grading is even on a pretty standardized test. I asked Magdalena to work with me on the first couple sections, just to see what she considered wrong or right. Very fuzzy line.

Okay, well, I guess it’s time to show you some pictures now. Oh, but first: I have a new favorite canción Méxicana. It’s one for children. It’s called Naranja Dulce.

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I want to marry his voice. But I’m not going to eat chicharrón, no matter how nicely he sings about it. I don’t like fried pig skins. I am, however, going to ask my students next week each to bring me their favorite Mexican song so I can have an audio souvenir.

Oh, one more thing before I show you pictures from the past bunch of days: As we were walking through el centro de Pachuca, we came across this group of school kids:

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I don’t have much else to show you because all I ever do is work. But here are a few pix, and tomorrow we’re going to Puebla where there may be interesting sights. Buenas noches, mis amigos. (Remember you can see the photos full-sized if you click the little four-arrow thing in the lower-right corner.)