The Wormlips Scrapbook

I’m so far behind on this blog, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to catch up. Since my last entry there have been trips to México City (I still want to put up some video of the amazing Ballet Folklórico), trials and tribulations of life in Pachuca, an evening at the fútbol stadium watching the Mexicans’ beloved Tuzos, exploration of Teotihuacan and a black market mercado outside México City, and of course lots of teaching and hearing the dog being beaten.

As of last night I’ve survived 72 hours in the classroom. (I succeeded in getting my children’s class back from La Maestra.)

I left Pachuca this morning. Here is my luggage, with La Serpiente blocking my escape.

When my taxi didn’t arrive as scheduled, I dragged my stuff a block to the busy street, while Reina yelled at me and rolled her eyes. Apparently she had some better idea, but who knows what. Oddly, when a cab arrived and I said goodbye to her, she started crying. As I wrote to my mother, it was probably because I didn’t grease her palm before departing.

I survived one part of the trip I’ve been dreading: dragging all my stuff from the bus station to the airport terminal to the shuttle area to my hotel. After dumping my stuff I had a free afternoon to explore la ciudad muy grande. First I went to Mercado de Sonora, which is the strangest market I’ve been to, with all kinds of herbs and flowers and bark and candles and magic stuff related to Santa Muerte. I don’t quite understand her yet, but she’s fascinating. She’s sort of a barrio version of La Virgen de Guadalupe: much more sinister. I like her. The Virgin has a soft, gentle smile. Santa Muerte has a skull for a face, and she carries another skull and a scythe. Of course I bought a small statue of her. Her devotees were a bit wary of the only gringa within miles, so I didn’t linger.

I also found my way to El Museo de Arte Popular. I know how to ask directions pretty well, and by now I understand much of the reply, listening for key words: “block,” “straight,” “corner” and “walk a really long way in that direction.” Trouble is, after I walk a really long way in that direction, I find that the direction-giver had no idea what s/he was talking about. I remember my first ex-husband telling me years ago that Mexicans never want to disappoint; if they don’t have an answer, they’ll make one up, just to be helpful. It’s true.

Way-finding aside, my Spanish is worse than ever, but my Spanglish is on the rise. I had a blast today in México City talking to Mexicans who have equivalent amounts of English to my Spanish. Our conversations were colorful collages of never-before-heard linguistic structures.

And lastly, I visited El Palacio de Bellas Artes. I love the city’s public gathering places. They’re full of life and music and old buildings and the smell of Mexican street food.

As I left Bellas Artes I looked way up at the Mexican version of the Sears Tower. When I saw what I saw, I said right out loud, “Aw, hi Dad!” There, in bold glowing letters, was his name: Ears (short for Earlobes). It’s a nickname I gave him — I don’t know why — a million years ago. I suppose it seems silly, but it was like he’d come all the way to Mexico —  land of celebration of the dead — to visit me.

The metro, on the other hand, I didn’t like as well, particularly just after dark when I headed home tonight. It’s confusing enough not to know where you’re going or what the signs mean, but to do it at top speed is especially novel. During rush hours they divide the platform into a men’s and women’s section, allegedly because the men are pushy while the women need a kinder, gentler environment. I was a little surprised to be nearly squished to death by herds of forceful, armpit-height mujeres.

To regress all the way back to last night: I’ll pop one video up here before I leave. It’s of three of my students on our last night together: the painfully shy Illaly (who wanted to drop the class because she couldn’t understand me, but stuck with it), Jaime (talkative and muy amable) and Alexis (whom I aptly dubbed “Motor Mouth”). I was very touched by what Jaime said, and you’ll see why.

And at this same class, I produced a Freudian slip on the white board, which sent me into hysterics, much to the mystification of my students. I was drawing a grid so we could play Basta, in which people race to think of words in a particular category, as you can see. But instead of putting the names outside the matrix, I got confused and wrote the boys in the wrong column. Or did I? I had to stop the class so I could take a picture.

Okay, now I’m caught up on today pretty much. Guess I’ll have to work backwards from here. But for now… I’m out of the clutches of the Evil Forces in Pachuca, and headed for Philadelphia tomorrow and Vermont the next day and who-knows-what after that.

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.

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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.]

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.)