The Wormlips Scrapbook

I made a little farewell video in honor of my year in Vermont. Here t’is. I’m gonna put it on Facebook too, but you saw it here first.

I continue to suffer the aftershocks of my truth-telling. Well, I call it truth-telling but some others seem to disagree. All I know for sure is that I don’t want to say another honest thing in my life. Likely I will, but not at this place.

Each school day I get through, I put an angry black X across the date on my class schedule. Eleven down, forty-five to go. I have a strange and ugly red rash down the right side of my mouth, the likes of which I’ve never seen. It appeared two days ago. Perhaps it comes from academic vitriol.

Tomorrow our assignment for our ICLT class (Intercultural Communication for Language Teachers, which needless to say I call “CLIT”) is to bring in an “identity box,” which is some sort of collection of shite representing “self” to “share” with peers and “teachers.” It’s no one’s goddamned business who I am. No longer will I expose my soul: no doubt welcome news to many of my classmates who have cheerfully endured me thus far.

Vermontwise, things are muddy, which makes driving an endeavor full of surprises. No signs of life under the muck yet, but the snow is almost gone. I’ve taken pictures of my pond, milky-looking as it melts, but I don’t feel like playing with pictures now.

Today I drove a friend to the Brattleboro Greyhound station: a shabby trailer with six white plastic chairs neatly lined up out front. Inside, above the real cash register, I saw a red 1950s Tom Thumb toy cash register. I didn’t mean to buy it. It’s just that I so vividly remember ringing up “No Sale” again and again. According to my subsequent eBay research, the thing is worth about $10, not the $25 I paid.

Last week my beloved elder daughter, YoNenny, sent me a package. It contained a children’s book about a hippie grandmother. Stuck to the outside was a note that said, “Guess what?” and tucked inside was an ultrasound that very clearly showed the tiny head and arms and legs of my grandchild.

Words elude me, and I’m not showing my feelings anymore anyway, so I’ll let this guy emote in my stead:

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[video courtesy of Lulu]

Speaking of which, one of my classmates (whom I like a lot) asked if I wanted to teach in Siberia (her homeland) this coming fall, which would be incredible. But a) I don’t want to be on another continent when I may be needed by my family, and b) I’m afraid that singing guy will be there.

Trouble is, I’ve heard that until one’s degree is actually conferred (November at the earliest, if I get my final project done) it is very difficult to find TESOL work in this country. Maybe I’ll have to sell my Bay Area house and head for some hills somewhere.

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.

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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.