Auspices for Auxiliares: Life on the Mild Side

During my post-college life I have had to succumb to what Americans may call a dirty, four-lettered word. Yes, we all are heart-achingly acquainted with it. The thought of this word is married to the sound waves of our morning alarm clocks, its execution impales the center of our daily lives, and its dreadful frequency mirrors a seemingly inescapable, abusive relationship. It is a juggernaut—total and ubiquitous. It grates our neurons, scars our bodies, and mars our souls. It is what we call ‘work.’

By a combination of coming out of the right womb, a little curiosity, and lots of paperwork, I have managed to find a reprieve from as much work as possible. You see, as happenstance would have it, I happened to be born of a nationality–which happens to speak a language in demand–and I happened to be raised by people of a suitable socioeconomic status, who happened to endorse a proper education in my life. After receiving that education, I decided to go the unconventional route. I decided to move Spain… gracias a Dios.

Please, don’t think I am boycotting the American way. I am proud to be from the States (prouder to be from Texas, though, of course). I do not intend on becoming an expatriate, I don’t use our president’s picture as a dartboard, and I have never attempted to test the incendiary efficacy of my Zippo with our flag. I don’t revile our culture and I still believe in the American Dream. I have just decided to dawdle about other dreamscapes for a bit.

Besides, the American rinse & repeat formula will still be there, staring me in the face when I return, reminding me of my desperate need find a nine-to-five job, rack up some credit card debt, build a 401K for my golden years, have 2.5 kids, and maybe find a trendy McPyramid scheme to get rich quick.

Let it be known that I am fully aware of how socially repulsive it is to be lazy. And yes, I have had many jobs before, ranging from driving semi-trucks in Oklahoma, teaching video-editing to high schoolers in Indiana, and hand-setting bowling pins in my hometown’s smoke-filled, German-styled bowling alley in Texas. However, I am not opposed to other culture’s views toward work. If it happens to be that a culture I am living amongst places life first and work second, then ¡que buena suerte para mi!

Keeping all these convenient justifications in mind and leaving my magniloquent estimation of American culture–as I know it–aside, I hope to describe my job so you, my dear reader, can really get your fingernails underneath it. Words will have to serve as our primary medium of communication. I am not exactly tickled pink about the prospect of having upset parents showing me what a real matador looks like after they see their hijos on the Internet.

When I first arrive to what I would call ‘my undisputed, easiest job-to-date,’ it is usually open and ready to receive me. However, a green, towering fence encircles my colegio and when I arrive midday on Fridays, it is not always a small undertaking to gain entry. It is not flashing credentials and retina-scanning, but more like buzzing repeatedly, maybe making smoke signals or trying to find a messenger pigeon to get the gatekeeper’s attention at times. Perhaps the AM ritual of opening the gate while facing such a deceptively potent force of humanity is such a physically taxing ordeal she is genuinely spent when I arrive.

When approaching the gate in the morning, I bear witness to her valiant attempt to unlock it. I can almost see her knees buckling under the surge of students collectively thrusting themselves against the barricade. In a way, it resembles a scrum in rugby, only an incomprehensibly unfair one. This is a daily skirmish. It is remarkable. The gatekeeper single-handedly faces a legion of writhing, waist-high warriors with an arsenal of spinning tops and backpacks on wheels in toe. Parents stand complacently watching the poor woman as they wait to unburden themselves from the tyrrany of child-rearing for at least a five-hour interlude.

The emotional contagion is so compelling that I often find myself fighting the curious urge to take up arms with the rest of the horde and burst through the gate in rabid ecstasy, too. If adults were not present, I would undoubtedly be cartwheeling in the eyeof the madness with fiery eyes and a wild smile of frothy mania. I tend to get lost in the moment.

 Of all the students I see during the day, I spend most of my time with third-graders. They are a charismatic lot. I would be lying if I said I didn’t have my favorites. Inhibition is far from them and the truth never comes with a coat of sugar. They have a low threshold for impulse control and strictly adhere to their own personal constitutions of right versus wrong. They are egoists in every respect and could care less if it bothers you.

Fortunately, they are not impervious to simple magic tricks. A little sleight of hand and I was immediately on their Who’s Who list. There is nothing like an evaporated coin to ingratiate yourself with third-graders, right?

One portly eight year-old, who will remain anonymous, has proven to be a real sparkplug in class. I am certain his charm and element of demagogue will one day elevate his clout in society to a caliber somewhere between David Koresh and Che Guevara.

At times I am asked questions in Spanish, and–when I understand, that is–I answer in English. In the mind of the average eight year-old, my comprehension of their language remains undetected on their cognitive radar.

Not with this boy. His cunning intellect has gouged holes in my cloak of secrecy more than once. He has vehemently challenged the teacher of this topic in a form of Spanish sounding more like machinegun fire than the actual language. More than once, have I seen him leap from his seat in a stance of iron-like determination, chest broad, full of fervor, fighting to house the burning embers in his heart and lungs while he verbally jousts with the class authoritarian. To make him all the more dynamic, I have witnessed a characteristically precocious level of compassion in him unmatched by any of his peers. He is mystifying.

It is commonplace to find his name of the chalkboard with multiple X’s tailing it. As an auxiliar, I assist the bilingual teachers with the daily lessons. I seldom discipline the children. However, I have taken it upon myself to name the chalkboard’s list of delinquents the Hall of Shame.

Another one of my favorites is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with a smile portending the wake of broken hearts in her future. Typically, she is fairly quiet. Whenever I am addressing the class and I catch her eyes, her smile grows so broad and magnetic, melting my heart every time without fail. Plus, the fact she sadistically giggles at the folly of the troublemakers in class is all too endearing. My heart falls at the drop of a dime at my own peril oftentimes.

During my first strike day at the school, we defer all lessons and find other activities for the children being that the school is operating at half capacity. We played a song once during one of the academic interludes, which apparently had her name written all over it. Suddenly, her little self twisted and turned in rhythmic synchronization with the music as though her joints were no longer hers, but rather belonged to the resonance filling the room from the stereo. Even the flamenco dancers of Spain would have given this girl a tip of the hat. After seeing all this, you can imagine how crushed I was when I later saw her pick her nose and slip its contents into her mouth. Kids will be kids, I suppose.

Finally, one of my other favored students is whom I consider my prepubescent opposite in the flesh. He has a sleepy demeanor and permanent cowlick standing erect at the corner of his forehead, dangling hair as if it were a streetlight arched perfectly overhead. Even when the public enemies of the class decide to make a beef with him, he just casually stares at them square and stoic, motionless and affectless. His disposition belongs to an old soul, one tired of the stages of childhood and all its respective children. Sometimes, I wonder if a day will come when I see him casually stroll into the class, heels dragging, and set up a PowerPoint presentation for the day’s lesson. He is an eight year-old and already acting as though he is on the AARP mailing list.

I never intended on becoming a teacher and am still surprised at my level of satisfaction with it. I studied journalism in the Midwest thinking I would have meager beginnings with a local news outlet at this point in my life. I am content to know my hazy plans for adult life during college have materialized to a life in the heart of Spain. After the sleepless nights, nauseating group projects, and semester-frequent finals, I must admit, the pace of this country is the cure for the common college graduate. Welcome to life on the mild side.