Let's give'm somethin' to talk about

Depending on which student at my colegio you happen to ask, I could be one or a composition of a many things: an exiled member of the Texan royal family seeking solace in their country, which happens to have a royal class of its own; a demi-god; a ruthless oil-drilling, land-owning, native American slayer; a prankster; or nothing more than a garden-variety weirdo from some English-speaking foreign land. Any opinion gained in reference to who, or, even more intriguingly, what I really am doing there, hinges upon two variables: timing and relationship. 

Two Picasso's found at my school's Carnaval celebration

On the issue timing, it is suffice to say I have an equivalent number of teaching styles to match the number of festivals one may find here in Spain, which isn't exactly un poco. During my overly caffeinated moments, students are forced to confront an occasional cackle coming from the classroom's court-jester wearing a space-case grin as broad as the Mississippi in lieu of the flamboyant hat and bells. My court-jester approach is often well-received with the occasional exceptions of either verbal or facial expressions of dismay. 

Then there are the more lethargic moments usually following the peak of a caffeine spree. In these moments when my pituitary gland has tapped out and my energy levels have taken a nose dive, my dear students sit in the shadow of a slap-happy auxiliar. They are an impressive breed. I couldn't imagine going to a bilingual school as a boy.

They sit and synthesize the semantics riding on the sound waves rolling out of a mouth in motion while staring into eyes partly obscured by eyelids bearing a stark resemblance to the persianas hanging motionless in their windows. I also could not imagine going to talk to a foreign oddball like me for an allotment of time when I was a child. 

On the days where my mood is floating about somewhere in a vacuum of blasé greyness, I hit the students with a Rogerian psychological approach. I become the perfect listener devoid of all judgment. Following the logic of a 10 year-old's verbally expressed free-thought process is a deep journey down the rabbit hole. These days have taken me on trips to destinations where the sky has taken on a color I have regretfully forgotten. 

Las Meninas de Velázquez. Two of my colleagues sporting the iconic broad dresses found in one of Velázquez's famous paintings. 

In my opinion, teaching is most effective after cultivating a sense of community shared amongst the pupils and the mentor. Since the first chiseled wheel was replicated or the first recreated method of creating fire, there has always been a relationship between the experienced demonstrator and the fertile-minded recipient of that knowledge. I understand my actions my not be nearly as profound or resounding for the greater good of humanity of course. However, I must stress the necessity for a positive relationship. 

As with any relationship, it helps to know a person's name first. Naturally, I have my favorites. They are easily named and later served their daily noogie ration. Seemingly, I have won the confidence of my sixth-graders through showing genuine interest in their lives and later exchanging stories, theirs usually more honest and mine more along the lines of Texas-tinged tall tales.

Revenge is another way to get closer to someone, whether they be 18 years your junior or not. On the day preceding Valentine's Day, I executed my carefully planned plot to exact revenge on a clever 10 year-old who attempted to ensnare me into embarrassment with his crafty questions. I must commend this gifted boy who will remain nameless. There is no doubt he will grow into the next generation's Don Juan. He had the wit and courage (or recklessness and bravado) to try his hand at out-smarting and verbally hogtying a native English-speaker in a language he was still in the process of learning. But he failed. At the end of it all, I emerged the victor and that is my theme of the story. 

A synopsis of this story would read as follows:

The anonymous boy inquired about my love life. It is a common theme in classes in this age category, they are a collective whole of match-makers. My nearly-adolescent opponent asked me if I was single or had a girlfriend. I professionally responded with the dignity I'd observed in adults before me. It was not an appropriate question for the classroom. Period.

I said this with a chin propped high as to assert my dominance. He was impervious and nimble in intellectual agility. Not before I could move on to the next subject, his hand was once again reaching for the sky. I let him speak and he hit me with his long range right-hook.

"What is your girlfriend's name?" 

I decided to humor the class.

"My girlfriend's name is Casper because she is a ghost who doesn't exist," I curtly responded. 

Everyone laughed and we moved on with the lesson. Evidently, he wasn't done with me. At the end of the class, he asked me if I had a thing for my colleague, their teacher. I slowly leaned forward where I was close enough that he could smell the coffee on my breath. I wanted to get intimate in serving him fair warning for the foreboding day to come where I would strike back. 

"My revenge will come on swift wings," I said, voice low and eyes intent. "I have the memory of a circus elephant; I am an accident waiting for a televised event to happen." 

Whether he understood me entirely or not was between him and I and God. I think my tone was sufficient to transcend any language barrier. 

Candid photo of adults talking about respectable adult things while children run in currents of costumes and parents watch and photograph behind the barred barricade surrounding the school. It is not unlike a zoo in both form and practice. 

In doing my research grinding the gears in the mill of sixth-grade gossip, I came to understand he had a crush on the girl next to him and they shared a chequered past dating back to the third-grade. That was the game-changer. With this bit of gossip, he would soon meet his grade-school Waterloo. 

One of his very own friends acted as my accomplice. During our time alone (when I should have been giving him a private English lesson funded by his parents), my co-conspirator and I wrote a corny love letter addressed to the object of his desire with his name lusciously scribbled at the bottom. Any love letter is incomplete without a rose of course. I made sure to deliver. My accomplice had cold-feet before our Launch Day. The source of his anxiety sprung from a fear he may be uninvited to his friend's birthday party the following weekend in the occurrence that his involvement came to light. I reassured him friends don't do that to each other. I was clueless of their friendship's integrity, but I couldn't have a whistle-blower on my hands if this was going to go according to plan. 

Just another strange auxiliar preparing to eat the traditonal serving of torrijas to kick off Carnaval's festivities

I surreptitiously slipped the letter and rose into the unsuspecting girl's seat the next day while they were playing outside during recess. My colleague found it before they returned and text messaged me immediately. Fearing a foiled attempt at my vengeance, I had to assure her I would be accountable for whatever parental aftermath may come to pass. She agreed to not interfere provided her hands were clean of the ordeal. We had an agreement. She told me one of those Spanish sayings that translates to peculiar English and we let my ticking time bomb remain un-diffused. Through inaction she may have been implicated, which could have potentially been a good thing for me had a parent blown a gasket over the whole ordeal and wanted to fire machine gun Spanish at someone. I was not scheduled to work when the proverbial mierda hit the fan. I wasn't going to loiter about waiting in a classroom I was not longer needed in, plus I was ready to begin my standard 3-day weekend. 

 The next week I came to that class with a smug look of contentment as I entered the door. My victim sat with a grin of humble defeat. I leaned forward with an inflated chest and spoke as if I were pounding a pulpit. I reassured him that I knew it must have been an embarrassing day for him, but be that as it may, he would one day thank me for it. 

My speech was something to this effect:

"My young friend _______, one day you will thank me for this whole deal. You will look back and think of that crazy American guy who once came to your class and framed you for a love letter you did not write to a girl who you wanted to be with so bad you could taste it. You will look at that moment and know that no one will ever be able to take it away from you, from her, or from the both of you. It is something you will both always share throughout the passage of time, just the two of you. And when you are older and still in pursuit of her, it will be common knowledge: you two have a history."

Stories such as this hardly scratch the surface of my comings-and-goings in Iplacea. 

I will leave this blog entry unfinished and I will leave you with yet another sound wave of obscure American expressions spoken through the lips of a non-native speaker. Enjoy!