Six Years Later

Email from Elaine:  You should come to Alaska with us.

My Reply:  Ah, if only I could.  

Elaine:   You're a teacher.  You. Have. Summers. Off.

Good Grief! I have summers off?  Are you kidding me?  I run a program all summer, I plan my lessons for next year, and I take classes.  I work in my garden.  I take care of my cat. 

Summers off!  Seriously.  
  

Besides.  I am not sure Dad even wants to go to Alaska.  I am not sure he’s ready to get in that motor home and travel without mom.  

Alaska.  Indeed. 

Seriously.  

And yet . . . Imagine driving to Alaska.  Imagine NOT working for once.  I mean . . . I am a teacher. . .    

But still, I don’t think Dad wants to go.  

Email from Dad:  Elaine and Tom are really encouraging me to go to Alaska.  Would you girls come with me?

My Reply:  Yes.

And, so, six years later, another tour begins.  Finals are next week.  My students graduate on May 20 (Congratulations Damian, Jesus, Harley, and Adam!).  Grades are due May 22 at 8:00 am.  My flight leaves O’Hare at 9:15 am.  

Ready, set, GO!

In Translation

Even as I stood before them as their writing teacher, I have stood in awe of my non-native students over the past 20 years.  From Mexico, Poland, and Russia, from Pakistan, China, and Botswana, these amazing people had stepped from the linguistic comfort zones of their own countries and had come to American speaking English with varying degrees of agility – but they came, and in their new country, they bought groceries, worked at their jobs, and attended college. Their English wasn’t perfect, but they spoke it anyway.  Their first language wrapped itself around their tongues and their pens, taunting them with intricate thoughts and personal reflections that their English failed to express.  But every mis-spoken word and every misplaced pronoun brought them closer to English fluency.  And I, little more than a guide along the road these students had chosen, bowed to their bravery and conviction.  Although I sympathized with their struggles and shared their frustrations, I could never really empathize – because these people had the courage to do what I would not.  

And so, I came to Spain. I carried a moderate sense of basic Spanish verbs and vocabulary, a sliver of auditory comprehension, and very little ability to speak the language.  Compared to many of my non-native students, I was over-prepared.  But my first weeks in Spain left me completely overwhelmed and disoriented.  No matter how much I studied in my apartment, when I ventured out, armed with a tiny dictionary, a verb book, and phrases written on scraps of paper and carried in my pockets, things fell miserably apart as soon as I spoke. I knew my pronunciation was terrible – not to mention that I used the wrong words in the wrong order. Worse yet, I soon as I spoke, the loquacious Spaniards answered me.  And entonces, I was completely lost.  Although I muddled through from week to week, I walked slower and stood shorter with the weight of my incompetence.  Trips to the grocery store, the fruit market, and the local bar became daily tests in which I was always found wanting.  Sometimes, I just didn’t have the energy to make more mistakes, so we went without the fresh apples or spinach which would have required one more interaction than I was ready to handle that day. 

Not only could I not understand words spoken to me, the cultural differences left me feeling awkward and out of place wherever I went.  I learned to stand back and watch before launching into any interactions.  But no matter how carefully I watched or how much I practiced, I remained estranjero.  I couldn’t see the sign on my back, but clearly, the natives knew I was not one of them.  I was tolerated but never embraced.  And I began to welcome the bubble of anonymity that came with my otherness.  I spent a great deal of time alone.  Walking in the park, I could hear the Spanish around me, but without needing to interact, I felt safe and comfortable there.  When I was at the college and could speak English, I felt better, and then temptation was strong to huddle close to my American students and fellow professors where the water was shallow and the risks were few.  

Determined to learn this language, I took a Spanish class at the college.  The professor, Luis, performed feats of linguistic magic and helped us laugh through our challenges.  Like a good instructor, he expected us to speak to him only in Spanish. Despite his fine teaching, many evenings after two hours of class, I left without asking my questions, and I never sought his help outside of class.  I know he would have answered my questions willingly, but the challenge of speaking more Spanish, of saying what I don’t understand in a language still so prickly on my tongue overwhelmed my need to know.  Afraid to reveal the extent of my incompetence and dreading the verb-tense calisthenics I would have to endure before my question would be understood, I learned to shut out the questions that peppered my brain throughout the day. 

I hung in there, I finished the class, and I am thrilled to say my Spanish improved dramatically.     Shopping for my groceries, I can give and receive dinero accurately.  I can follow most conversations directed at me, and although my responses are still delayed and quite flawed, I have lost some of my hesitance and have accepted that without mistakes I will make no progress.  

In a larger sense, I have gained what I truly sought – a personal understanding of the struggles my students face.  I know why they smile and nod, and I know that sometimes, smiling and nodding is as good as it gets.  I understand why so many sit back in class and seem detached from the discussion, and I know why they cling to those who speak their own language.  And now, I know with my heart and my aching head and my pounding fists.   I know that living a new language is not just intellectually challenging; it’s a personal metamorphosis that’s both exhilarating and terrifying. 

And now, I understand how much of our selves is lost in translation.

A Back with a View

In an amazing feat of contradiction, the world looks simultaneously smaller and larger from the back of a horse.  Larger:  Like standing on  top of a mountain, sitting on the back of a horse gives the rider a whole new perspective:  the mountains, the blue sky, the clouds,  --  the branches of that olive tree that just swiped my face -- are all so much closer than when I was on  my feet.  Day to day worries, pedestrians, the ground, and safety are all so much farther away .  . . oh my.

Smaller:  My only thoughts are staying on the horse.  I feel every pull on my back muscles, and I tense at every rock on which Meggie's shoes slide.   If I don't forcefully pull it away to gaze at the scenery, my vision fixates on the horse's neck and ears as if by gazing intently in that cerebral area I can understand what this monster wants and where she is trying to go and how I can get her headed in the right direction.
 
Okay. I have never really gotten the "horseback riding as relaxation"concept.

But just when I thought I had the whole "I'm cool, I got it" horse riding thing going, my horse and AJ's settled a territorial dispute with some poorly timed bites and kicks -- resulting in Meggie  removing herself from the general vicinity.  Sadly, she left me right where I had been -- well, minus her broad back, of course.

Squinting up through swirling stars and between the olive tree under which I had been unceremoniously dumped, I saw Heike (the trainer) looking quite cooly down at me.  Her dark eyes revealing no emotion, she quietly suggested that since I had wisely let go of the reins, I get off the ground and go get my horse. 

Shaking my head -- thank goodness for that goofy helmet, but ooooh, head shaking was not a good plan -- I rattled loose the seconds-old memory: Hitting the ground and hearing Heike order me to "Let go of the reins," just as I was examining the very close and rapidly moving side view my horse's dirt and dung covered shoe.  Hmm  . . . let go of the reins, indeed!  Doing so had freed my horse, and probably saved several body parts from pulverization, but Heike seemed none too impressed that the horse was now happily grazing on the olives  several meters away.  She had asked, earlier that I not let Meggie eat the olives as they were green and tended to give her a tummy ache.  Besides, the famer might be angry if she hurt the tree in the process.

Okay.  Fine.  Save the tree, damn the body. Up I got,  grabbed the reins, hauled the horse from the olive trees.

Stop there. Now, boys and girls, you need to understand that Meggie was taller than me.  Not just taller head to hoof.  I could not see over her back without standing on a step stool.  And, like many of us in our mature years, Meggie's hips were well-rounded -- We made a good pair.  But she seriously outweighed me.  So "hauling her from the olive trees,"  required finesse, stubborness, and a certain brute strength.  It's not for nothing I convince traditionally unsuccessful students that they can and want to understand English grammar.  No big-assed horse in an olive tree beats me in the stubborn department.

Back on the trail, the tail of AJ's mount swishing safely two lengths ahead of us, I shortened the reins, gazed at the amazing mountains on the horizon, and guided Meggie away from the olive brances with my knees.  Although my blood pounded a beat just above my ears and the Picasso-esque sense of proportion through my bifocals suggested eye glass adjustment in the near future, I took a deep breath and enjoyed a moment of self-congratulation.  Maybe horseback riding would never be a relaxing past time for me, but I sat the damned horse, I rode the damned horse, and the view of the boy riding just ahead of me revealed the important things, great and small.

Thanksgiving Morning

 Sharp streams of sunlight slanted across the thin mattress of the “hide-a-bed” on which I lay.  A perennial early riser, even the previous evening’s late card game couldn’t tempt me to have a “lie in” this morning when a celebration of family and a feast of our favorite foods awaited me; I greeted the chilly Thanksgiving morning with great anticipation as my feet hit the cold floor.  Moments later, cups of steaming tea in hand,   Mom and I laughingly discovered this year’s “missing essential” – celery.  

Today, over twenty years later (???), I still cherish the memory of the chilly walk to the store that followed – the brittle leaf strewn ground underfoot, the glassy blue sky, and the laughter as we trekked in search of the essential stuffing ingredient.   I remember that walk annually as I prepare my own Thanksgiving dinners because --as all American cooks know – the “missing essential” will always make its absence known, and someone will have to make a run to the store before the Thanksgiving meal graces the family table. 

This year, even in a land where “el dia de accion de gracias” means nothing to all but the ex-pats and their friends, I awoke to the chilly morning air and the realization that I would soon by running to the grocery store.  Having no oven, I certainly had no plans to cook a turkey or any of the trimmings.  In fact, the college had arranged for a “real American Thanksgiving” dinner for us all, so I had little need to cook.  However, the anticipated menu del dia pumpkin pie left AJ longing for his traditional apple pie, and I had spent the night wondering how to create that sans oven.  Our amazing brains really do keep solving problems while we sleep, and mine, on this day, had discovered an exciting solution – the sandwichera.

Ah, my American friends.  The Spaniards wonder how we manage to live without this indispensable device.  (Think waffle-iron without the dimple-making protrusions but with four small triangles that mimic the three cornered halves of your mom’s grilled cheese sandwiches.)  My landlord brought one to my apartment in our first weeks here – and after my first tentative use, it has remained in the cupboard.  Quite honestly, I had not found a darned thing this gizmo could do that my skillet could not.  Until this Thanksgiving morning.  

Hopping on my bike, I headed to the SuperCor – the British owned grocery store chain most likely to have non-Spanish food.  It's not the "local" store, and we pay for the luxury of maple syrup and really clean floors.  I usually think it's cheating, but not today!  Initially, I was searching for shortening with which to make pie crust, but an even simpler  (and very Spanish) solution appeared when I stumbled on “empanada” crusts in the refrigerated section where Americans  think to find Pillsbury pie crusts.  Delighted with my find, I then zipped to the Fruteria for five crispy Gala apples, and then home to peel, cut, and slice.   

The familiar stickiness on my hands as I stirred in cinnamon and sugar brought back all the comfort of Thanksgiving preparations, and though you all were still snug in your beds across the ocean, I sent up a “Happy Thanksgiving” wish to all.  Wrapped in the empanada dough and toasted in the sandwichera, these little pies not only delighted AJ, they showed me a real use for the gizmo – maybe I do need one???

A "Real" Soccer Game

AJ’s European Tour Wish List:

•          See a European soccer game
•          Go to Greece
•          Ride a horse in Spain

Sevilla and Betis

So, how are we doing?  The real soccer game.  AJ was hoping to see “his team,” Barcelona, play in Barcelona, but the only Barca game that fits our school/work schedule  is Barcelona-v- Real Madrid (think Cubs-Sox, or Cubs-Cards) and tickets,  if you can get them, cost more than 500 EUROS each . . . Even AJ thought that was too much to pay.  However, Sevillanos, like Chicagoans, have two home teams.  Instead of Cubby Blue and Sox Black, we have Sevilla Red and Betis Green.  Like Chicago, the city of Sevilla is neatly divided into the Green and the Red, and like Chicagoans, Sevillanos carry their team loyalty close to their hearts – maybe too close.  Friends tell me they have seen Sevillanos literally have heart attacks over bad plays, and one doctor prescribed abstinence from even radio broadcasts of Betis games.  Of course, Betis (sorry, Juan, but it’s true) is a bit like the Cubs – die hard Betis fans cheer in vain for the green and white clad young men who can never really “get it together.”  Sevilla FC, however, is another story.  An “up and coming” team in the premier league, Sevilla may not rival Barca or Real Madrid, but the fans leave the stadium happier, in general, than Betis fans.  

So, early in October, we booked our seats for a Sevilla FC game.  We had seen the stadium earlier on a trip to the Nervion Mall.  Kid you not, right behind the mall, in fact attached to the Mall’s central courtyard, stands the Sevilla FC stadium.  But just as driving by Wrigley Field reveals little of the ambiance inside, our first views of the Sevilla stadium gave no indication of the passion and thrill we found on entering the gates.  I sprang for the good seats, so we didn’t have to hike the many steps into the arena, but instead found our way to the cement benches quite near the field and the players’ bench.  The curved walls rose around us like the ancient arenas and amphitheaters we had seen in Ronda and Italica and brought to mind those bloodier sports and ceremonies, ancient ancestors of the intense but less deadly battle we would watch that evening.  

"Scarf" worn by Sevilla fans

We arrived quite early – too excited to wait longer at home – and so we watched as the Spaniards I have come to love entered the arena -- girls in their tight, tight jeans and revealing blouses, young men with curling dark hair and shirts just a smidge too small, and the señors and señoras in their dress pants, button down shirts, and even some senoras in straight, knee-length skirts.  But the best part was the gentlemen carrying their Sevilla FC scarves.  These are “souvenir style” knit red and blue bands, not long enough to be real “winter” scarves, but just long enough to drape around one’s neck.  I had seen them in the stadium’s gift shop and wondered at their purpose.  As each gentleman did, in fact, drape the scarf around his shoulders, I smiled at another completely non-American fashion statement.  They carry these scarves to the game, neatly folded, wear them during the game, and then carry them back home, neatly folded until the next game.  Even the very dignified old men wore these scarves, the way a Cubs fan might wear a jersey or a cap, literally showing his colors and completely comfortable with what Americans would consider a fairly effeminate touch.  

Javi Varas:  Goal Keeper

The stadium filled with people and excitement simultaneously.   By far the most passionate fans crowded the goal end of the stadium – a writhing throng of red and black complete with bass drum, fireworks, and megaphones.    As this writhing mass filled the  stadium with the Sevilla FC Anthem  -- ” El Arrebato,” (click here to hear "El Arrebato") the passion and the excitement  moved even the most uninterested socialites, and the scarved senors belted it out,  “Sevilla, Sevilla, Sevilla! Aqui estabmos contigo Sevilla!” as loudly as their wives and daughters.  Even with all this Spanish passion, I think the most excited fan was the 13 year old beside me.  He watched the warm-ups so intently, I almost expected him to start stretching right there on the bench. When Javi Varas warmed up in the goal, I couldn't keep him is his seat!  As the game began, he shouted and cursed like a Spaniard, and I was interested to find common ground across the ocean.  With all the “terrible calls” and “one-sided refs, we could have been at an Elgin Kickers game!  Sadly (or happily depending on your point of view) AJ’s sense of violation and injustice was shared by the fans in Sevilla.  Given the outrage which met each call against Sevilla, I was quite relieved to find the game ending in Sevilla’s favor and without any bloodshed.  

Riding home through the cool October air, the adrenaline and joy of the game powered our pedaling feet as strains of “Sevilla, Sevilla, Sevilla” rang out from the streets.  For two amazing and energizing hours, we traded in our “visitor” badges and became part of the crowd.  AJ was right:  the "good seats" were worth the price.    

The Other Side

Behold the many contradictions of Sevilla.  Unemployment at 22%, and busy bars crowded with laughing, chatting, very well-dressed Sevillanos.  Glorious architecture and religious statues decorated with girls' phone numbers.  Teens nurtured and sheltered in ways Americans would find appalling openly drinking in the parks (prohibited but accepted).  Gift shops inside awe-inspiring cathedrals (seriously).  As one who searches for the bright side, I have hesitated to share our less idyllic reflections.  But, with the sounds of drunken teens practicing for Santa Semana (Holy Week) wafting across the Sevillan night, I embrace the duality of Spain share some of the downsides. 

A sense of adventure and other-worldliness permeated our first weeks in Sevilla.  Few if any obligations cluttered our minds.  Understanding little of the language around us, we floated in our bubble of "otherness,"  breaking through only by our own volition and observing Spanish life from a comfortable distance.   Time spread in waves around us-- time to explore the city, time to travel, time to soak in the sun and inhale the jasmine.  But time never plays fair.  In our second month, we struggled against conflicting sensibilities.  As much as we love and are grateful for the adventure, the longer we stay, the more "real" this  life becomes.

For AJ, foreign student reality comes with its share of disappointments.  Like the knife grinder who still pedals the streets of Sevilla shattering the cool morning air with his shrill whistle,  educational practice in Sevilla exists in a time warp.  Teachers stand at the front of the class and lecture.  White boards grace the walls, (and I hear that one school even has smart boards!), but few written cues appear there until students are called to the board, Little House on the Prairie style, to show their sums. Workbooks suffice for practice, and project-based learning and group work have never darkened the doors of these classrooms. Surprisingly, although the English is a required course, the teachers make little use of the "live demo" available in their classrooms. Even in English class, AJ dutifully fills in workbooks, selecting the proper British verb forms and drawing lines to connect images of dressers and vacuum cleaners in Column A to words like "hoover" and "chest"  in Column B.  Although talking during class is strongly discouraged, AJ's mimicry of his teacher's, "Puedes callar!" (Shut up!) reminds me that kids are kids around the world.  The teacher in me questions the decision to discourage rather than channel this chatter.

Tapas-loving Sevillanos let their trash fall to the street, and while their economy is crumbling, their taxes pay for street cleaners to pick up that same trash the next morning.  Somedays, Sevilla seems to be the city that inspired the phrase "the left hand doesn't see what the right is doing."  AJ has made friends at school and seems to be a bit of a celebrity there. But outside the school doors, those friends lead busy lives filled with soccer practice, English class, music lessons, and kayaking, and few have found time to engage with him outside of school hours. In a land where soccer teams earn more news time than politics and where the stripes on your jersey typecast you as quickly as Cubby Blue and Sox Black, AJ can't find a pick-up soccer game outside the school grounds.  Despite repeated attempts to organize a game, his school friends can't leave their X-Boxes for a futbol game in the park, much less to practice their English with an American.  Ironically, those families that can afford to do so have enrolled their children in private English classes.  And yet, these same parents insist that their children study at home rather than spending time with  AJ, a living, breathing, and FREE English tutorial.   As a result, even as AJ still happily soaks up each new experience and each language victory, he longs for his friends, his own soccer team, his band practice, and even his own schoolwork.

Gentle reader, please hear me. I am not complaining.  All is well,and we are happy. Real life, anywhere, comes with the good and the bad.