Chilean Elections

Today is election day in Chile. They are voting for Concejal (which I´ve decided is a position comparable to the Senate), and Alcalde (Mayor). This is interesting to me as an American for many reasons: First, because Marcela´s boyfriend, Edgardo Castelli -- the man many years her senior and rejected by her mother (thus never allowed one step into the house) -- is running for Concejal. A month ago I awoke one morning to rediscover my little city completely covered with giant posters of his face. These posters were quickly joined by countless others running for office. It is their propaganda. Effective? Who knows. By the time I took the attached photo, there were so many giant posters with people´s faces plastered on them, I had no idea who was who.
Second, I learned that here in Chile, if you don´t vote, you must pay a fine. In other words, you are bound by the law to vote. The only exception is if you never register to vote (which would demonstrate an extreme lack of interest in your country and community, if you ask me). In this case, the gov´t has no means of enforcing your participàtion today.
Third point of interest, is the occupation of the voting points (my HS being one of them) by the military. Liceo A-7 closed Thursday and will not reopen until Wednesday of next week. I am not complaining ... just, why all the drama? Marcela explained this probably has something to do with a tradition from the time of Pinochet´s military reign. I´m talking men all over the place with guns and military garb. I suppose that would make one think twice before rigging a ballot or even worse, voting against the big guy (Pinochet in this case).
Fourth, there are four main voting points here in Vallenar, and I also discovered that two are strictly for voting females, and two for voting males. Why the separation? Noone seems to have an answer to this question. I don´t think I like it. Call me anti old-fashioned...

The "Real" Chile

This past weekend, I treated myself to a little three-day holiday trip 9 hours south to Rancagua, the city where my friend Katie (another volunteer) lives. After disembarking my crappy Pullman bus (why can I never trust that "semi-cama" will actually be semi-cama?) and massaging my creaky knees back to life, I smushed Katie in a bear hug and we began to talk. That was at 11 am Friday morning. Twenty-five hours later, at around noon Sunday we agreed on a nap. My throat was beginning to hurt a little. "Do you wanna go for a run?" Katie asked me Saturday. "Not in the slightest, but I´ll come with" I replied. We ended up running for precisely 12 minutes and walking a beautiful path facing the Cordillera mountain range for another two hours and 48 minutes. Pat (another volunteer) made fun of us. Our "run" was lame. Our response? "The conversation was just so good, we didn´t want to ruin it by actually running." And so I have discovered that I am the type of girl that literally cannot live without her girlfriends. I am starved for conversation in Vallenar. Not the types of conversations that involve politics, nor education systems, nor cheer formations nor play rehearsals. I talk frequently with Angel about how my projects and classes are going and during tecito each day, I tell my Dorita and abuelita a story to make them laugh. However, the types of conversations that involve incessant disclosure concerning life-lessons, heart ache, love, challenges and, currently, teaching English in a strange land, can only be had with certain types of people, namely, Katie and Bree, the girls I met in Santiago and remet in Iquique.

Katie told me a story about how on Teacher´s Day during an elaborate school ceremony all the teachers at her school were called to the front and handed nicely wrapped presents and she was left all alone in the teachers seating area without a present or mention of her name. Luckily, the student body quickly picked up the slack and began chanting "Miss Katie! Miss Katie!" and rushed the teacher´s seating section nearly toppling my dear English rose over with hugs. But really, how awkward. Katie´s story made me feel a bit better because it was the only one I´ve heard since I´ve been here that slightly reflects experiences I´ve had as a "teacher" in my school. Someone who occupies a classroom every day and teaches English to five courses, but is not comfortable in the teacher´s lounge nor invited to school parties. The integration aspect of our program really has yet to be perfected. Discussing events like these had such a healing effect on my soul I can´t even begin to tell you.

It was also nice to finally have a female around to tell me that, contrary to what male volunteers in Chile will tell you, I am not imagining nor exaggerating the incessant whispers, hisses, whistles, catcalls and yet-to-be identified Spanish crooning of any male over the age of seven. I feel like there is a giant bull´s-eye smack dab in the center of my forehead which magically appears each time I step outside. Above the bull´s eye, the words "GRINGA/ALIEN," are written in bold red. And Katie, red-haired and light eyes, can understand that this makes me feel unsafe more than anything, whereas my fellow male counterparts in the area -- Drew and Russell -- cannot. The biggest difference between mine and Katie´s situation being that she is always with Pat or one of the other seven volunteers in Rancagua. I am alone 98% of the time. So, the good news being, I´m not crazy. Whiiiich ... I already knew. I don´t feel unsafe in Vallenar, but sometimes I feel uncomfortable in my liceo. Kids screaming down the hall and banging against my door as they pass makes me a little nervous I suppose. I feel like my time alone here in this town has made me hard, and sometimes I resent that. Maybe if I had someone I really connected to living nearby I wouldn´t have grown such tough skin these past few months, but I am the only gringa (woman-specific) living within a two-hour radius of this city. Bubbly, open-armed Gervase wouldn´t have lasted a week in my liceo and that´s just the hand I was dealt. Katie is in an all-girl elementary school where she teaches classes filled with adoreable little girls who think she looks like a princess (which she kinda does, btw). I am in the public high school that "rejects noone," attempting to teach rooms filled with troubled teenage boys and girls with behavior problems, family issues and more piercings than I ever thought possible (my first cheek piercing really threw me for a loop).

Silvana caught me on my way out of school today (which is random because I thought we weren´t friends anymore), she found me upset and frustrated with the way my morning had gone. When Angel tried to cancel my class for an unnecessary theater rehearsal this morning ("I´m on top of it," I told him for the eighth time) I, for some reason, insisted on having my 1D kids (my worst class), having hunted down their teacher yesterday to ascertain the next day´s schedule. I then waited in my classroom for 50 minutes until I sent a friend up to check and finally 8 kids trickled into my class -- 5 boys, 2 girls. I would say they were some of my worst behaved and least interested except that I was informed that the rest of the class "didn´t want to come," because my class was boring and too easy. So they came on their own accord -- a tiny win. Where to start... 1) Why were they given a choice of whether or not they wanted to attend my class? 2) If it´s so easy why is there not one single student in that class capable of responding to the question "What is your name?" Why then, do I get the answers "very good" and "fine"? 3) I´m not a real teacher so I´m really not going to be too hard on myself. And how the hell am I supposed to teach effectively if I have no communication or direction from the teachers?
I managed a 30 minute quasi-lesson with the 8 kids. I again started to wonder, why am I here?
Silvana explained to me she feels the same way all the time. She explained that back in the day, Liceo A-7 was marketed as the "La Escuela de Todos," (Everyone´s School). It is now the only h.s. in Vallenar that accepts kids with records of behavior problems and failed classes. It is literally, a school everyone can attend. She explains that half the kids come from broken homes, or the father comes home Sunday nights drunk, or they live with single mothers. They are taught violence at home. Thus, half the kids come from good schools and have a decent education and others are repeating their sophomore year for the third time. I am amazed because then she is apologizing to me for not having held a meeting. She says the word "disorganized" several times. I calm down a little. I tell her that half my frustration stems from my knowledge of volunteers with nice, proper all-girl schools like Katie, where behavior is not a problem. She says "ahhh," knowingly. "But that´s not the real Chile," she tells me. I am acutely aware that I am having a very important culturally-charged moment. So this is the real Chile? I don´t even know anymore. How can I speak for 200 other volunteers? We´ve all seen such different things, but I am quite certain the word "disorganized" would pop up more than once if we were all in the same room telling our stories...

Katie is having the ride of her life (with some obvious bumps and bruises along the way), I am undergoing the test of my life. (I intend to pass with flying colors.) She struggles with the language, whereas I feel the language to be one of my smallest disadvantages. I just will never get over the novelty of how 75 volunteers arrived in the same country to participate in the same program and yet, we are all having experiences so distinct, you´d never know we all filled out the same forms.
It´s also funny to me how, because I´m in another country all alone, a nine-plus hour bus ride and $45 is a small price to pay for the reward of excellent conversation, some hugs and cuddles and to hear the words "I know how you feel." It´s made me realize that I should do that more often when I get home to the States, where I happen to be lucky enough to have an army of girl friends spread up and down the East coast who could probably use some of the same.

Cheerwork

Since my last post, I have added the title of cheer coach to my Chilean resume. About two weeks ago I began coaching the A-7 (my h.s.) cheerleaders. I showed up for my first practice on a Tuesday afternoon, with the intention of observing the team, the level of their tricks and their method of practicing. What I discovered was that, there were no tricks, their level was non-existent and of course, there was no method. Silly, silly me. Random clumps of people stood around and the same girl was lifted again and again by the same two boys. When I arrived back on a Thursday afternoon it was more of the same, but with a twist. The official "coach" waited til the last 10 minutes of practice to make an announcement. The girls (and boys actually) would be performing in the plaza (equivalent to Lincoln Center to this town) the next Thursday night for the big wrap-up event at the end of the liceo´s anniversary week. The entire student body would attend. The "coach" also lamented that she would be out of town, but that Miss Teresa would be here on that day to get everything together. After all, Miss Teresa was also going to help with the choreography. Well, as it turned out, Miss Teresa became responsible for organizing 30 students with zero prior experience in anything even remotely similar to what she considers dancing or cheering (her experience in the latter being quite basic). Really, what Miss Teresa had already surmised from her first practice, was that this "team" was more like a club in it´s first year with no leader and sadly, no talent. So, what did Miss Teresa try to do? She tried to turn water into wine. (And, I have amazingly enough, figured out how to post a video of a practice on my blog. It´s not much to look at, the end got messy after Juan fell -- don´t worry, he´s fine -- but when I tell you it was a struggle, please multiply that by 1,000 and tell me how awesome I am.)
Anyway, after the announcement the girls wasted 10 minutes of my time fighting about what color shoes they should wear until finally I solemly raised my hand.
"Miss Teresa has a question, shut up!"
"Um....can we pick some music first?" I can´t choreograph anything without a song. And with less than a week left, I realized I was expected to have everything prepared by Saturday..
"How many practices do I get?" I asked.
This was followed by more fighting about what days people felt like coming. Sunday was out of the question it seemed. Tuesday I had theater (which at that point was way more important to me). So, all in all we had about 3 and a half practices. Lovely. Great. Simple. Impossible, I thought.


And so it began. After hearing everybody´s opinion on what songs they thought would be best. I took home the one cheer cd of the "coach" and picked the song myself, not at all concerned with the team´s personal taste in music. Then I spent my weekend choreographing tiny little bits of the song, and stalking dance and cheer teams on Youtube in search of the world´s most simple, yet deceiving tricks. I roughly considered the breaks in the music when the team would be doing their lifts, but focused more on choreography, since, after all I had warned them from the principio, I´m a dancer, I don´t do cheer lifts.


Saturday´s practice began much like always. In a big circle, the coach "warmed them up" and basically did shoulder rolls til I could bear it no more. I had arrived this Saturday with the intent of showing them how a dance/cheer practice was supposed to be run. If I was getting all the responsibility dumped on me (kinda like my now AWESOME theater group), we would do it my way ... we would stretch dancer style. Ohhhh yeeeeaaya. I fully intended to push them ... something about laziness just irks me... "Mind if I add some stretches?" I asked her. She looked relieved. I think I was making her nervous with my dance pants. And THAT, is when the cheerleaders of A-7 began to actually do what athletic teams are supposed to -- work. I stretched them properly (but not ridiculously, mind you) and was greeted by the usual sounds of my Chilean students: groaning, whining, grunting, complaining and this horrible nasal sounding "aaannnggggggghhhhhh!!!" the kids make here that I never knew was possible til I myself pìcked it up. "Lazy, lazy, lazy" I kept saying. "I´m sorry, I thought you all wanted to be cheerleaders....am I wrong?" They want to be cheerleaders that have zero flexibility, no jumps, no splits, no tumbles. And they did not take well to my introduction of the "bridge" to stretch their backs.


After stretching I had them get with partners and try some of my "easy tricks" and then began the combination, complete with endless repetitions of "5,6,7,8!" Everything took four times as long as I had planned. And as it turned out, I did wind up responsible for choreographing in the cheer lifts. (Some old dance team girls would be so proud.) We got a decent amount done that first Saturday. Considering every five minutes I was asking wandering people (mostly the boys) why they were sitting down or doing cartwheels on the other side of the gym. It was like babysitting (without the paycheck). I was pretty strict because I wanted to set a tone: if you work hard and follow my lead, you will be...decent. But you will work, you will be organized damnit and you gotta pay attention. Similar to the beginnings of my theater group, I felt confident in my new role and knew that I truly had the means to hide their flaws and help these kids present themselves in a new light. This is a small town. They´ve just had no exposure to the things kids in Santiago have, or that I have, for that matter. Dance practice is all I´ve known since I was, say, four. Like theater, this I know.
I was given four days of practice to do what had been hard for my dance team in college. And we had talent -- lots of it.

By the end of my second practice on Tuesday I collapsed at home in tears from exhaustion, frustration and anger. My schedule was now flooded with theater practice every day at 8 am or 5 pm, cheerleading, normal classes, Winter Camp, random drop-in´s each day for help singing English songs and the two 7th and 8th grade classes I had each week. There was never a "thank you." Before I left cheer Tuesday night I gave a tiny speech. You know, the whole, "I don´t get paid, I´m not gonna be the one performing in front of my school, I have better things to do with my free time," speech. "Don´t tell me it´s too hard, don´t tell me you don´t know how, don´t tell me you don´t understand my Spanish....just try. Please. I´m trying really hard to make you the best you can be." I wasn´t mad, just tired and I felt a bit abused. I closed the practice with a ritual I had in college. "Everybody put your hands in the center of the circle on top of eachother." I yelled "1,2,3" and with one big upwards swoop of arms we all shouted "FOX!" (They picked the name, don´t ask.) They loved my tradition. In any case, the speech worked its magic and the rest of the week was smooth sailing. We pulled it together and for the short amount of time, I thought it went really well. If it´s possible, we grew into a team in four days.


And on Thursday afternoon, Miss Teresa, alone, meticulously applied little gold star stickers (she smartly brought from home) to the faces of every single girl on the team after expertly applying the same bright blue eyeshadow to their eyes. Miss Teresa then did a quick warm-up, two run through´s and joined in a nervous hand circle of "1,2,3, A-7! 1,2,3, FOX!" before walking with her jittery team the five blocks to the plaza. There, she calmed them down, told them which side of the plaza to face, walked them through their formations once, before personally announcing them herself (in Spanish) to all of her students/their classmates/random old people in Vallenar and screaming their counts from the sidelines as they gave their first official performance. No falls, no huge mistakes -- all petrified smiles. And that night, alone, in her bed, Miss Teresa proudly thought to herself, "You didn´t know you could do that, did you?"

Finally in the Slow Swing of Things ... and lemme tell you, they move slowwwly

It´s a lazy Vallenar Sunday. I´ve come to appreciate these Sundays more and more, but my first several weekends here I was completely unprepared. Nothing is opened past 1 pm except for the Deca supermarket and hardly any stores bother opening in the morning anyway. To walk down the main street downtown at 3 pm on a Vallenar Sunday is to essentially walk through a ghost town. Coming from Queens, N.Y., it scares the crap outta me. WHERE ARE ALL THE PÈOPLE!??? I thought the first time I made that mistake. I don´t dare walk the (ridiculously safe) downtown streets of this city on Sunday afternoons because, while I´ve adjusted and appreciate the charms of my small town, I don´t like the eerie feeling that creeps through me when I pass by NOT EVEN ONE other person on a stroll. There is a lone car now and again and there´s always the mangy dogs. But, from the safety of my cerro (hill) overlooking the valley, I find the peace and quiet quite nice actually. I sit contentedly on a low, stone wall and gaze at the light-purplish mountains in the distance. My eyes sweep the town below. Ohp! There´s an old lady walking down the sidewalk! Spotted one (human life form, that is)! I strain my ears for sounds of life ... I hear a rooster crow. I´m not kidding. A motorcycle guns, a ways off, over the small bridge out of town. The rooster crows a second time. I see a big Pullman bus pulling into town. An old man passes me on a bicycle, moving deathly slow. (It´s like the whole town has been drugged ...) I am bathed in the hot, dry sun of the desert and need only to cross the street to ring the doorbell of Milena´s house. (Reminder: she is one of Dora´s daughters, with five children and a working computer.) But, I sit and watch and wait for ... nothing. I feel completely at peace. I´m vaguely aware of an attachment that I am forming to this place, to these hills and far-away mountains and particularly to the top of the church tower, the highest point in the center of downtown (about seven-storey´s high?), a half-dome structure that shines bright copper in the sun. Sure enough I am falling for this place, for my students, for my extended family (Milena and her kids, Tico and his kids). Clearly, I am already head-over-heels for my Dorita. Marcela jokingly (but not really) warns me at the lunch table, "She´s my mother! MINE!" OOOokkkkk lady, whatever you say. I don´t dare tell her that just yesterday after I finished helping Dora with the dishes she told me, in no uncertain terms, "eres mi hija adoptiva," (you are my adopted daughter). I´m so in.

Last week was a good week because, just as I am beginning to note how harmoniously I am coexisting with my town, I am noticing a developing equilibrium in my high school. I have become quite a natural at "playing teacher." Whereas my first month I couldn´t walk the hallways without being harrassed by whistles and catcalls, I am now stopped several times by students who want hugs, kisses, help with English homework or a private session with me to work on the pronunciation of songs in English. The theater kids smile and wave, "He-llo Miss Teresa!" The cheerleaders who I´ve just started helping (don´t worry I´ll get to that some other day) smile shyly and wave. Kids from my (awesome) classes that week shout "Good Morning!" down from the second and third floors. I don´t have to look up to see if they are talking to me, the English greeting (seemingly so simple to me) is a huge feat overcome for them and reserved solely for Miss Teresa. Bravely screaming out words in English, they are ... reaching out? Let´s just say, English was not heard in the hallways of Liceo A-7 before I arrived. I push through a swarm of "He-llo´s", "Good morn-ing´s" and without fail, the occasional "I love you" before I reach the stairs and a quiet 4th grader, who I pass every single morning, hands me a tiny flower made of a lollipop wrapper. I don´t know his name. Later, I tape the flower to the side of my computer screen in my class, alongside several other friendship roses (made of similar materials) and a note that says "Miss Teresa, te kiero. Love, Clelia." The teachers are not my friends (except Marcela), and while this baffles me, I can´t quite care anymore because, well, the students ARE. Not to discount the fact that this week my friendliness towards my fellow compañeros nauseates even me. I am being so friggin approachable and lovely that I think I may have swayed some of them, just a little. If I am not to be accepted fine, but I will NOT let them treat me as an outcast and get away with saying "oh, she never said hi to me in the hallway," or "she wasn´t very friendly!" Puuhleeeze, grow up. AND, watch out -- I intend to kill you with kindness.

I brought cake for my "Winter Camp" class -- basically an English club -- this past Wednesday to celebrate one girl´s birthday and make another girl feel better. Makarena (a replacement-turned-cast member in the play, who also regularly attends Winter Camp and has a class with me) fled to my vacant classroom earlier that day sobbing about a boyfriend, accompanied by her two friends (also regulars) Karina and Judith. After I had hugged her, given her some candy (which I ALWAYS keep on hand for prizes and dramatic teenage situations like this one) and sent her on her way, I couldn´t stop smiling. She picked me. I´m her teacher and I´m her friend and while many people told me I would not be able to be both to my students, I am. I have made myself available to them whenever they need me and yet I have demanded (and earned) respect when I am before them giving a lesson as their teacher. There are constant knocks on my door throughout the day and visits from students for help or just for company. My Winter Camp is no more than 13 or so kids on any given Wednesday, but we just talk and laugh and play games and, I noted the day of the cake, that this classroom has brought unlikely pairs of students together (quiet 1st graders and boisterous 4th graders) and we have become a sort of family which I have grown to love. And it is amazing what a successful lesson plan will do for my spirits. This week I worked with flashcards I brought from home with verbs and pictures on them in the past and present tense and then had what I can only describe as a lightning round quiz. I split the class into two teams, lined them up in two rows and quized them on tense and pronunciation. The first of the two opponents to answer correctly gets a point for their team. When both kids who are up falter or continually get the pronunciation incorrect, I take a big breath and slowly scream "N-EE-EEEXT!!!!" and the kids. go. nuts. I don´t know how many adults will be familiar with the stimulating MTV series called "NEXT," but it involves one girl or boy and a bus filled with 6 suitors of the opposite sex. Each gets about 30 minutes with the chosen one until he or she decides, alas, it simply won´t work, and then usually says something both painfully witty and cheesy like, "I´m sorry, I´m lookin´for a man, not a mama´s boy! ... NEEEEXT!" At which point the rejected suitor returns to the bus and sends the next unworthy suitor on his/her date. My flashcard game has nothing in common with this tv show except the rejection bit, but this is definitely what the manuals mean about relating teaching material to your student audience. They just know they are playing a game where they get to shout "NEXT" and the cutthroat competition that ensues is unprecedented in my 2 and a half month experience. (Dear volunteer/teacher friends, you must try this.)

Stepping on Teacher´s Toes

I´ve had this "situation" (let´s just call it) for quite some time now, which I have been trying to avoid writing about, but I think it´s time. (Drum roll please ...) The English teachers in my high school -- and there are five -- don´t seem to like me very much. Now before you get all worked up. I know, I know, the most obvious question (that comes to my mind) is HOW is that possible???!!! I am very likeable, if I do say so myself. But I have slowly come to the realization that I rub the teachers in this school the wrong way, that is, the American way. I was chatting with the host father of Drew, the volunteer who lives in Huasco, a couple weeks ago discussing this "situation," and we came to a very disturbing conclusion... It is quite possible that these Chilean teachers may not like me simply because of my American habits, the ones I always thought were universal (stupid, stupid, stupid!). Before anyone starts wondering about what I´m wearing (I´m dressing quite modestly, I can assure you), my drinking habits or how bossy I am being, let me provide you with some examples:

1) I always arrive on time. Well, that´s a lie, I used to arrive 10 minutes early for every class and then forced myself to curb it to five. So, let´s just say on my schedule it says I have a class at 9:45 a.m., I unlock my classroom and start setting it up at 9:35. I don´t know why I don´t just let myself in at 10 a.m. though, because I rarely receive my students anything but 15-20 minutes after the bell rings. I have discovered (or rather, been told by Chileans nice and not-so-nice) that this is an American "thing," this ... showing up on time thing ... and I have a hunch it may drive some Chileans absolutely mad.
2) I will categorize this example separately, even though it overlaps with the first. I arrive. Period. If someone tells me to meet them at 2 p.m., for a meeting ... I go. It never occurs to me that I should a) meander over to the approximate meeting area 45 minutes to an hour later, or b) simply just not go. For this, again, I am the annoying American. You see, the first month and a half, I still tried really hard. I´d tirelessly search the school grounds for the missing attendee, asking around. Or, the next day, when I finally found them, I´d ask (TRULY curious, thinking, "crap, did IIIII mess up the times...?"), "Did we have a meeting yesterday?" etc. etc. Yeah, so, I´m told that´s "North American" too.
3) I tell people when classes are cancelled, and in return, (now this is REALLY annoying) I expect the same courtesy in return. I cannot tell you how many hours I´ve spent sitting in my computer lab classroom waiting for a class that never comes (for instance, without this suddenly-free hour and a half, I couldn´t have written this blog!). At the beginning I let it slide, but then one morning before class I was in the teachers lounge and I happened to overhear another teacher, wishing Rommy -- the English teacher of my next class -- good luck. Good luck? The only reason Rommy would need luck for the next class (which I was supposed to take), would be if she were being observed by the government for the new assessment which all the teachers were painfully enduring. So I began the following conversation:

Rommy, are you being observed today?
(Rommy doesn´t look up at me) Si.
So ... I don´t have your class today ...?
(Rommy looks up at me in disgust, with a look that says, why am I asking her such a stupid and annoying question?) No.
(Rommy is gone in a swish of skirts and papers.)
Oooooooooook. Thanks for the info ... (I am talking to myself, don´t worry)
After encounters like this, my American brain argues silently, "Why am I here then? Do you people even know I´m here? What, so my time´s not important? Why was she just so rude to me ...?"

Such began the slow and steady lifting of my American denial. My efficient nature is irksome in some circles (primarily, I blame my mother) and to survive here, I attempted (for a while), to change it. I have tried to blend. To leave feathers unruffled. Really, I have. But, on my return from Iquique, the bleak realization of my inability to help a high school that seems, at times, to not want my help, became too much. I´m supposed to work WITH the English teacher´s here, not AGAINST them. I´m not meant to be competition, but reinforcement. I don´t ever pretend to be a certified teacher. But, I do however, insist on being professional. Another thing Drew´s host dad mentioned during our very-serious political/Chilean education system discussion, was that perhaps, the Chilean government had another agenda for the English Opens Doors Program. The governement undertook this program, to a) place fresh-faced, "native English speakers" with virtually NO teaching experience in hundreds of schools throughout the country, and b) to set a tone. I feel like a helpless example. AKA, "Look, I´m the silly gringa trying to organize a meeting with all of you because I´m not comfortable wasting time. Now, everybody try!" Government thinks: "maybe after the gringa is gone, the notion will remain and the teacher´s won´t like to waste time either." However, the government didn´t take into account that essentially, many of us are stepping on some teacher´s toes. It´s kinda dampering the whole cultural exchange, because, like in my case, I´ve found my welcome was half-hearted at best. It was pretty at first, but there has been no cooperation/support to back it up since then. I´m thinking, "Look! I came here to help!" They´re thinking, "We know you think you´re better than us, but you´re not." You follow?

I can´t change that I´m efficient. You cannot convince me to arrive at my first job in the States 20 minutes later than expected, without consequences. I just don´t live in that world. In my two years at AMDA (theater school), if you were one minute late, every single teacher shut the door and you were absent. In this case, my American way is better, and without stirring up my Chilean melting pot too much, I´ve now decided it´s best for me to keep working at my job here as I naturally would. I have come home sad many days, wondering what I did wrong, how I could offend my fellow teachers so, but I´m trying to cut myself a break. I am only here for two more months and I´m sick of waiting around in my classroom for change to magically come. Now, I go straight to the source, I have requested a meeting with all the teachers to mark calendars and work out dates and I put schedules for theater practice outside my door (they can´t seem to follow the schedule´s we wrote out the first day). I wanted to work with the cheerleaders so I talked with their coach. I might annoy people, but sometimes I feel like I´m the only person around here getting anything done.

On an opposite note, when I brought this issue up with Marcela, she told me some of the teachers complain I don´t greet them enough, and maybe that´s why our relationship has become strained. "I told them you people (North Americans) are different and not as close and friendly as us," she explained to me. I promise you I have never intentionally ignored anyone (except the monkey clan of whistling 15-year-olds), but maybe I haven´t tried hard enough, maybe feeling ignored or spoken to rudely has taken it´s toll on me and I´ve put up walls, I really don´t know. So, I will try again. My goal this week is to walk up to every single English teacher, grab them by the arms, give them a huge smile and a hug and ask them how they are doing. I will FORCE them to like me, damnit.

(Note: there are a couple Canadians, British, Australians and New Zealanders here too, but I´m generalizing.)

American Holiday

I´ve been on vaca. In the past week I´ve taken a horrendous 16-hour bus ride up north to Iquique -- where seven other volunteers live -- and had official girl-talk with my two loves, Bree and Kate, for the first time in almost two months. I´m saying ... as a girl, you don´t know how much you´re gonna miss girl-talk til you´re living in a tiny city with only two other boys (one an hour away) who sometimes seem to speak another language anyway. The first two days in Iquique I couldn´t stop saying "Wooooowww....this place is soooo big." It´s a city on the beach with a couple hundred thousand and it made me realize how very much I´ve missed the city. I can´t believe it´s taken me this trip to finally admit, I am a city girl through and through. We pàssed a mall while driving and I had to be physically restrained. I walked into the grocery store (which was basically a Chilean Target) and I swear I heard angels singing. I loved it, but mostly because they have the beach and something about sitting by the ocean always seems to make everything ok. Our hostal was one block from Playa Cavanche and all 8 (or so) of us just sat around in bathing suits talking and laughing and sunbathing (except for Bree who, unlike Kate and I, finds "playing catch" with the guys appealing) until the sun set and my first day back with all my friends I kept thinking "this is my perfect moment." It was beautiful, it was fun, as expected I drank and ate way too much but here are some quick highlights:

• I had a surf lesson. I learned "officially" how to surf and it was FUN! The water was freezing and I soon discovered a very-dormant fear of huge waves, but I am told by my friends -- who are far too nice -- that I "stood up" about three times. Take it as you will...
• Kate and I cooked (mainly Kate, of course) a big family dinner for seven of us in the hostal, complete with salad, pasta, veggies and wine. And we all sat around the table like one big family (which really, if you think about our situation, we are) and gave our "high´s" and "low´s" of the vaca.
• We went to a discoteca, snuck onstage only to be escorted directly back off, and danced until 6 in the morning. I can´t remember the last time I crawled into bed as the sun was rising (and remembered the next day why ...)
• We rented a car and drove two hours into the desert and saw crazy geoglyphs on giant sand dunes in a place called "Cerros Pintados" and then stopped in the tiny desert oasis town of Pica, where the fruit is so fresh and abundant you actually smell the lemons and limes as you drive in.
• Did I already mention the girl-talk...?
• I visited Bree´s school and found she works far more hours than I, but that her students are far less "flighte" aka ghetto (which would be the case with mine)
• And lastly, my last day, after everyone had gone but me, Bree (who lives in Iquique) and I had an "American Tuesday." We went to the movies (I almost dropped dead at the wonderfulness of the option) and saw a heart-breaking film, while munching on popcorn, that left me sobbing. Then we sat on her bed and watched cable in English, while stalking Kevin on facebook. If you have been reading my blogs you should notice that 1) I don´t have cable/English t.v. 2)There is no movie theater in Vallenar (and if there were you can be sure there would be an absence of English films) 3) I have no laptop (it broke promptly as I arrived in country) and 4) There is no internet in my house. I truly felt, for a whole day, like I was back home with everything at my fingertips. Let´s just say it was a welcome change of pace and had it not been for my American Tuesday and Iquique trip in general, I might have had a mental breakdown sometime quite soon.

But ... arriving back home and seeing Dora´s look of surprised glee, when she opened the front door to sweep out some dirt, and found herself standing face-to-face with travel-ridden me (complete with huge backpack and several carry-on´s), it felt good to be home. I consider this my home now. The teaching inner-city school kids thing, still beats the crap outta me, but thank God for my Dorita. After lunch today, as I was drinking my daily mid-day coffee (it´s all instant here, I´ve mentioned that right?), I was chatting with Dora in the kitchen while she dried the dishes and I told her how excited I was for her to meet my Kevin when he comes (Nov. 21) and she said that in a sense, she´ll be sad to meet him because that will mean it´s time for me to leave her. She turned around and she was tearing up and I wanted to wrap my arms around her and scream "I´ll never leave you Dorita!!!" But I told her my hunch, "I think Kevin is coming here to get me for just that reason, because he knows if he doesn´t, I may never leave ..." Couldn´t I just bring her with me?

Practicin´ My Victory Dance

The most amazing thing just happened. Angel and I were discussing schedules, scenery for my theater group, my future work with the cheerleaders here (who apparently "nobody knew existed") and the picture-taking he recruited me to do tommorrow during school practice for the 18th (dances and songs and what-not), and before I turned to leave, Angel put out his hand for me to shake. (He´s so bizarre sometimes, I thought to myself.) And then he said (in Spanish, obv), "I would like to congratulate you, because you´re Spanish is improving each day..." I hooted and threw my arms up and performed what I like to think is the universal dance for VICTORY (which is "vicotoria" in Spanish btw). I am improving! All those hours reading the dictionary and translating magazing articles and Madonna tabloids at the kitchen table are finally paying off. Por fin!!! I soooooooo want to improve my Spanish. I imagine this language like an imaginary wall I am knocking down around me every day that I learn a new word or finally realize the correct phrasing of a sentence I use daily. I am floating I tell you.

I compared myself to Dora´s two-year-old grand-daughter, Josefa, last week. She is in the learning phase, where she repeats everything she hears and absorbs new words like a sponge. I watch the news and find myself speaking to the t.v.. "Ahora tenemos una pausa." "U-na pau-sa," I repeat, entranced, letting the words find their rightful place in my mouth. As if to make them comfortable as they slip off my tongue, I repeat again, "una pausa." A commercial comes on with some (supposedly) famous soccer star holding a glass of milk and sitting beside his mother. I know how the commercial will end, I´ve seen it a million times, but regardless I must say it, "Tomate la leche!" I cry at the end, simultaneously proud of myself and loving the grammatical format of the command I have mastered. (If I ever need to tell someone else to drink their milk in Spanish, there will be no grammatical errors in my delivery.) I look up and Dorita is laughing at me (weird). I realize I have been repeating words that catch my ear for the past 15 minutes. And then it hits me, I am in the same stage as Josefa who says "he-llo" back to me every time I greet her. I am literally like a two-year-old. But it´s WORKING!

P.S.- The object I desire, more than any other material thing in the world, at this moment in my Chilean life-time, is a Spanish-English dictionary with every word that has ever existed inside. Mine is sufficient for now, but if anyone else is going to send me something, dear God let it be the fattest, most advanced Spanglish dictionary that has ever been realized. Gracias. Ciao.