Sunglasses Always Fit

I’ve taught for fifteen years, in four countries, many grades and subjects, yet EVERY YEAR without fail, the pure exhaustion and bang-head-on-wall of it all surprises me. Every year my sister reminds me “you hated it last year, too. You were this tired last year, too. You were looking at other career paths* last year, TOO,” with the patience of a saint.

“REally? Did I? ARe you SURE?!” I whine back, convinced everything I feel is new to the world and requires everyone’s full attention. Because I am sPeCiaL. 

As an educator, I will be a hollow shell of myself every year from August to October as I adjust to a new group of kids and germs. For fun, now when I collapse onto the couch every day, I also get to wonder, “Ooohhhh . . . is it dengue?” Yay, living in a developing nation of mostly rainforest. Again. So far, no Zika reports though. I think I left that in Brazil. 

That’s one of the hard parts about moving, too – I have no idea where to go or what to do if I do get sick. Ask my nurse mom for tele-health advice and find some Pedialyte on the street? I am a useless patient at the best of times. Left to my own devices and fears of medical personnel (some deep psychology to delve into one day), I’d probably just waste away on my couch, alone, like a Victorian heiress with a slight cold, in need of a few weeks by the sea.

But I’ve made it through four weeks! And despite more than half only reading at a kindergarten level (we are in fifth grade), daily fights over soccer matches (basically recess life or death) no one ever having a pencil, and the Guatemalan way they all cry “MISS! MISS!” and I’ve had to train them to use my name under threat I will start calling all them “BOY! GIRL!”. . . 

. . . they are wiggling their way quite quickly into my cold, tired heart. 

I haven’t gotten so many hugs since my birthday. These new and improved ones are sweaty, full-body-lean hugs, from kids who haven’t showered, with dirty clothes, holes in their shoes, a hundred advantages against them already, but the biggest smiles and sweet little hearts.

When the plastic stool that is my chair folded under me and I fell and hit my head (incidentally picking up a dusty, dead bug in my hair my friend had to remove later), they rushed to pick me up and could barely speak through their fear I was hurt. They tackle me with group hugs of gratitude if I bust out a new stamp to mark their English work. They love to play “are we smarter than teacher?” where they ask me to say words in Spanish and I pretend or really don’t know, and they die of laughter. “GLOBO, Miss! Balloooon es GLOBO!” (dissolve into giggles at my expense).

They speak a cute version of Spanglish – today my favorite was at the dismissal lineup, when one screamed “Ayyyy, no! Está rrrrrraininggg!” with the trillest of r’s. 

Most of our students are on scholarship and the school is the barest of bones. There’s no technology in the classroom except my laptop and a projector (for which I am so grateful). I use my party speaker to help kids hear any videos over the whine of the three dying fans I place around the room to try and dispel the heat/smells/mosquitoes. There are no cute posters, manipulatives, coloured paper, class library, textbooks, or workbooks. No screens on the one window or door. The bathrooms are more like outhouses that flush, where you are a sitting duck for mosquito attacks and kids can hear you pee.

For the first time in a long while, I’m teaching on my own – the planning, the managing, and decision-making, is all up to me. Which I enjoy to a certain extent because it’s nice to not have to check in with someone all the time or have superfluous meetings. Now the only annoying procrastinator who also wants to control everything in the room is me. But I miss having someone to bounce ideas off of and roll eyes with from across the room during an assembly. To bother during my prep time.

Additionally, there have been a few close calls with sudden tummy rumblings that make me desperately miss the ability to call for a teaching neighbor to watch my class while I have business with a toilet. These special moments are usually because of the poor choices I make when it comes to honoring my lactose intolerance. I am the problem AND the solution. But will I learn? Will I change? Probably not.

Wow, this blog has taken some TURNS.

I’m under a cozy blankie, in a turtleneck because the nights have taken a welcome dip. (Heard it’s real feel of 40 in HK! Don’t miss that!) As dinnertime approaches, I am simultaneously grateful I no longer have access to DoorDash, while lamenting that I will actually have to cook food. Also, I will need to decide on and then make meals every day? And clean up after? For the rest of my life? This is one of THE biggest bummers of adulthood. Choosing what to eat sounded so cool as a kid. Now it makes me zone out in the middle of aisle three debating how much to spend on salsa in this economy. Wishing shredded cheese counted as a meal.

Side note – I have discovered that adding “in this economy” as either a statement or a question to the end of almost anything gets a big laugh from both sides of the aisle. Feel free to try it, trademark Rachel Weight, first of her name. 

This is my first time teaching fifth grade, and our curriculum is based on Common Core, so a lot is new for me. I had to watch a Youtube to remember what exponents are. I hate this new math – teaching five different ways to multiply when you’re just going to use a calculator on your phone, but to any parents reading this, we have to teach it, sorry. In case it works better for one kid. Even as I whisper “you will literally never do this for real, but here we go” while writing an example in pink marker on the whiteboard.

I am excited to teach about colonialism, early wars, indigenous history, and step up to my most favorite soapbox – talking shite about Christopher Columbus. AND celebrate Mayan culture with descendants and current practitioners. “You invented ZERO! You gave us tomatoes and guacamole and french fries dipped into a Wendy’s chocolate shake, and nothing is better!” I shouted. No one clapped. I repeated it in Spanish. They were still not that impressed. They are only ten, after all. Buuut I think they felt my passion.

However, I may have gone a little overboard in lessons about ecosystems and how much I love nature, as the boys came in after recess with a cache of about 20 rolly-pollies swarming in the basket I use to collect homework, insisting that we were their parents now and must build them a proper home and care for them forever. This is also because, in a moment of weakness, when creating our class contract, I acquiesced to the request for a class pet. I was hoping to just paint some rocks and smack googly eyes on them. Alas. How often I cause my own problems should be studied for science. 

In my class, I have two sets of identical twins – one set belong to the town doctor, who will eventually hear my lies about drinks per week and sexual history and give me advice about nutrition I definitely will take (lols). The other twins do not smile, or speak unless under duress (wouldn’t even tell me their birthday), and my entire goal this year is to know what sound they might make if they laugh. I have a student from one of the richest families in all of our town, while a high number on full scholarship. I have one native English speaker – the son of a colleague. Everyone else is learning in their second or third language.

But in this short time, in the beautiful and unique way classes do, we have created a culture. Inside jokes. Hand signals. Mutual sighs. I have once again created a cult of storm trackers and weather aficionados, and we have a poster where we track the daily weather, and bet against the phone app for whether it will rain or not. They are obsessed with the electronic teacher’s doorbell I brought, defeating it’s entire purpose by dancing every time I play it, instead of quietly going to their seats like the advertising promised. “But it’s a good song, Miss!” they cry. I have a thousand cheap stickers my grandma bought me that are revered like precious gold when I dispense them upon spelling and math assignments. They are often patiently peeled off the paper and traded in some ranking system of preference I am not privy to.

Writing this is a form of therapy to reflect upon when I get too anxious about the parasites, dengue, the hit to my bank account, retirement options, mobility, etc., all the possible problems I have made for myself by being here for the next two years. Because is there a price one can put upon tranquility (often interrupted by dog fights, fireworks, and chickens, but I digress) and easy moments of joy and knowing I’m making a difference?

Remember those sentimental Mastercard commercials that priced out family experiences – cataloging every gas station snack, boat rental, swim lesson, etc., that basically encouraged going into debt for one picturesque weekend at like, Pinecrest? Because Memories: Priceless.

That was a cheesy campaign. But I do feel that way, being here now. It took a lot of money and work to get here, and it’s just three roads, a lot of weather, me at 5’5″ being waaaay taller than everyone, the chubbiest babies you’ve ever seen, smiles and colors and a gentle, simple peace settling over me that I’m not sure when I last felt. I feel a sense of good. Bone tired at the end of the day good.

So come visit, okay? Bring cupcakes and wine. And bug spray.

*sidenote – I’m great at teaching and it’s the best job for my lifestyle BUT if anyone out there is looking to sponsor my dream to run a cafe/wine bar/joke-telling venue that sits on a farm and rescues various animals . . . and so then it’s also a petting zoo and also has a park designed specifically for children with additional needs oh and ALSO we host game and movie nights of kids movies, but only for adults. If anyone wants to sponsor me for THAT?! These kids can learn this new math all on their own.