Saturday, June 17, 2006
If children get on my nerves, should I stop trying to be their teacher?
Today Mexico played Angola in their second game of the World Cup. They tied 0-0. They played a game reminiscent of so many Chivas games Julia and I have been to; this means that they were playing pretty badly and barely got by with a tie. However, Angola has an excellent goalie, so the blame is not all on the seleccionistas, of course. But true to the spirit of spectator sports, I criticize my favorite team the most viciously.
Rocio and I went to the principal’s house to watch the game with the principal and the owner of the school. We ate potato chips with lime and chili sauce and drank tequila with squirt. After the game, we ate a wonderful chicken dish the principal made. We laughed and talked a lot. Things are not so bad with the school administration after all, but like so many things I’ve learned about Mexican culture while living here this year, much of what we experience is only the surface.
I say this because appearances are often misleading. I came to this school thinking it was a wonderful family of teachers with a very caring principal. On the surface, for the most part, this is true. But behind this façade there is rancor and resentment and a lot of backstabbing. Now that I’ve gotten to know many of the teachers and have spent some time alone with them, I have heard countless stories of betrayal and wrongdoing, only a few of which I understand completely, of course. But there are teachers who don’t speak to each other and speak badly of each other behind their backs. Most of the problems probably come from misunderstandings, but I believe that the root of the problem is that the principal offends the teachers every chance she gets, blaming them for whatever goes wrong, and often comparing them with each other in her criticisms. This often sets the teachers against each other. I didn’t notice this underlying current of discontent for a very long time, in part because I’m clueless most of the time, but also because everyone is so very cordial with each other when they have to interact.
I suppose this is the nature of all workplaces, not just in Mexico. It’s called professionalism. Something I don’t understand yet.
It’s not like my school is a representative of what Mexican schools are like. I have heard several teachers say already that in all their years of teaching, they have never had such a mean principal as Maestra Paty. So I guess my school is only representative of a badly managed private Catholic school.
Speaking of Catholicism, this week nine of our students had their first communion together, organized by the school. This meant that the catechism teacher and Rocio had to work overtime a lot in preparation. The mass was held Thursday, the day of Corpus Cristi. Everything went well, even when the chorus that the parents had hired didn’t show up and all the teachers had to sing without notice. Now that I have been included in the chorus during many services, I know many of the songs. One of the mothers later remarked to me how wonderful it was that I was singing along and everything, that they’ll make a Catholic of me in no time at all. The catechism teacher says she will prepare me for my baptism and confirmation and first communion if I want. It’s a little funny how much everyone wants me to become Catholic.
After the mass, the students doing their first communion all had big parties. Rocio and I went to a big one that was thrown for three of them, at the villa of the Charro tequila distillery. We went with Arnulfo the music teacher and two of the primary teachers. Later Aracely showed up. It was kind of boring for me, as we just sat there most of the time drinking tequila with squirt and talking and me not understanding a lot. There was no dancing, either. I did learn a new word, though—“popi”—which I believe describes people as something like “preppy” or “shi-shi” or, better yet, the English term “Sloanes” (after the rich people who live at Sloane Square in London). As the teachers at this very proper function, we were not exactly in our element. Many of the childrens’ mothers, however, were very nice to us, and we ended up sitting with a few who are on the board of directors of the school.
I couldn’t wait to leave, and when we finally left I was glad that I would be able to get home in time for my telenovelas. I missed something, though, because we ended up at another party—the one at the principal’s house held for her two nephews. I suppose we were obligated to go. We sat there for what seemed like ages. I was growing impatient with sleepiness and boredom, and I was missing the two soaps that I usually watch.
Something must be wrong when you’d rather be at home by yourself watching soap operas instead of being out at a party.
But these aren’t the kinds of parties I like to attend. There are children running around everywhere and you have to watch the young ones, and even if it’s enjoyable while you’re doing it, it’s damned exhausting. (In fact, the most enjoyable part of the party was taking some three-year-olds to play on the playground equipment and spinning them around in a revolving cage, and then helping a toddler pull a toy on wheels, because then I didn’t have to be bored sitting at the table trying to look like I was having fun.) Then it’s frankly not very fun if after several hours of this you have to try having a conversation with children running and screaming all around you.
Maybe this sounds bad coming from someone who plans to become an elementary school teacher. But that is my work—I don’t want to have to do it the entire day, during my free time when I’m at a party trying to have fun. It’s times like these when I know I am definitely, definitely not ready for motherhood. Not that I’ve been considering it or anything, but I sit at these parties wondering at the lives of these mothers, because they’re so different from mine, and because I’ve never hung out with so many mothers before in my life. I love their children; many of them are precious little creatures who are a lot of fun—and those who are not precious and fun creatures, well, I still love them unconditionally as their teacher. But I just simply cannot imagine being around them all the time. What amazing people our parents are for putting up with us!
Tomorrow Rocio and I are going to Guadalajara. That is more my style—we’re going to go dancing, and perhaps to the fiestas in the ceramic-making suburb Tlaquepaque. It may very well be my last hurrah in Guadalajara during this Mexico year.
It’s kind of sad. I only have three more weeks left of school….
I lie awake late at night trying to sleep, but instead I’m thinking about all the things I have to do before leaving Mexico. I have to give the students their final exams in English next week, and I have to try to prepare them well, and I despair when I think of how little I have taught them in these seven to eight months. I have to try to sell my furniture and refrigerator, and I worry about how I’m going to have time to go on a Tuesday or Thursday morning to the phone company (because those are the only times it is open here) in order to transfer the line to my friend, and how I’m going to get much of the money back for my furniture since I am selling it to coworkers whom I don’t want to charge a lot because most of them make very little money. I worry about packing, about how I’m going to fit all the stuff I want to fit in my bags. I worry about what I’m going to do once I get back to Columbus, finding a job for just a month and a half and then moving to New York before September, and then finding a job and a cheap but nice apartment (impossible?) in New York. I worry about talking to the principal about my leaving. I worry about leaving the school on a bad note, because the last weekend before I leave (after the school year is officially over, I might add), I’m supposed to attend the 18-hour-per-weekend cursos diplomados, and I have absolutely no intention of attending them.
None of these things get resolved by worrying about them, but I can’t seem to stop worrying even when I’m exhausted. For the immediate future however, I will try to concentrate on having fun on my last weekend in Guadalajara.
Rocio and I went to the principal’s house to watch the game with the principal and the owner of the school. We ate potato chips with lime and chili sauce and drank tequila with squirt. After the game, we ate a wonderful chicken dish the principal made. We laughed and talked a lot. Things are not so bad with the school administration after all, but like so many things I’ve learned about Mexican culture while living here this year, much of what we experience is only the surface.
I say this because appearances are often misleading. I came to this school thinking it was a wonderful family of teachers with a very caring principal. On the surface, for the most part, this is true. But behind this façade there is rancor and resentment and a lot of backstabbing. Now that I’ve gotten to know many of the teachers and have spent some time alone with them, I have heard countless stories of betrayal and wrongdoing, only a few of which I understand completely, of course. But there are teachers who don’t speak to each other and speak badly of each other behind their backs. Most of the problems probably come from misunderstandings, but I believe that the root of the problem is that the principal offends the teachers every chance she gets, blaming them for whatever goes wrong, and often comparing them with each other in her criticisms. This often sets the teachers against each other. I didn’t notice this underlying current of discontent for a very long time, in part because I’m clueless most of the time, but also because everyone is so very cordial with each other when they have to interact.
I suppose this is the nature of all workplaces, not just in Mexico. It’s called professionalism. Something I don’t understand yet.
It’s not like my school is a representative of what Mexican schools are like. I have heard several teachers say already that in all their years of teaching, they have never had such a mean principal as Maestra Paty. So I guess my school is only representative of a badly managed private Catholic school.
Speaking of Catholicism, this week nine of our students had their first communion together, organized by the school. This meant that the catechism teacher and Rocio had to work overtime a lot in preparation. The mass was held Thursday, the day of Corpus Cristi. Everything went well, even when the chorus that the parents had hired didn’t show up and all the teachers had to sing without notice. Now that I have been included in the chorus during many services, I know many of the songs. One of the mothers later remarked to me how wonderful it was that I was singing along and everything, that they’ll make a Catholic of me in no time at all. The catechism teacher says she will prepare me for my baptism and confirmation and first communion if I want. It’s a little funny how much everyone wants me to become Catholic.
After the mass, the students doing their first communion all had big parties. Rocio and I went to a big one that was thrown for three of them, at the villa of the Charro tequila distillery. We went with Arnulfo the music teacher and two of the primary teachers. Later Aracely showed up. It was kind of boring for me, as we just sat there most of the time drinking tequila with squirt and talking and me not understanding a lot. There was no dancing, either. I did learn a new word, though—“popi”—which I believe describes people as something like “preppy” or “shi-shi” or, better yet, the English term “Sloanes” (after the rich people who live at Sloane Square in London). As the teachers at this very proper function, we were not exactly in our element. Many of the childrens’ mothers, however, were very nice to us, and we ended up sitting with a few who are on the board of directors of the school.
I couldn’t wait to leave, and when we finally left I was glad that I would be able to get home in time for my telenovelas. I missed something, though, because we ended up at another party—the one at the principal’s house held for her two nephews. I suppose we were obligated to go. We sat there for what seemed like ages. I was growing impatient with sleepiness and boredom, and I was missing the two soaps that I usually watch.
Something must be wrong when you’d rather be at home by yourself watching soap operas instead of being out at a party.
But these aren’t the kinds of parties I like to attend. There are children running around everywhere and you have to watch the young ones, and even if it’s enjoyable while you’re doing it, it’s damned exhausting. (In fact, the most enjoyable part of the party was taking some three-year-olds to play on the playground equipment and spinning them around in a revolving cage, and then helping a toddler pull a toy on wheels, because then I didn’t have to be bored sitting at the table trying to look like I was having fun.) Then it’s frankly not very fun if after several hours of this you have to try having a conversation with children running and screaming all around you.
Maybe this sounds bad coming from someone who plans to become an elementary school teacher. But that is my work—I don’t want to have to do it the entire day, during my free time when I’m at a party trying to have fun. It’s times like these when I know I am definitely, definitely not ready for motherhood. Not that I’ve been considering it or anything, but I sit at these parties wondering at the lives of these mothers, because they’re so different from mine, and because I’ve never hung out with so many mothers before in my life. I love their children; many of them are precious little creatures who are a lot of fun—and those who are not precious and fun creatures, well, I still love them unconditionally as their teacher. But I just simply cannot imagine being around them all the time. What amazing people our parents are for putting up with us!
Tomorrow Rocio and I are going to Guadalajara. That is more my style—we’re going to go dancing, and perhaps to the fiestas in the ceramic-making suburb Tlaquepaque. It may very well be my last hurrah in Guadalajara during this Mexico year.
It’s kind of sad. I only have three more weeks left of school….
I lie awake late at night trying to sleep, but instead I’m thinking about all the things I have to do before leaving Mexico. I have to give the students their final exams in English next week, and I have to try to prepare them well, and I despair when I think of how little I have taught them in these seven to eight months. I have to try to sell my furniture and refrigerator, and I worry about how I’m going to have time to go on a Tuesday or Thursday morning to the phone company (because those are the only times it is open here) in order to transfer the line to my friend, and how I’m going to get much of the money back for my furniture since I am selling it to coworkers whom I don’t want to charge a lot because most of them make very little money. I worry about packing, about how I’m going to fit all the stuff I want to fit in my bags. I worry about what I’m going to do once I get back to Columbus, finding a job for just a month and a half and then moving to New York before September, and then finding a job and a cheap but nice apartment (impossible?) in New York. I worry about talking to the principal about my leaving. I worry about leaving the school on a bad note, because the last weekend before I leave (after the school year is officially over, I might add), I’m supposed to attend the 18-hour-per-weekend cursos diplomados, and I have absolutely no intention of attending them.
None of these things get resolved by worrying about them, but I can’t seem to stop worrying even when I’m exhausted. For the immediate future however, I will try to concentrate on having fun on my last weekend in Guadalajara.
