2.1

Shortly after the last school year ended, I filled in at a camp for a week. During the first day, I was surprised to find that I couldn't shape my mouth into a convincing smile. Apparently, those muscles had atrophied slightly during my year as a teacher. I didn't like Miss Craggett much last year. I determined that I would create a teacher persona that I liked or I would get out of the classroom before I became the epitomized mean old teacher.

This year, my risk is even greater. Students in Mexico do not address their teachers by their first names. Hence, I am "Miss Courtney." This terrifies me a bit. I no longer have the safety of dichotomy. Last year, Miss Craggett was one person, and Courtney was another. This year, though, I'd better make myself happy with Miss Courtney, because there's no getting away from her.

For these first few weeks, though, I'll be the mean old teacher. I need to develop a healthy fear in those 54 little rascals before we start having fun.

Although I am teaching the same grade and race as my students back in Texas, the differences are drastic. Last year I was teaching poverty-stricken immigrant children. This year, my students are members of Mexico's elite. They arrive to school with body guards and nannies. They have personal tutors. They know they are important. Many of them have fair skin, and the boys' hair is long and wavy and looks professionally cut. When asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, my students last year produced answers like "soccer player," "teacher," and "construction worker." Although this years' group had its fair share of hopeful soccer players and teachers, I also had answers like "doctor," "architect," "marine biologist," "zoologist," and "pathologist." I was impressed that they knew those terms.

If my first inklings are correct, this is going to shape up to be an interesting year.

Speaking my mind

Starting my second year of teaching, I have many things I hope to do differently. One of my resolutions is to be more assertive. I came into the teaching world a year ago as a 21-year-old kid fresh out of college. My coworkers were my parents' ages and had been teaching for 20 or 30 years. What they told me to do, I tried to do. When I didn't like it, I smiled and demurely complied. Not this year. This year, I am determined to have a bit more of a backbone. My first chance came today.

This past week was dedicated to setting up classrooms. Setting up a classroom is no small feat. Desks must be arranged, bulletin boards decorated, rules posted, centers established, and supplies organized.

Rumors were floating around school today of class sizes changing, a few fourth grade teachers moving to third grade, and a few teachers trading classrooms. Around noon, my principal came into my room and mentioned that I may be one of the ones moving rooms. Several classrooms upstairs were opening up due to the grade-level changes, and the principal wanted to put all of the third graders in that hall. I thanked her for letting me know and began planning how I would set up a new room in the mere hour and a half I would have after lunch.

During lunch, though, I changed my mind. Swapping rooms on the Friday afternoon before classes began was ridiculous. The only benefit was that all six third-grade classrooms would be on the same floor. The disadvantages seemed to outweigh that one benefit -- parents seeing unorganized classrooms on Monday, teachers stressed from having to move so quickly, insufficient time for academic preparation. The other teachers encouraged me at least to talk to the principal about my concerns. So I did.

After lunch, another teacher and I met with administration to discuss the problems. We were as forceful as we could respectfully be, and in the end, we gained permission to stay where we were. I feel slightly older this afternoon than I did this morning.

Lunch break

I am sitting in my classroom during my lunch break. The noises of the city are streaming through my open windows. The sky is clear today. Yesterday, smoke from the volcano obscured nearly all of the mountains, but today, the lines of Popocatépetl are crisp against the blue sky. In the classroom above mine, I can hear furniture scraping against the floor. My furniture is mostly set up. I am glad of that; those desks are heavy.

I just got my ID photos made. I wasn't prepared for mug shots. Hair shoved behind ears, bangs brushed back, chin tilted up severely -- I'm sure these will be attractive photos.

Back to work now.

Living in Puebla

I have been in Puebla for a week now and each day am more satisfied in my decision to move here. I doubt I will be here for more than a year, but I am confident that this one year will be a good one.

Founded in 1531, Puebla was created as a Utopian city exclusively for Spaniards. Although that dream died as soon as the Spaniards decided to enlist the services of the surrounding native Americans, Puebla still holds more of a European feel than many other places in Mexico.

In the evenings, I enjoy going to the center of town, where many Poblanos gather after work. Crowding into the main square, the people of Puebla relax and play. Children chase pigeons, clowns juggle, vendors sell everything from bubbles to chips drenched in chile and lime, and the elderly sit on benches and watch the spectacles. Bands often perform in the square, and the towers of balloons floating above them seem to dance with the music. The Puebla Cathedral, built in the 1600s, borders the square, its towers casting their shadows over the city.

Part of our teacher training on Monday included emergency procedures. The list of emergencies alerted me to how far from Texas I am. Tornadoes were not mentioned; but gas leaks, bomb threats, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions were. The active volcano Popocatépetl is a mere 25 miles west of Puebla, and smoke streaming from its crater is not an uncommon sight. Although the volcano is a constant feature of the landscape, it looks different each time I see it. Sometimes, clouds linger around the top of the mountain, creating an illusion of calm. Other times, however, enough smokes pours out to darken the sky around the mountain. Watching the volcano has become one of my favorite parts of my walk to school each morning. I do not have a camera yet, but this picture, taken from Puebla, provides a decent idea of what I see as I walk.

I could go on and on. I could describe the taco stands and how the warmth and smells from the roasting meat beckon me in from the chilly Poblano nights when I go walking. I could describe the Capilla del Rosario, a baroque-style chapel inlaid entirely with gold. I could describe some of the tradition foods created in Puebla, like mole or chiles en nogada (rich peppers stuffed with meat and fruit, fried, and then drenched in a nutty cream sauce). I think I will wait on all that, though. I need to give you all some incentive to come visit me.