As an introduction to our communities unit, I spun a little tale for my students. We were on a plane heading for South Africa when the engine died and the plane started to crash. We aimed our parachutes for the one small island we saw beneath us. There, we had to set up a new life. OK, so it wasn't incredibly creative, but I don't think the kids noticed.
I asked my students what jobs and people we would need in order to have a functioning community. I prompted them with jobs like "nurse, gardener, carpenter." Their answers were a bit less practical. "Someone to pump our gas if we figure out how to build cars," one boy offered. I also got "a bartender" and "someone to put makeup on the girls." Glad to see you have a good grasp on the essentials of life, kiddos.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Testing: Texas vs. Mexico
Testing: the one and only way of rating a school's success. A lot depends on those little scantron bubbles. Back in Texas, we teachers prepared all year for the TAKS test. This year, Mexico's ENLACE test just appeared out of nowhere. For my readers' enlightenment, I thought I should do a little comparing and contrasting of these two great nations.
Preparation
Texas:
-Carry around sample test questions in order to format any question the children might here to test script.
-Administer district-wide practice tests every few months. Analyze the results for maximum success on the real test.
-In the month leading up to the test, administer practice exams every week. Have students graph their results.
Attend teacher workshops that study the test and teach test-taking strategies.
Mexico:
-The test was for Spanish; I was told not to worry about it.
Teacher Training
Texas:
-Attend several hours of certification training prior to the test in order to proctor the exam.
Mexico:
-On the morning of the exam, give students plenty of work and leave them with a sub. All teachers gather in the teacher lounge for an hour of training. "Testing scheduled to begin at 8:15," the morning notices read? Ha.
Classroom Preparation
Texas:
-Cover anything on the walls that may assist students on the exam.
-Arrange desks so that students are sitting as far away from other students as possible.
-Make a seating chart to submit to the State.
Mexico:
-Seat students in rows by list number.
Proctoring
Texas:
-Circle around room continually, showing students that this is important to you.
-Allow breaks when needed.
-While circling, make sure you don't appear to be reading a students' test. Someone could be watching.
-When leaving the room alone, lock up the tests and lock the door.
Mexico:
-Bring grading work; you'll have plenty of time.
-Give students 15 minutes of break in between each 45-minute session.
-When leaving the room ... oh wait, no procedure for that one.
Stress Level
Texas:
-Students: Tears and vomiting
-Teachers: Heart-racing, fear, exhaustion
Mexico:
-Students: It's a day of plenty of breaks and free time.
-Teachers: It's a day without planning or teaching.
Granted, I work in a private school down here. Perhaps the test would be a bigger event in a public school. Still, I couldn't help but laugh on those two days I spent grading papers.
Preparation
Texas:
-Carry around sample test questions in order to format any question the children might here to test script.
-Administer district-wide practice tests every few months. Analyze the results for maximum success on the real test.
-In the month leading up to the test, administer practice exams every week. Have students graph their results.
Attend teacher workshops that study the test and teach test-taking strategies.
Mexico:
-The test was for Spanish; I was told not to worry about it.
Teacher Training
Texas:
-Attend several hours of certification training prior to the test in order to proctor the exam.
Mexico:
-On the morning of the exam, give students plenty of work and leave them with a sub. All teachers gather in the teacher lounge for an hour of training. "Testing scheduled to begin at 8:15," the morning notices read? Ha.
Classroom Preparation
Texas:
-Cover anything on the walls that may assist students on the exam.
-Arrange desks so that students are sitting as far away from other students as possible.
-Make a seating chart to submit to the State.
Mexico:
-Seat students in rows by list number.
Proctoring
Texas:
-Circle around room continually, showing students that this is important to you.
-Allow breaks when needed.
-While circling, make sure you don't appear to be reading a students' test. Someone could be watching.
-When leaving the room alone, lock up the tests and lock the door.
Mexico:
-Bring grading work; you'll have plenty of time.
-Give students 15 minutes of break in between each 45-minute session.
-When leaving the room ... oh wait, no procedure for that one.
Stress Level
Texas:
-Students: Tears and vomiting
-Teachers: Heart-racing, fear, exhaustion
Mexico:
-Students: It's a day of plenty of breaks and free time.
-Teachers: It's a day without planning or teaching.
Granted, I work in a private school down here. Perhaps the test would be a bigger event in a public school. Still, I couldn't help but laugh on those two days I spent grading papers.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Mexico City ... in bed
We were all scheduled to fly out of Mexico City early in the Semana Santa week. What better way to pass the weekend than to spend a few days in D.F., we figured. We left Saturday morning, loaded down with our luggage for our two-week break.
I've been having some anemia problems lately, but frequent iron and b12 popping seemed to be helping. As we neared Mexico City, though, I felt steadily worse. We checked into a hostel and lugged our suitcases to our dorm room before heading out to get food. I was sure the food would solve my problems, but after eating, I only felt worse.
After lunch, we went straight to Bellas Artes, a large art museum. I walked through a couple of rooms before the floor started rising up around me and my vision turned to tunnels. Really not wanting the attention that would come from fainting in a crowded art museum, I murmured quickly, "I'm going to faint," rushed to a bench, and lay down. Security wasn't too pleased with me stretching out on their bench, but my roommate pleaded my cause.
We stayed at the museum for a while while I rested. Kristen and Kay offered to get a taxi, but I said I could make it the three blocks to the hostel. Once outside, though, I started sinking into black again. I leaned against a statue, and the next thing I knew, Kristen and Kay were helping me into a cab and directing a confused driver to drive three blocks down the road.
I spent the rest of the day sleeping and the rest of the weekend doing activities that required little exertion. Good Mexico City trip, eh?
I've been having some anemia problems lately, but frequent iron and b12 popping seemed to be helping. As we neared Mexico City, though, I felt steadily worse. We checked into a hostel and lugged our suitcases to our dorm room before heading out to get food. I was sure the food would solve my problems, but after eating, I only felt worse.
After lunch, we went straight to Bellas Artes, a large art museum. I walked through a couple of rooms before the floor started rising up around me and my vision turned to tunnels. Really not wanting the attention that would come from fainting in a crowded art museum, I murmured quickly, "I'm going to faint," rushed to a bench, and lay down. Security wasn't too pleased with me stretching out on their bench, but my roommate pleaded my cause.
We stayed at the museum for a while while I rested. Kristen and Kay offered to get a taxi, but I said I could make it the three blocks to the hostel. Once outside, though, I started sinking into black again. I leaned against a statue, and the next thing I knew, Kristen and Kay were helping me into a cab and directing a confused driver to drive three blocks down the road.
I spent the rest of the day sleeping and the rest of the weekend doing activities that required little exertion. Good Mexico City trip, eh?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Back in college for a week
We were roommates and best friends for three years in college. She said she didn't care to get married. Ever. Then she fell for a guy -- one of our mutual college friends --, and a year and a half later, I was helping her into her wedding dress.
The weekend was marvelously fun. About ten of the LETU crowd flew/drove in for the event -- the largest reunion since we graduated. We joked that we could recreate the ubiquitous medal picture that popped up on everyone's facebook account after graduation.
I'm not sure what it is about college, but somehow, those four years are frozen in time, drawing us back into them whenever we are together. For a weekend, we were 19 and 20 again, living in the same dorms, laughing over the same stories, and complaining about the same professors.
Unfortunately, my health hasn't been stellar lately, and five days of busy bridesmaiding coupled with late nights with friends was too much for me. On the morning of the wedding, my throat was scratchy and I was sneezing. That night, all the college friends piled into one hotel room to play games and talk. I curled up in bed. Really, it was kind of pleasant drifting in and out of sleep to the backdrop of all those familiar voices.
I flew back to Mexico with a fever and had to skip a day of work. Today I went into work (the first time in a week, thanks to a Monday Mexican holiday) and was greeted by 54 hugs and little voices pleading, "Don't ever leave us again! You were gone so long!"
I'm not quite in perfect health yet, but I'm on the mend. I guess I'm just not a college kid anymore.
The weekend was marvelously fun. About ten of the LETU crowd flew/drove in for the event -- the largest reunion since we graduated. We joked that we could recreate the ubiquitous medal picture that popped up on everyone's facebook account after graduation.
I'm not sure what it is about college, but somehow, those four years are frozen in time, drawing us back into them whenever we are together. For a weekend, we were 19 and 20 again, living in the same dorms, laughing over the same stories, and complaining about the same professors.
Unfortunately, my health hasn't been stellar lately, and five days of busy bridesmaiding coupled with late nights with friends was too much for me. On the morning of the wedding, my throat was scratchy and I was sneezing. That night, all the college friends piled into one hotel room to play games and talk. I curled up in bed. Really, it was kind of pleasant drifting in and out of sleep to the backdrop of all those familiar voices.
I flew back to Mexico with a fever and had to skip a day of work. Today I went into work (the first time in a week, thanks to a Monday Mexican holiday) and was greeted by 54 hugs and little voices pleading, "Don't ever leave us again! You were gone so long!"
I'm not quite in perfect health yet, but I'm on the mend. I guess I'm just not a college kid anymore.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Texas Independence Day smoke
Texas celebrated its 174th birthday this year. In honor of this auspicious occasion, I hosted a Texas Independence Day party last Friday. I planned a decent Tex-Mex menu: guacamole and chips, sweet tea, refried beans, sour cream enchiladas, mint brownies, peach cobbler, and Blue Bell ice cream. I wondered how I would cook the food without an oven, but on Tuesday, my landlord fulfilled his months-long promise to replace our stove and oven set.
On Friday morning, everything was going according to plan. A Gonzalez flag hung on one wall. The brownies were cooling on the stove. The enchiladas were ready to bake. The peaches were stewed with cinnamon and nutmeg. I got up early to cook the beans, one of my few remaining tasks.
I thought I turned the beans off before I went to work. Honest. Perhaps I turned them on high instead; the stove was new, after all. In any case, the beans burned, and my friends’ first smell of Texas Independence Day was the smoke billowing down three flights of stairs to the street below. We opened windows, turned on fans, and bought canned beans at the corner store. My friends were gracious and didn’t complain. When we went to a movie later that night, though, we smelled like chain smokers.
Saturday was spent fighting a losing battle with the smoke. The maid came and scrubbed for three hours. The laundry lady picked up almost every piece of clothing my roommate and I own. We opened every window wide and let in the beautiful Puebla air. The house smelled of bleach and sunshine. And smoke.
For the next three days, my roommate and I tried everything possible. We cooked food. We boiled juice. We tried keeping bedroom doors open. We tried keeping them closed. The smell improved, but not much. Finding clothes for work was a challenge, since our clothes were still at the laundry. I dug into the depths of my closet to find the clothes least affected by the disaster. Still, I had to keep my classroom windows open to keep my nose from wrinkling whenever I got around myself (pretty often).
I lived for Tuesday afternoon, when the laundry lady would return bags of sweet-smelling clothes to my apartment. When I called her after work, though, she said it wouldn’t be done until Wednesday. I was leaving Wednesday morning for my friend's wedding, though. New laundry plan. I went over to her shop and dug through my bags of smoky clothes until I found enough for my trip.
Now I’m on the plane to Phoenix. My suitcase is loaded with smoke-saturated laundry, and whenever I open my purse, a puff of smoky air blows into my face. I really hope this is over soon; I can’t take much more smoke.
On Friday morning, everything was going according to plan. A Gonzalez flag hung on one wall. The brownies were cooling on the stove. The enchiladas were ready to bake. The peaches were stewed with cinnamon and nutmeg. I got up early to cook the beans, one of my few remaining tasks.
I thought I turned the beans off before I went to work. Honest. Perhaps I turned them on high instead; the stove was new, after all. In any case, the beans burned, and my friends’ first smell of Texas Independence Day was the smoke billowing down three flights of stairs to the street below. We opened windows, turned on fans, and bought canned beans at the corner store. My friends were gracious and didn’t complain. When we went to a movie later that night, though, we smelled like chain smokers.
Saturday was spent fighting a losing battle with the smoke. The maid came and scrubbed for three hours. The laundry lady picked up almost every piece of clothing my roommate and I own. We opened every window wide and let in the beautiful Puebla air. The house smelled of bleach and sunshine. And smoke.
For the next three days, my roommate and I tried everything possible. We cooked food. We boiled juice. We tried keeping bedroom doors open. We tried keeping them closed. The smell improved, but not much. Finding clothes for work was a challenge, since our clothes were still at the laundry. I dug into the depths of my closet to find the clothes least affected by the disaster. Still, I had to keep my classroom windows open to keep my nose from wrinkling whenever I got around myself (pretty often).
I lived for Tuesday afternoon, when the laundry lady would return bags of sweet-smelling clothes to my apartment. When I called her after work, though, she said it wouldn’t be done until Wednesday. I was leaving Wednesday morning for my friend's wedding, though. New laundry plan. I went over to her shop and dug through my bags of smoky clothes until I found enough for my trip.
Now I’m on the plane to Phoenix. My suitcase is loaded with smoke-saturated laundry, and whenever I open my purse, a puff of smoky air blows into my face. I really hope this is over soon; I can’t take much more smoke.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Early Adventures of [the many] Theodore Puffles
On Valentine's Day, my class had lunch with a 5th grade class. This class had a hamster. My class wanted one. I didn't mind. Enter Teddy Puffles. I told my students I would go to the pet store and get a hamster and materials if they paid for it and cared for it.
For weeks, the children brought in their change. When they had finally saved enough, I brought them a brand new furry friend, complete with a fancy cage and a few toys. The students fell in love instantly, naming their pet Theodore Puffles.
Unfortunately, Teddy Puffles was destined to go through several reincarnations before he finally settled in the classroom. On Friday, one eager boy was chosen to take Teddy Puffles home. He was the envy of the class as he strut out of school at 2:15 with the hamster. On Monday morning, however, his father met me in front of school. Teddy had died during the weekend. Before I had a chance to respond, he told me that they had bought a new hamster who looked like Teddy. I went to my classroom, and the frightened little boy was waiting with the cage. I brought him in first, gave him a besito, and told him not to worry.
Third graders' reasoning skills are far from developed; I used their limitations to my advantage on Monday morning. "Teddy looks different," one boy said. I told him, "It's because he's sleeping." He walked away satisfied; apparently sleep can alter color patterns on animals. A bigger challenge was that this Teddy was very young and couldn't open his eyes yet. The students were worried until they checked out a book from the library and read that babies sometimes take a long time to open their eyes. The fact that Teddy was able to open his eyes three days earlier didn't register.
I hoped that my hamster troubles were on the way out, but on Tuesday, Teddy Puffles didn't look so good. Clearly, something was wrong. I told the students I would take him to the vet in the afternoon. (Lies! I'm not taking a 41 peso animal to the vet!) That afternoon, Teddy was dead again.
I made a third trip to the pet store (Perhaps I should have considered finding a different one, considering the hamster death rate our class was having.), but their selection was limited this time. Teddy had to change colors, which meant the students would have to know that he had died at least once.
Wednesday was a sad day in my classroom. Students sobbed as they mourned the death of their first pet. Slowly, they began playing with Teddy 2 (unaware that he was really Teddy 3). I think they've warmed up to their new Teddy Puffles. I just hope that this one lasts.
Oh, and the other class (I teach two) of course wanted an animal, so they brought their change and bought one too. So far, we've had no drama with their Harvey Cookie.
For weeks, the children brought in their change. When they had finally saved enough, I brought them a brand new furry friend, complete with a fancy cage and a few toys. The students fell in love instantly, naming their pet Theodore Puffles.
Unfortunately, Teddy Puffles was destined to go through several reincarnations before he finally settled in the classroom. On Friday, one eager boy was chosen to take Teddy Puffles home. He was the envy of the class as he strut out of school at 2:15 with the hamster. On Monday morning, however, his father met me in front of school. Teddy had died during the weekend. Before I had a chance to respond, he told me that they had bought a new hamster who looked like Teddy. I went to my classroom, and the frightened little boy was waiting with the cage. I brought him in first, gave him a besito, and told him not to worry.
Third graders' reasoning skills are far from developed; I used their limitations to my advantage on Monday morning. "Teddy looks different," one boy said. I told him, "It's because he's sleeping." He walked away satisfied; apparently sleep can alter color patterns on animals. A bigger challenge was that this Teddy was very young and couldn't open his eyes yet. The students were worried until they checked out a book from the library and read that babies sometimes take a long time to open their eyes. The fact that Teddy was able to open his eyes three days earlier didn't register.
I hoped that my hamster troubles were on the way out, but on Tuesday, Teddy Puffles didn't look so good. Clearly, something was wrong. I told the students I would take him to the vet in the afternoon. (Lies! I'm not taking a 41 peso animal to the vet!) That afternoon, Teddy was dead again.
I made a third trip to the pet store (Perhaps I should have considered finding a different one, considering the hamster death rate our class was having.), but their selection was limited this time. Teddy had to change colors, which meant the students would have to know that he had died at least once.
Wednesday was a sad day in my classroom. Students sobbed as they mourned the death of their first pet. Slowly, they began playing with Teddy 2 (unaware that he was really Teddy 3). I think they've warmed up to their new Teddy Puffles. I just hope that this one lasts.
Oh, and the other class (I teach two) of course wanted an animal, so they brought their change and bought one too. So far, we've had no drama with their Harvey Cookie.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Budding Hemingways
One of my goals for my students is to send them to fourth grade able to construct an organized, solid paragraph. We practice paragraph writing two to three days a week for our bell work (work that should be done while the bell is ringing and I am grading homework). I keep my requirements simple: The students should indent; use complete sentences; and include a topic sentence, three specific detail sentences, and an ending sentence. My students can recite the requirements backwards and forwards. We even have hand motions.
Until recently, I'd kept the topics pretty simple. "Write about your favorite sport." "Tell me what you did last weekend." Last week, though, I decided to test their abilities a bit more. We had finished reading a short biography of Martin Luther King, Jr., so I asked them to write a paragraph describing how he fought racism. The results were as I expected: The high students wrote beautiful paragraphs, the low ones copied the back cover, and the medium ones handled the subject succinctly and humorously. Here are a few samples from that last group, spelling errors intact.
MLK they like to fight with the racism. They haves books for people that fight with the racism. MLK talk with 25,000 peoples of the drim for the 4 sons of MLK Jr. live in a ward that not have rasism.
Who knew that MLK was a "they"?
Martin Lauther King was a good minister. He saw the "whites only sign and he was sad. He deases the blacks can go in every where. Some people don't like what Martin said. I like what Martin said at all.
My favorite part of that one is the Englishized version of the Spanish word "say."
MLK fought the racism. He spoke to 250,000 people. He told them that he have a dream, fought racism. He said that all the people is equal. He won the racism.
We really have come a long way; I promise.
Until recently, I'd kept the topics pretty simple. "Write about your favorite sport." "Tell me what you did last weekend." Last week, though, I decided to test their abilities a bit more. We had finished reading a short biography of Martin Luther King, Jr., so I asked them to write a paragraph describing how he fought racism. The results were as I expected: The high students wrote beautiful paragraphs, the low ones copied the back cover, and the medium ones handled the subject succinctly and humorously. Here are a few samples from that last group, spelling errors intact.
MLK they like to fight with the racism. They haves books for people that fight with the racism. MLK talk with 25,000 peoples of the drim for the 4 sons of MLK Jr. live in a ward that not have rasism.
Who knew that MLK was a "they"?
Martin Lauther King was a good minister. He saw the "whites only sign and he was sad. He deases the blacks can go in every where. Some people don't like what Martin said. I like what Martin said at all.
My favorite part of that one is the Englishized version of the Spanish word "say."
MLK fought the racism. He spoke to 250,000 people. He told them that he have a dream, fought racism. He said that all the people is equal. He won the racism.
We really have come a long way; I promise.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Trash pick-up hour
I'd always heard that living in Mexico required a great deal of flexibility. Until I moved here, though, I didn't realize that it would also require punctuality. Yes, be flexible. Don't get upset when the plumber's "I'll fix your toilet tomorrow" is left unfulfilled for three months. But on that glorious day when he calls and says he'll be at the house at 3 p.m., you'd better be home by 2:30. If, for some chance, he happens to show, you don't want to risk a broken toilet for another three months because you weren't home.
The flexibility/punctuality dichotomy is never as apparent as it is on trash pick-up days. Trash is picked up three days each week down here: Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. The garbage man comes at eight p.m., and the trash cannot be taken out before seven. If we have trash that simply must go (and without an outdoor dumpster, that does happen), my roommate and I have to rearrange our schedules to make sure that at least one of us is home at the exact right hour for taking out the garbage. Taking it out any earlier results in a nasty mess in front of our apartment, courtesy of the neighborhood dogs.
Of course, flexibility is also important in the garbage situation. Sometimes, the pick-up guys just don't come. Last night was one of those nights. The dogs got the the trash today, and I had to step over the scattered remains of a bag of dirty diapers to get to my apartment. Ah, the joys of living in Mexico.
The flexibility/punctuality dichotomy is never as apparent as it is on trash pick-up days. Trash is picked up three days each week down here: Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. The garbage man comes at eight p.m., and the trash cannot be taken out before seven. If we have trash that simply must go (and without an outdoor dumpster, that does happen), my roommate and I have to rearrange our schedules to make sure that at least one of us is home at the exact right hour for taking out the garbage. Taking it out any earlier results in a nasty mess in front of our apartment, courtesy of the neighborhood dogs.
Of course, flexibility is also important in the garbage situation. Sometimes, the pick-up guys just don't come. Last night was one of those nights. The dogs got the the trash today, and I had to step over the scattered remains of a bag of dirty diapers to get to my apartment. Ah, the joys of living in Mexico.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Ovens and Christmas parties
I hosted a pancake party at my house for Christmas last night. Yes, pancakes. With homemade strawberry sauce and peach sauce, frosting, nutella, whipped cream, milk, and mulled wine. I've got a good reason, too. Allow me to explain.
Ovens are not a high priority in Mexico. I've seen a few decent American-style ovens, but not too many. My oven certainly isn't one. I stuck to borrowing a friends' oven for my first three months in Mexico, but for Thanksgiving, I decided I needed to try my own.
Gas combined with flame should result in ignition. That's what I thought until I tried to light my oven. I could hear the gas flowing into the oven, I could smell it entering the rest of the house. Still, the oven refused to light. Eventually, I figured out how to do it. I had to turn the gas on and close the oven door. Once the whole oven had filled with gas, I could stick a flame in there and it would explode. The explosion left my eyes burning, but at least I had a hot oven.
With the oven lit, I had new troubles. The first one was the temperature. My oven nobs do not have numbers on them. Plus, if I turned the gas down, the flame would die and I'd have to light the oven again. I discovered that my oven really only had two temperatures -- all the way on, and off. After several times of lowering the temperature, killing the flame, and having to explode light the oven again, I figured this out.
The final problem was that my oven door wouldn't close. The slightest movement would send it slamming open. Even when I managed to close it, a two-inch crack let the heat out and the cold air in.
Somehow, I managed to bake sweet potato casserole and a pie for Thanksgiving. Both of them were soft in the middle and black on the outside. I yelled at the oven a lot. I had to keep the apartment door open all night to keep the apartment from filling with gas. I almost died. That is why I hosted a pancake party for Christmas. No Christmas cookies at this apartment. I'll save the baking for the U.S.
Ovens are not a high priority in Mexico. I've seen a few decent American-style ovens, but not too many. My oven certainly isn't one. I stuck to borrowing a friends' oven for my first three months in Mexico, but for Thanksgiving, I decided I needed to try my own.
Gas combined with flame should result in ignition. That's what I thought until I tried to light my oven. I could hear the gas flowing into the oven, I could smell it entering the rest of the house. Still, the oven refused to light. Eventually, I figured out how to do it. I had to turn the gas on and close the oven door. Once the whole oven had filled with gas, I could stick a flame in there and it would explode. The explosion left my eyes burning, but at least I had a hot oven.
With the oven lit, I had new troubles. The first one was the temperature. My oven nobs do not have numbers on them. Plus, if I turned the gas down, the flame would die and I'd have to light the oven again. I discovered that my oven really only had two temperatures -- all the way on, and off. After several times of lowering the temperature, killing the flame, and having to explode light the oven again, I figured this out.
The final problem was that my oven door wouldn't close. The slightest movement would send it slamming open. Even when I managed to close it, a two-inch crack let the heat out and the cold air in.
Somehow, I managed to bake sweet potato casserole and a pie for Thanksgiving. Both of them were soft in the middle and black on the outside. I yelled at the oven a lot. I had to keep the apartment door open all night to keep the apartment from filling with gas. I almost died. That is why I hosted a pancake party for Christmas. No Christmas cookies at this apartment. I'll save the baking for the U.S.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Time traveling
I've heard rumors that time machines do not exist. This weekend, though, I was fairly convinced those rumors were false.
My time traveling started on Sunday morning when I opened Firefox and saw that dreadful "unable to load page" message. In the living room our television had turned to snow. We called the cable company, and they said the entire neighborhood was down. It would be back in a few hours, they promised. Ha. Yeah, right.
I left for the day, and when I returned Sunday evening, my roommate said, "Did you notice? We're out of gas." No gas means no cooking and no warm showers, an unfortunate state of affairs in the winter. Puebla doesn't get too cold, but the temperatures do near freezing in the mornings and evenings. We called the gas company. They said they would refill our tank at seven the next morning. Ha. Yeah, right.
Yesterday I woke up to a cold shower. I sang songs about the snow. "I wanna wash my hands, my face and hair with snow" seemed particularly appropriate. I ate a cold breakfast, without the usual background of CNN. The gas truck never came. The internet and cable still weren't working. During the day, Ivan called for gas again. They'd be right over, they said. Ha. Yeah, right.
As I was leaving school, I tried texting a friend. The text wouldn't go through. Strange. I had enough credit on my phone, I thought. My roommate's phone (also Moviestar) was down, too. So was Ivan's.
That evening, Karen and I sat in our 18th century living room and wondered what to do. I couldn't finish making Christmas candy, because the gas tank was empty. We couldn't call the gas company (for the fourth time), because our phones were down. I didn't want to work out, because I didn't want to have to take another icey shower. So I took a nap. Then I took another.
At nine or so, Karen, Ivan, and I went next door to get some dinner. There, we asked around. Our neighbors' internet and cable was still working. Everyone offered advice for getting ours working again. They also said they filled their gas tanks far less often than we did. A neighbor brought a phone book, and we searched for a company that would actually show up and wouldn't rip us off.
Today we have returned to the 21st century. Our phones are working again. A new company filled our tank, and hopefully 500 pesos will last more than a month or two this time. The technician figured out that our cable had been disconnected across the street. He wouldn't give us our extra channels, though. Last time, we had to promise to go dancing with him for him to put up the 20 extra American channels. I guess he figured out we weren't going to make good our promise. Now we're stuck with the 40 Spanish channels we pay for. I have few complaints, though. Hot water and internet and phones are pretty great.
My time traveling started on Sunday morning when I opened Firefox and saw that dreadful "unable to load page" message. In the living room our television had turned to snow. We called the cable company, and they said the entire neighborhood was down. It would be back in a few hours, they promised. Ha. Yeah, right.
I left for the day, and when I returned Sunday evening, my roommate said, "Did you notice? We're out of gas." No gas means no cooking and no warm showers, an unfortunate state of affairs in the winter. Puebla doesn't get too cold, but the temperatures do near freezing in the mornings and evenings. We called the gas company. They said they would refill our tank at seven the next morning. Ha. Yeah, right.
Yesterday I woke up to a cold shower. I sang songs about the snow. "I wanna wash my hands, my face and hair with snow" seemed particularly appropriate. I ate a cold breakfast, without the usual background of CNN. The gas truck never came. The internet and cable still weren't working. During the day, Ivan called for gas again. They'd be right over, they said. Ha. Yeah, right.
As I was leaving school, I tried texting a friend. The text wouldn't go through. Strange. I had enough credit on my phone, I thought. My roommate's phone (also Moviestar) was down, too. So was Ivan's.
That evening, Karen and I sat in our 18th century living room and wondered what to do. I couldn't finish making Christmas candy, because the gas tank was empty. We couldn't call the gas company (for the fourth time), because our phones were down. I didn't want to work out, because I didn't want to have to take another icey shower. So I took a nap. Then I took another.
At nine or so, Karen, Ivan, and I went next door to get some dinner. There, we asked around. Our neighbors' internet and cable was still working. Everyone offered advice for getting ours working again. They also said they filled their gas tanks far less often than we did. A neighbor brought a phone book, and we searched for a company that would actually show up and wouldn't rip us off.
Today we have returned to the 21st century. Our phones are working again. A new company filled our tank, and hopefully 500 pesos will last more than a month or two this time. The technician figured out that our cable had been disconnected across the street. He wouldn't give us our extra channels, though. Last time, we had to promise to go dancing with him for him to put up the 20 extra American channels. I guess he figured out we weren't going to make good our promise. Now we're stuck with the 40 Spanish channels we pay for. I have few complaints, though. Hot water and internet and phones are pretty great.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Crazy?
While marching back from recess today, I found myself singing "I've Been Working on the Railroad" while eating a piece of pumpkin pie. One of my girls asked, "Miss, are you crazy?"
"Just a little," I said.
"Just a little," I said.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Fire!
I'm falling in love with Mexico, one three-day weekend at a time. Just two weeks after our last one, we had another long weekend. We opted for a prettier beach this time: Acapulco.
Five of us squeezed into Ivan's sport's car for the five-hour drive. We emerged in the beach-town heat sweaty and anxious to change out of our winter Puebla clothes. Nothing is as simple as it sounds down here, though.
Our hotel was right on the water, a beautiful view. It had two elevators when both of them happened to be running at the same time. Our room number was 2004. We took one look at the crowds of sandy beach-goers waiting in front of the elevator doors and headed straight for the stairs. The stairs only led us up one floor, though, and we couldn't find any more flights. Maybe, we thought, our room was on the second floor. We asked. No, the 20th.
Despite our five hours in the car, 20 flights on stairs didn't sound appealing. We waited at the elevator for a while, but it never came. Fine, we'd take the stairs. Unfortunately, we still couldn't find the stairs. We searched for a while until we found one narrow flight at the back of the building. We took it and were now stuck on the third floor. This was going to be a long trip.
Eventually, we figured out that after each flight, we had to circle the inside of the building once to find the next flight. We sped up after that. As fast as one can speed up when ascending 20 flights of stairs. We found our room and collapsed on the beds.
We took the elevator later that evening, but it proved nearly as painful as the stairs. Unbearably hot, it inched its way upward and stopped at nearly every floor. It seems we weren't the only ones who had pressed the button and then abandoned it in impatience.
The next morning, I chose to take the 20 flights of stairs instead of waiting with all of the other swimsuit-bedecked vacationers. As I was circling, I wondered what the hotel would do in case of a fire. I couldn't imagine all of the occupants squeezing down those narrow staircases in panic.
That evening, we were in our hotel room getting ready to go out when we heard a loud buzzing that I remembered all too well from my college days. We stood staring at a few minutes, willing the alarm into silence. It continued. "Should we go down," we wondered. "It's not really a fire, is it? The facilities couldn't handle that." We opened our door and poked our heads out. Nearly every other occupant of the floor was doing the same thing. We all shrugged at each other and went back into our rooms. Still, the alarm refused to quiet. We stepped into the hall again. And back into the room. Eventually the alarm ended.
By the way, we had a great time on the beach.
Five of us squeezed into Ivan's sport's car for the five-hour drive. We emerged in the beach-town heat sweaty and anxious to change out of our winter Puebla clothes. Nothing is as simple as it sounds down here, though.
Our hotel was right on the water, a beautiful view. It had two elevators when both of them happened to be running at the same time. Our room number was 2004. We took one look at the crowds of sandy beach-goers waiting in front of the elevator doors and headed straight for the stairs. The stairs only led us up one floor, though, and we couldn't find any more flights. Maybe, we thought, our room was on the second floor. We asked. No, the 20th.
Despite our five hours in the car, 20 flights on stairs didn't sound appealing. We waited at the elevator for a while, but it never came. Fine, we'd take the stairs. Unfortunately, we still couldn't find the stairs. We searched for a while until we found one narrow flight at the back of the building. We took it and were now stuck on the third floor. This was going to be a long trip.
Eventually, we figured out that after each flight, we had to circle the inside of the building once to find the next flight. We sped up after that. As fast as one can speed up when ascending 20 flights of stairs. We found our room and collapsed on the beds.
We took the elevator later that evening, but it proved nearly as painful as the stairs. Unbearably hot, it inched its way upward and stopped at nearly every floor. It seems we weren't the only ones who had pressed the button and then abandoned it in impatience.
The next morning, I chose to take the 20 flights of stairs instead of waiting with all of the other swimsuit-bedecked vacationers. As I was circling, I wondered what the hotel would do in case of a fire. I couldn't imagine all of the occupants squeezing down those narrow staircases in panic.
That evening, we were in our hotel room getting ready to go out when we heard a loud buzzing that I remembered all too well from my college days. We stood staring at a few minutes, willing the alarm into silence. It continued. "Should we go down," we wondered. "It's not really a fire, is it? The facilities couldn't handle that." We opened our door and poked our heads out. Nearly every other occupant of the floor was doing the same thing. We all shrugged at each other and went back into our rooms. Still, the alarm refused to quiet. We stepped into the hall again. And back into the room. Eventually the alarm ended.
By the way, we had a great time on the beach.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Identity crisis
My left foot is claustrophobic. But only at night. Come ten or so each night, my left foot begins longing for freedom from its sock, and I have no control over it for the next ten hours. I’ve tried sleeping with both socks on during cold nights, but I always wake up with a bare left foot in the morning. My left foot is a stubborn master. Over the years, that foot’s strange craving has become a sort of security blanket. Regardless of where I am in the world, regardless of what is happening in my universe, I know that come nighttime, my left sock will be discarded.
This week, though, I faced a crisis that sent me reeling and pondering life’s deeper questions. I was lying in bed, left sock off and right sock on, when both of my feet sent up a unprecedented message: They wanted the left sock on and the right sock off. I was thrust into an identity crisis deeper than any I’d yet experienced. Who was I? What was my purpose in life? Where was I? If my left-foot behavior wasn’t consistent, who and what could I really depend on?
I had to make a choice. I’d given up fighting my left foot years ago, but now it was asking for something entirely new. I didn’t think I could handle that type of inconsistency. I refused. As intense as the urgings were, I kept my right sock on and my left sock off. I’ve changed jobs and countries this year. I’ve met new people and adjusted to new foods. I have to have stability in at least one thing. The following night my feet also made the same unusual request, and again, I refused. My sternness paid off: By the third night, my feet were back to their usual desires. Now, I am sitting at my computer, a fluffy sock on my right foot and my left foot bare.
This week, though, I faced a crisis that sent me reeling and pondering life’s deeper questions. I was lying in bed, left sock off and right sock on, when both of my feet sent up a unprecedented message: They wanted the left sock on and the right sock off. I was thrust into an identity crisis deeper than any I’d yet experienced. Who was I? What was my purpose in life? Where was I? If my left-foot behavior wasn’t consistent, who and what could I really depend on?
I had to make a choice. I’d given up fighting my left foot years ago, but now it was asking for something entirely new. I didn’t think I could handle that type of inconsistency. I refused. As intense as the urgings were, I kept my right sock on and my left sock off. I’ve changed jobs and countries this year. I’ve met new people and adjusted to new foods. I have to have stability in at least one thing. The following night my feet also made the same unusual request, and again, I refused. My sternness paid off: By the third night, my feet were back to their usual desires. Now, I am sitting at my computer, a fluffy sock on my right foot and my left foot bare.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
I've got the power
I wouldn't consider myself particularly power-hungry, but some days, the rush that comes with controlling 53 eight-year-olds is just too much to resist.
My first group or students was well-behaved for most of the morning. Walking back from P.E., they began playing, though. I stopped the line about three times, and their behavior never changed. Line behavior isn't stressed too heavily in this school, but I still prefer my students to walk quietly and without playing. When we got back to the classroom, I painted on my upset-teacher face and told the kids to sit down immediately. "Are you angry?" one girl asked. "Yes, sit down." I love teaching.
I sentenced them to "lunch detention." They eat in the classroom, and I usually allow them to talk and even get up and play when they are finished eating. During lunch detention, though, they eat in silence and they stay seated until the bell rings for recess. I told them that for each sound I heard, I would keep them in an extra minute after the bell. Four rebels ventured a word. Four minutes. The bell rang, classmates ran screaming past our door, and my students sat, looking miserable. After their minutes of imprisonment were completed, I sternly released them, table-by-table. When I finally closed the door behind the last repentant face, I couldn't help but grin. I love teaching.
My second group was in a talkative mood. I warned them that I was going to finish what I had planned, regardless of how long it took. The bell rang, and I told them to sit down. They still had to write definitions to their seven vocabulary words. 26 horrified students gaped at me. "But Miss, I have a celebration for my grandmother." "But Miss, I have to go to soccer practice." "Then you'd better get to work and stop wasting your time arguing," I said. I love teaching.
I told them that when they were finished they could just give me their books and I would put them back in numerical order for them, since "I'm the best teacher ever." They heartily agreed. "Miss Courtney, you're the /best/ teacher I ever had!"
Perhaps it's no coincidence that Snap's "The Power" has been stuck in my head all day.
My first group or students was well-behaved for most of the morning. Walking back from P.E., they began playing, though. I stopped the line about three times, and their behavior never changed. Line behavior isn't stressed too heavily in this school, but I still prefer my students to walk quietly and without playing. When we got back to the classroom, I painted on my upset-teacher face and told the kids to sit down immediately. "Are you angry?" one girl asked. "Yes, sit down." I love teaching.
I sentenced them to "lunch detention." They eat in the classroom, and I usually allow them to talk and even get up and play when they are finished eating. During lunch detention, though, they eat in silence and they stay seated until the bell rings for recess. I told them that for each sound I heard, I would keep them in an extra minute after the bell. Four rebels ventured a word. Four minutes. The bell rang, classmates ran screaming past our door, and my students sat, looking miserable. After their minutes of imprisonment were completed, I sternly released them, table-by-table. When I finally closed the door behind the last repentant face, I couldn't help but grin. I love teaching.
My second group was in a talkative mood. I warned them that I was going to finish what I had planned, regardless of how long it took. The bell rang, and I told them to sit down. They still had to write definitions to their seven vocabulary words. 26 horrified students gaped at me. "But Miss, I have a celebration for my grandmother." "But Miss, I have to go to soccer practice." "Then you'd better get to work and stop wasting your time arguing," I said. I love teaching.
I told them that when they were finished they could just give me their books and I would put them back in numerical order for them, since "I'm the best teacher ever." They heartily agreed. "Miss Courtney, you're the /best/ teacher I ever had!"
Perhaps it's no coincidence that Snap's "The Power" has been stuck in my head all day.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Fighting the clock
I stress about arriving to standardized tests, the way most people stress about catching a flight. I'd prefer to be nice and early, leaving plenty of time for sitting in the waiting room. Those of you like me, be advised: Don't take a literature GRE test in Mexico.
My test was scheduled for 9 a.m. on Saturday morning. My alarm sounded at 6:30, and I jumped on the mad train ride that I hoped would end with me sitting in a desk at the UDLA in Cholula.
I opted against a bus, since I didn't know the route to the UDLA and didn't want to risk anything. Instead, I called a taxi. Unfortunately, the taxi company didn't answer. So I went to the nearest major road and flagged one down. The driver offered me an exorbitant price, but I was too anxious to arrive at the test to argue. I climbed in the cab.
Cholula was not to be our first stop, however. My driver told me he didn't have change, and unless I had the exact amount, we'd have to stop at a convenience store. We pulled into one, but it wasn't open, and gas pumpers refused to make change. Next we tried an Oxxo, but gas stations aren't exactly loaded with cash early in the morning. The taxi driver said he'd take care of it. He left his cab parked in the middle of the parking lot, still running. Soon, cars began to pile up behind me. I sat in the smelly cab, wondering where the driver had gone with my money, listening to the horns honking behind me, and reassuring myself with the fact that his cab probably cost more than 500 pesos. Eventually, he returned with the change.
We were finally on our way to Cholula. I told him I had to be there by 8:10. I was glad I left so much extra time; the campus was much bigger than I had anticipated. He dropped me off near what I thought was my building. It was empty. A lone man directed me to the business office. There, I was greeted by a crowd of students wearing "STAFF" name tags. That looked promising. None of them had heard of a GRE test, though. They pointed me to another building. I found myself in a computer lab filled with costumed college kids. I was skeptical. Most of them had no idea what I was talking about, but I eventually found a ghost who was knowledgeable. I walked until I found the "orange building" and saw a piece of computer paper with the letters "GRE" printed on it.
I needn't have worried about being late. This is Mexico, after all, and even when administering an American exam, it cannot act contrary to its nature. We stood outside in the cold until everyone had arrived. We didn't begin testing until 9:15. Our proctor solved that small problem by changing the room's clock back to 9. There, right on schedule.
My test was scheduled for 9 a.m. on Saturday morning. My alarm sounded at 6:30, and I jumped on the mad train ride that I hoped would end with me sitting in a desk at the UDLA in Cholula.
I opted against a bus, since I didn't know the route to the UDLA and didn't want to risk anything. Instead, I called a taxi. Unfortunately, the taxi company didn't answer. So I went to the nearest major road and flagged one down. The driver offered me an exorbitant price, but I was too anxious to arrive at the test to argue. I climbed in the cab.
Cholula was not to be our first stop, however. My driver told me he didn't have change, and unless I had the exact amount, we'd have to stop at a convenience store. We pulled into one, but it wasn't open, and gas pumpers refused to make change. Next we tried an Oxxo, but gas stations aren't exactly loaded with cash early in the morning. The taxi driver said he'd take care of it. He left his cab parked in the middle of the parking lot, still running. Soon, cars began to pile up behind me. I sat in the smelly cab, wondering where the driver had gone with my money, listening to the horns honking behind me, and reassuring myself with the fact that his cab probably cost more than 500 pesos. Eventually, he returned with the change.
We were finally on our way to Cholula. I told him I had to be there by 8:10. I was glad I left so much extra time; the campus was much bigger than I had anticipated. He dropped me off near what I thought was my building. It was empty. A lone man directed me to the business office. There, I was greeted by a crowd of students wearing "STAFF" name tags. That looked promising. None of them had heard of a GRE test, though. They pointed me to another building. I found myself in a computer lab filled with costumed college kids. I was skeptical. Most of them had no idea what I was talking about, but I eventually found a ghost who was knowledgeable. I walked until I found the "orange building" and saw a piece of computer paper with the letters "GRE" printed on it.
I needn't have worried about being late. This is Mexico, after all, and even when administering an American exam, it cannot act contrary to its nature. We stood outside in the cold until everyone had arrived. We didn't begin testing until 9:15. Our proctor solved that small problem by changing the room's clock back to 9. There, right on schedule.
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