It's About the War?

One day a week, at least during the school year, I get to feel like a rock star.

I am a beginning Spanish teacher for three to six-year-olds, at a local pre-school/kindergarten. It's a pretty good gig, I get to hang out with people shorter than me and draw cartoon images of things like food items, clothing, animals, that sort of thing, and then speak rugged Spanish with kids who are just learning the art of the English language. I am winding down the second year of this job, and most of the older kids have been in my classes for two years. A few weeks ago, one of these older kids, who has been coming to Spanish class every week for two years, suddenly appeared to be stunned, in the middle of class. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. She seemed to be thinking, "No way. Get out! You are joking!" as though I had just told her I was from another planet or that Elmo was really a puppet.

"Sarah," I said, surprised to see her mouth hanging open, as driplets of drool began to form on her lower lip, "Que paso?"

"Liz." She stated my name, sounding truly baffled and amazed at the same time. Incredulous, she asked, "Do you speak English?"

It seemed to have just occurred to her that I refer to lunch as comida and that I greet her with Hola instead of Hello. That in my class, we count like this: uno, dos, tres, instead of like this: one, two, three. This must be thoroughly confusing for a five-year-old in an otherwise English speaking setting. But this has been going on for two years. I wasn't sure why it had suddenly dawned on her that I wasn't speaking English. And, the funny thing is that I do speak English with them. Besides teaching Spanish, I have been an assistant teacher in the general pre-school, and I have visited them on many occasions, chatting in Ingles, helping them with their English letters, reading stories to them at storytime in English, answering their questions in English. But it seemed that Sarah was just now figuring out that most of the time Liz speaks in Spanish...whattayaknow!

It can be incredibly surprising to watch the cognitive processes of pre-schoolers. They notice the most inane things, like that I wear the same shoes each week, or that I have shiny jewelry in my eyebrow, but it can take two years to realize that I am speaking another language. I'm not exactly sure how I responded. I think I just assured her that, Yes I speak English, and Si, hablo espanol. And we moved on.

There are a lot of times that we just have to move on. A couple of weeks ago, we were discussing Cinco de Mayo. I asked if anyone knew what Cinco de Mayo was. At first there was a lot of, "No, what's that, Liz?" and, "Can I go to the bathroom?" And then, little Jim, the quiet four-year-old who has recently recovered from his habit of biting the girls he likes, raised his hand. "Jim?" I said, encouragingly, "Que es Cinco de Mayo?"

I was expecting something like, "I think there's a big parade," or "I don't know but can we play a game?" and instead, I heard a tiny four-year-old voice explaining quite competently, "Well, Liz, Cinco de Mayo is the Fifth of May. It is a Mexican holiday that commemorates victory at the Battle of Puebla in 1862 when Mexican forces led by General Ignacio Zaragoza defeated the French."

Slightly stunned myself, I said, "Well, yes, Jim, excellent job, muy bien," and I seriously considered asking him to teach the class. I mean, he's four. And he pretty much eloquently described the abbreviated history of Cinco de Mayo.

The following week, in an attempt to review what we had learned, I asked the group, "Who can tell me what we talked about last week?" Jim, not surprisingly, said, "Cinco de Mayo."

And I said, "Si, muy bien! And who can tell me what Cinco de Mayo is? Someone other than Jim?"

Harold, the kid who speaks with his eyes closed, raised his hand and wiggled his fingers in that way that begs to be called on. He was kind of squeaking, you know, "Ooh, ooh, pick me! Ooh, ooh, me, me! I know!" So I called on Harold, and and he sighed dramatically, as if to illustrate what a frightfully easy question I had given him, closed his eyes, raised his eyebrows and said, with a perfect Spanish accent, "Yo se. I can tell you, Liz. Cinco de Mayo is about the war? La guerra?," he paused, opened an eye to peek around at his admiring peers, just making sure he was getting it right, then closed his eyes again and finished definitely, "It's about the Iraqi War."

This was a moment where we just had to move on. I mean, what can one say to that? As a teacher, I am always looking for ways to affirm the students in their reasoning, and I suppose I could see how he had gotten there...there was a battle....that's war stuff....there's a war happening currently....I suppose he just kind of made all these connections. But, instead, I just said, after clearing my throat to disguise my chortles, "No, Harold, you're on the right track, but this is a Mexican Holday that has nothing to do with Iraq. Maybe Jim can tell us what Cinco de Mayo is about? Jim?" And Jim, in his squeaky voice, pedantically re-recited his speech about the Battle of Puebla.

Now about the rock star status. In the fall and spring, when the weather is amiable, these kids get to eat lunch outside, on a wide set of steps between the building and the sidewalk. Our Spanish classes happen just before and after lunch, and I generally leave at lunchtime to eat my own lunch and sometimes to do last minute afternoon lesson planning. I know, I know, delinquent teacher. What of it? You try teaching Spanish to four-year-olds. You try explaining the "Iraqi War" to post-toddlers who confuse it with a Mexican Holiday. I'd like to see you try.

When these kids sit outside at lunch, I have to squeeze my way through them to make my way to the car. As I pass, I try to say one general, "Adios," or, "Hasta pronto," so as to not drag out the leaving behavoir. These kids love leaving behavoir, and they love telling teachers good-bye. As I make my way through the staircase freckled with small children eating peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches in Dora the Explorer lunch boxes, I hear a resounding chorus of, "Bye Liz! Liz! Bye-bye! See ya later Liz! Liz! Liz! I like your shoes, Liz! Where is your guitar, Liz! Bye-bye! Adios! I love you Liz!" and, without fail, there is always the kid who risks a scolding from the other teachers by jumping up from her seat and literally chasing me to tell me that she just wants to give me a hug, even as we hear the other teachers shouting, "Jennifer! Come back right now!"

You can't give one kid a hug, because as soon as you do, the entire staircase of sticky-fingered, mucus-nosed, short people erupts in a spill of little feet running toward you, even if you have crossed the street, their arms outstretched, mouths full with (insert lunch meat) sandwiches and something messy. You have to jump into your car before they make it, or they will smother you in jelly and mucus and, from time to time, conjunctivitis, head lice, or any number of debilitating viral infections. You have to just trust that the other teachers will restore order, that they will herd the slimy, big-hearted mob back to the staircase to resume their lunches with notes from their Moms. Or Dads. Or, in some cases, Legal Gaurdians of Other Titles.

And then you fire up the engine and drive away, without looking back, but feeling like hot stuff because you are someone who has to get into your car before the mob of adoring fans descends. You are someone who has to just move on.

The Beastly Ivy

My apartment is being taken over by an Algerian Ivy plant, and I'm not going to do a damn thing about it, not anymore. No. It's done. I have spent too many hours trying to re-route the vines that are crawling, leaping savagely, and clinging to anything that comes within reach of its ferocious grasp. That plant can have the living room. It can have the piano, the window sills, the picture frames and sentimental photos of my lost loved ones, including Aria the cat, it can have my desk, my couch, the afghan I crocheted for my grandmother (is that backwards?), it can have the other plants, the desk, the retro green chair, and even the bookcases that fill the closet instead of coats, even the books about gardening, even the books about freaking ivies.

That inveterate, incorrigible plant can have it all, and I will just sit back and watch, stunned and drained as I offer up my residence for greenery sustenance.

There was a time when I loved that plant, when I would have done anything to make sure that it had ample room to grow, free from my belongings, when I would make elaborate wire structures to train the vines, when I would spend hours untangling the arms so that it could be re-potted in healthy, nutrient-rich soil. And I still love it, in a really resentful sort of way. But I am ready to let go, to let it take its own course.

I have had quite the relationship with the Algerian Ivy over the course of my lifetime. It has been something of a family plant, one that has existed in my grandmother's home, my mother's home, and now mine. (No, not the same exact one, silly, but "Ivy" as a species.) My mom's brother, as opposed to my uncle, is an artist whom I have met approximately three times in my life, and he painted a famous portrait of the Ivy that started it all. And ever since then, Ivies, particularly Algerian Ivies, have been immortalized in my family, they have been given a godly status, they are the plants above all plants, the only plant I know of to be featured in a portait among the photos of relatives. So you can understand that I have had a fierce infatuation with the Ivy. A bond. It has been something I have clung to, if you will, as a relic of my ancestry.

Maybe I'm being dramatic. Maybe it isn't really going to invade my space in a recidivous, beastly manner. But one can never tell, and once a plant begins stretching its fingers out in all directions, it is impossible to know the outcome.

You might think I'm trying to be philosophical, speaking of being taken over as a metaphor, but, no, I'm literally just speaking of a plant and its irascible, growling appetite for my things. I'm tired of bending over backwards to make sure that plant doesn't take over my world. Today, folks, I'm surrendering to the Ivy and throwing up my hands in exhasperation. That creepy plant can have it all. I'm done.

Testing in Thai Pants

Let's not get into standardized testing and the various, numerous problems associated with it. Let's not talk about computer adaptive testing, about how your score is dependent on the first few questions to which you respond. Let's not talk about words out of context, about math evaluation on skills you probably learned and forgot about ten or more years ago. Let's not talk about "objective" evaluation of a thirty-minute writing assignment, based on a topic of which you are assumed to have some general knowledge, regardless of your race, class, ethnicity, regardless of whether or not English is your first language, regardless of where you grew up or what you are interested in.

Let's instead talk about the funny people I met in the test administation center while preparing to take the GRE.

I thought I was running late, as my test was scheduled for 8:00 am, and I was informed that I should arrive no later than a half hour before that. I flailingly and hurriedly arrived, disheveled and anxious, at 7:37 am. I thought I was way too late, I feared that I would be turned away, and my $140 not refunded, or worse yet that I would be granted a score of 0, to be etched into my permanent record, like that unseemly blemish on my existent criminal record, or that my photo would be posted at all testing centers with a vengeful caption like, "Unworthy," or, even worse, "Lactard." Maybe I had some irrational fears. Maybe.

In any case, I arrived, slightly frantic, to find a short line. I was out of breath from running across the University of Minnesota campus after parking my car in a lot I couldn't afford to pay for, and dealing with the stressful situation that is my car which entails a non-functioning driver's side window, so that when I enter a parking ramp, I have to make sure that I pull in far enough away from the ticket dispenser so that I can actually unbuckle, get out of my car, and walk over to push the button and take the ticket. It's a massive stress, and just a little too much to deal with while running late for a standardized test. So there I was, suffiently parked and driver's side window intact, far away from my car, and waiting, pantingly, in a small office with two young student-y workers who seemed to wish they were somewhere else.

I had been warned that I must show proper identification. In this day and age of strict airport security, I made sure that I had ample identification. In my bag, I carried, of course, my driver's license, but also a current utility bill, just in case, and also my passport, my former student ID, my St. Paul Public Library card, my Textile Center membership card, and a variety of local coffeeshop punch cards. You never know. It turned out that they only asked to see my driver's license, which sports an old photo of me as a baldie and an old address that I have never gotten around to updating.

The guy behind the desk was carrying on a drab conversation with the woman at the desk next to him... "Am I leaving the office early today? I hope so because Jessica is having her barbeque."....and the woman...."No, didn't you get off early last week? How is Jessica?".....and him, "Oh, she's fine, ever since that dog bit her in the...ahem, you know...she has had some wierd behavior around my ferret, but I think she'll get over it. I guess it just means I can't bring Fuzzy."....and then he said, when I found myself at the front of the line and without looking at me, "What are you here for?" and I really wanted to respond, "For the community update on Jessica, and you have a ferret???" But instead I said, "The GRE."

Then the women at the other desk stood up and walked over to me. She was kind of earthy, with a flowy skirt and sandals and long, messy hair. "Oh. My. Gosh," she said, punctuating each word and staring at my legs. It was a little alarming. "Where did you get your pants?"

Remember, at this point, I am brimming with anxiety about the test, entertaining irrational fears about my photo being posted at all GRE testing centers with embarrassing captions, and this cross-conversation stuff was confusing to begin with, but when I and my legs became the subject, it was a little more than I could handle. I wasn't sure how to answer her question. I was prepared to answer questions like, "What's the antonym of vituperate?" or "What's the area of the shaded part of the concentric circles?" A question like, "Where did you get your pants?" seemed completely out of context.

I blinked. "Um...well, uh," I stammered, "From a friend."

And, without pause, behind-the-desk guy said in a droll monotone, "Please read this over and sign here, then copy this statement and print your name here, please write your thesis statement on this page and then make a list of your shortcomings here on page four and then if you have any amends you can make them on the last page and please don't use your middle initial but instead give us the name of your childhood pet, and if you did not have one then circle the appropriate letter which corresponds to the maiden name of your mother and if your mother was not a maiden then 50 points will automatically be deducted from your score, and I hope you understand scoring of The Cricket because our tallying is reminiscent of the confusing mix of bowels and overs, and lastly, please hand me a strand of hair for DNA testing, and then after that you can have a seat in the waiting room."

And while he was saying all that (and I may have exaggerated a little about all the stuff he told me to do), Earthy Girl in Thick Glasses was ogling my cozy flowy Thai pants and asking me questions, "So...are they Thai pants? Have you been to Thailand? Do you know where you can get those here? How do you tie them? Can you show me? Do you eat Thai food? Do you know how to speak Thai? Are you Thai? You don't look Asian."

I was massively flustered. I couldn't understand the instructions that Behind-the-Desk Guy was giving me because I was trying to be polite by listening to Earthy Girl's questions. Her questions didn't make any sense because I was also trying to figure out what Behind-the-Desk-Guy was telling me to do. I was starting to get a headache, and I hadn't even entered the testing room. I reached for a pen to sign the appropriate places in front of Behind-the-Desk-Guy and answered Earthy Girl the best I could, "No, I have not been to Thailand, but I hope to visit soon. I don't know where you can get the pants here, but I did find a free pattern online, if you do any sewing."

Earthy Girl eagerly began asking me about sewing and online patterns and what kind of fabric I would recommend while Behind-the-Desk Guy mumbled something about smiling for the camera, and he took a surprise snapshot of me mid-explanation, so that the permanent photo they have of me is with one eye closed and my mouth open, althewhile donning a frazzled expression as I tried to maintain two conversations at once while also entertaining my anxiety about having arrived late and anticipating walking into a standardized computer adaptive testing situation.

And suddenly they were both shoo-shooing me into the testing room and shushing me while yapping about where my things were supposed to go and which computer would be mine and telling me, no, you can't have water in here, but here are lots of sharp pencils and some scratch paper, and go get 'em, tiger!

And just like that, there I was, in silence, staring at a green computer screen, on a monitor the size of my bedroom. And so it began, one section at a time. Argument Essay. Issue Essay. Verbal. Quantitative. And then an "optional" research section which does not affect your score and for which I "opted" out, even after reading that you could win a money prize for a high score.

I will not tell you my scores, but I will say that I am satisfied.
After the test, Earthy Girl continued the conversation about my pants. I left in high spirits, feeling like I had made a friend as well as accomplished a mighty task. I do not want to take that test again. It was sort of fun, but it was very stressful. I prefer practice tests at home with cats in my lap and no restrictions on water.

My advice to anyone taking the GRE: relax. And don't wear your Thai pants unless you are an excellent multi-tasker when under pressure.

Because I'm Grounded

Last night I taught a few piano lessons, as I am currently reclaiming the title, "Maestro of Wealthy Suburbia." This title has recently expanded to include South Minneapolis and Saint Paul, most notably Merriam Park and Hamline Midway. One of my students, a ten-year old spirited, loquacious, audacious, loveable girl, was playing through her lesson, and it was stridently apparent to me that she had not been practicing. "Holly," I said in that inadvertantly condescending teacher voice that just happens when you become a teacher, "Have you been practicing every day?"

She looked at me innocently and threw me a big cheese. "Yes," she said.

I paused. "Really? Really really?"

She scowled and crossed her arms. "Fine. I haven't been practicing."

I sighed and reluctantly gave her the talk about practice time being imperative, about commiting to a time each day, about accountability and putting energy into something you love to do. I don't like giving this talk, it sounds so Stoic Piano Teacher, but sometimes I have to do it. I concluded with, "So, make sure you practice every day this week, ok?"

She sighed and narrowed her eyes. "Well, I can't," she said, her voice dripping with exhasperation. Then she widened her eyes and exclaimed, through clenched teeth, "Because I'm grounded!"

That wasn't quite what I had expected to hear. I mean, I've heard some pretty creative excuses about "why I couldn't practice," and I'm sure I have given those same excuses to a myriad of teachers of my own over the years. But I have never claimed that I couldn't practice because I was grounded, much less made it sound so obvious. This girl said it in a way that nearly intimidated me, it was such a compelling delivery that for a moment I nearly responded, "Oooooh, that explains everything! Why didn't you just say so?!"

But I blinked instead, and considered the reasoning. And then it seemed terribly funny. Instead of explaining to her that this was a poor excuse, my blethery self got the better of me and I said, "So! Why are ya grounded?"

At this point I realized I had crossed the line from teacher to gossipy adult friend, and that felt icky, so I retracted that question by saying, "Nevermind. I want to see all your practice times written down in your notebook next week, and make sure there are at least 20 minutes every single day."

She scowled and mumbled something about me being mean, to which I practiced choosing my battles and pretended not to hear her angry comment. I felt a little bad about becoming Strict Teacher. In any case, I was reassured of my high status with this student as I went to leave. As I approached the door, she threw herself in front of it and just stood there, looking up at me with big, serious eyes and a challenging frown. Her dad was standing behind me and he said, with raised eyebrows and a hint of embarrassment, "Holly....what are you doing?"

"I'm blocking the door, Dad."

It took some finagling, but we got her to grant me access to the outside world. I had to promise to come back next week, and that was easy, since I bill out a month ahead of time. Let's just hope this kid makes efficient use of her "grounded" time to practice piano.

It's Guitar Class

It's almost that time of year again. You know, picks in sound holes, missing strings, Smoke on the Water? Yep, that's right, it's almost time for Guitar Class. After much deliberation and some negotiation, I have decided to take the job again. In an effort to prepare myself for the impending summer months, I am revisiting a few highlights from last year. Let me just say that these highlights, after a year of teaching multiple instruments to dedicated, privately studying, serious and committed students (except for the kid who insisted that he play "Ode to Joy" on the piano with his toes), have reminded me that there really is nothing like a classroom full of eight-to-twelve-year-olds who know nothing about guitars. Imagine the process of tuning. Imagine a soundtrack of wavering microtones beneath a subculture of Sponge Bob Square Pants, Pokemon trading cards, and avid fans of High School Musical. Imagine all of that, and then include snapping wire strings, angry parents, and suburban perfectionism in elementary school kids. What a challenge. Here are some funbits, reprised (if you will) from last summer's "It's Guitar Class" blog series:

*The kid who can't stop dropping her pick in her sound hole...it may be on purpose...she thinks it's sooooo funny....

*The time that same kid came to class complaining of a pesky pick in her guitar, and instead I found a plastic spoon. We were both dumbfounded.

*The kids who show up with missing strings.

*The kids who show up without a guitar. It's guitar class.

*The kid who showed up with a ukelele. It's guitarrrrr class.

*The kid who told me I was brave to live in Saint Paul, where all the gangs were. I misheard him and thought he said where all the gays were. Either way, it's offensive.

*The kid who informed me that a whole note plus a half note plus a quarter note equals one dollar.

*The eleven-year-old, incessantly furious boy who said, "You can't tell me what to do. You're small." Say what?

...Not to mention, the Harry Potter Obsessed Kid (she insisted that she be called J.K. Rowling), the Praise Band Recruiter Mom, the neverending requests for Green Day, the (while flattering) persistent encouragement to audition for American Idol, the older class of angsty pre-teen boys who think my guitar playing is "sick," and apparently that's a compliment, and, of course, the hot-pink Hello Kitty Wal-Mart electric guitars, or, even better, the toy guitars that aren't actually meant for study of the instrument. Oh boy. What a summer I have ahead of me....