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.