"Bueno, Familia!"

Borrowing a jacket to be janitor twins with Wilmer here.
(Not to be confused with the Wilmer I help teach) Also,
that's definitely the face expressing a desire for a jacket like that.

If you’re a normal human being, you might not have heard about the Miss Universe beauty competition held last night in Las Vegas. The only reason I know about it is because Miss Colombia was crowned queen. And then, she wasn’t. Apparently Steve Harvey, the host of the pageant and owner of one of America’s finer mustaches (runner up next to Poppa Roske’s), said that Miss Colombia had won, when in fact, she had been the runner up. And instead of saying she got second, Harvey said she had won. It wasn’t until after two minutes of celebrating, sashaying and photo shots, that Harvey came back on stage and essentially said, “Holy shit, my bad guys.” Again, most of the world probably doesn’t care. But when you live in the country that got gipped, you find out right away when Colombia was almost on top of the world in something. The point is, where Steve Harvey is now assuredly fired, yours truly recently got promoted.

Oh, the awkwardness: Taking away the sash and crown
from a Colombian and giving it to a clearly uncomfortable
Philippine.

On one Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago, I was walking in and out of two different classrooms filled with students taking their English final, answering any questions or clarifying any vocabulary for them. Near the end of the test, the classrooms were nearly empty, with just a few tortured souls trying to come up with anything that could resemble a legitimate answer (fat chance). It was then that one student poked his head in and told me that Vivianna wanted to talk to me. Vivanna is the vice-principal of our school, and whom Devon and I go to if we ever have questions, which is all too frequently. I found her outside a classroom full of soon to be sixth graders in the upcoming school year, which starts in January. She asked me if I could just watch them during an activity, as she had to step out and talk to some students quick. Still normal, I thought.

Shit just got real, folks.

After she finished her short meeting outside the classroom, she came back in and gathered the ever-wavering attention of the preteen horde. She asked, “Kids, do you remember me telling you we were going to meet a friend today?” To which I gave her a quizzical look of “Uhh, what the hell?” After introducing me, she got them started on another activity before asking me, “How would you like to teach sixth and seventh grade English classes?” In my fluster, all I could really manage was a thank you, and that I had been hoping to teach my own classes for a while.

The next day, I was at a computer in the monastery when Padre Nicolas, the school’s principal, approached and asked if Vivanna had told me yet that I would be teaching next year. I said yes, and thanked him for thinking I was ready. He then asked if I would be willing to stay the whole academic year. Since their academic year goes from January to December, this is how I’ve decided to stay in Colombia for a few more months than originally anticipated. But don’t worry, I’ll still be visiting home in June for a couple weeks during our semester break. I can’t let the annual Boundary Waters trip with Dan, Brian, Ari, and Matt be undone.   

So, how’d the job open up? Well, the teacher Devon was helping, Carolina, is not returning to the school, which opened up the spot to teach 10^th and 11^th. What ended up happening was that the other English teachers, Angel (6^th & 7^th) and Wilmer (8^th & 9^th, where I was helping) both moved up, leaving the 6^th and 7^th grade English teaching job open for me. Apparently, the school also thought Wilmer was a good enough teacher as well. So instead of helping Wilmer out, Devon is shifting down to help Angel with 8^th and 9^th grade, where I was.  

Playing tejo with other teachers on Friday night.
It's basically bean bags, but you have a clay incline that
you try to stick mini shot puts into from twenty feet.
Also, those white triangles are filled with gunpowder
and explode when hit. Oh, and you buy beer by the crate.
So, we're throwing weights across a room to explode
in clay while drinking beer. So South American.

So, the other reason there was a large gap between blog posts before last weeks Ecuador one was that I had been doing lesson planning with the other teachers. Yes, it took a lot of time, and balancing it with an online grad school class and trying to blog didn’t make for a restful week or two. But I couldn’t ask for a better school to work at. We were at the apartment of an English teaching couple watching football yesterday, and they mentioned that at their wealthier school, the kids don’t respect them and say things like, “I don’t need this class, I’m just going to take over my father’s company,” or “You’ll be working for me someday anyway.” On the opposite side of the spectrum is my school, where I can’t decide if my favorite times of the day are on the way to the classroom high-fiving kids as we go, in the classroom working with them and see their faces light up in understanding, or hanging out in the teachers lounge where all our desks are and getting to listen to teachers pick on each other.

One of my friends at the school – Sergio, the Phy Ed teacher – comes into the lounge every morning with a loud and exhausted sounding “Bueno, familia!” which, in this sense, basically means, sarcastically, “Well, family, another day of torture has arrived.” Yes, working at the school is exhausting. But people don’t work here for less pay for nothing. At the end of the year party for faculty and staff, the music teacher said that he’s glad we teachers are so close with one another, that we hang out outside of school and support one another. He said that that’s why the students grow up to be such good human beings; because they see how we treat each other, they know love. And if they know love, that’s how they will treat those around them. I'm pretty damn glad I get to work where I do, and that I get to be here longer.

J

Spanish word of the day: it took me forever to figure out what pesebre meant. In Chile, pebre is a sort of salsa made from chopped peppers, onion and tomatos that you spread over bread. But pesebre actually means nativity scene. So there are pesebres set up all over the monastery and all over Bogota. Now you know.

Song in my head lately: I’ve gone long enough without posting a female singer. When I was first getting into music over a decade ago, my sister, Molly, introduced me to a slew of bands I didn’t appreciate at the time but do now. One of them are the Wailin’ Jennys, a group of incredibly talented ladies who can all sing and play a host of different instruments. In Heaven When We're Home, if you can't appreciate the combination of the upright bass, guitar, and violin, along with voices that make you melt, then you probably quit reading my opinion on it a while ago.

Nothing to do with the blog post, except for enjoying
and taking advantage of my time here. Sergio's on the
far right, and the rest are his university friends that
we had just got done playing soccer with.

Ecuador Part 1 of 1: Sibling Adventures

Well, shit. The whole trying to post once a week thing really went downhill there. But I’m going to take a tip from my students and give a slew of excuses on why I haven’t been doing my homework. The first one is that work decided to get real busy, but for a good reason, one that will be explained more fully in the next post (at this rate, look for it in March). The second is that I just recently got over some wicked form of traveller’s sickness where you could only find me curled up, shivering in my bed for a few days with a monster headache and debilitating fever. Getting sick stems from my third excuse: that my sister, Molly, decided to come on down for a visit as part of her Central and South American tour of visiting friends and family before her new job started out in Colorado.

I got about as many excuses as Genie has wish conditions.

This is a map.

Is that her hand or was someone on that beach towel before her?

Our first couple days were spent here in Colombia, showing Molly the sites, sounds, but mostly smells of Bogota. We made it to the classics of any South American city. You know, a church or three here, a plaza or four there. A highlight for me was going to the Botero museum, dedicated to the work of a Colombian painter who’s obsessed with comically large human beings. While we were roaming the halls in honor of our big-boned brethren, I noticed a younger man taking his time to take a picture of almost every painting. I therefore felt less weird about snapping shots of these voluptuous subjects to share with you all.

I finally let this goon sleep on my bed
our last night in Cuenca.

After two short days of monks and teachers finding out how much better my sister’s Spanish is than my own, we hopped on a series of flights to get to Cuenca Ecuador, where we stayed with a Lutheran missionary couple whom Molly had met years ago when she worked in Ecuador. Legend has it that when my sister was first flying to Ecuador in 2008 to do conservation work, she met Lynn, a Lutheran pastor who ran a seminary with her husband and who invited Molly to stay at their place instead of a sketchy hostel. We stayed in the guesthouse of their newly renovated property in Cuenca, their hospitality buoyed by their son’s dog, Sasha, who they take care of most of the time.

We spent most of our days with Molly’s fellow Yale Forestry graduate, Katherine, who she worked with in 2008 and is now the executive director of the Conservation work done in Sangay National Park. So our first full day was spent trudging through remote Andean farmlands. Part of what Katherine does is work with local farmers to define grazing land near or within the park and how to utilize it in a way that doesn’t place too much stress on the environment. 

Let the water go, cows. Let it go.

This day, we discussed different ways to manage erosion of stream banks on one particular farmers land. To put it simply, stream bank erosion is a problem as it washes sediments downstream and creates mini canyons, which becomes a hazard on grazing land because cows need the water and either can’t get it at, or fall when the soil gives way under the weight of their beefy butts trying to reach for it. Picture Indiana Jones reaching for the Holy Grail that’s just out of his reach. It’s basically the same, but cows don’t have Sean Connery telling them to let it go. 

Conservation work can tend to get glorified a bit these days, since what essentially commenced was hours of discussion with the landowner about what plants to plant where that would take root and help prevent erosion while also presenting a boon for his animals instead of endangering them. It might not sound fun, but how often do you get to walk along mountain streams talking conservation with local farmers in the Ecuadorian Andes while dodging runaway pigs and dogs? Also, the farmer gave us shots of his own blackberry moonshine, which, besides being half sugar, wasn’t too bad.

 

Doing science, sort of.

Obstructing the view from Diana and Mauricio's Quito pad.

We then made our way to the hilly city of Quito. We stayed with Diana, the sister of one of Molly’s best friends in high school (Emily), and her husband, Mauricio. Originally from Cuenca, Mauricio made the journey to the states when he was nineteen, the only valuables he took being the baggies of cash to bribe police and immigration officers at various checkpoints along the way. He had some wicked stories ranging from seeing friends arrested to getting unexpected help from complete strangers, and I’m sure there were some stories we were not privy to. He found his way to Minnesota, where he worked in kitchens until meeting and marrying Diana. I’m not clear on all the details, but shortly after, it was discovered that his documents weren’t in order, and the two were forced to move back to Quito while his papers get reprocessed. In the meantime, they both teach English at different schools in Quito and live in a very nice apartment with a beautiful view of the entrance to Quito, volcanoes in the background.

Mauricio's cheesin' makes up for
my sad attempt at a smile. Also, fanny pack. 

Since we were in Quito for less than 48 hours, we just wanted to see the... well, the must-sees. That meant a few more squares and a few more churches. But most of all, I enjoyed chatting with Diana and Mauricio. Since the four of us know Spanish and English (yours truly clearly on the lower end of that totem pole) our conversations flowed between the two languages, depending on the native language of who was getting the most riled up talking about religion, politics, race, immigration, all the things you’re supposedly not supposed to talk about over dinner. But through those discussions, as well as those with Katherine and her friends in Cuenca, I probably learned more about Ecuador than I know about Colombia.

Oddly enough, included in the highlights of Quito was a particular cab ride we took. Molly and I had just visited an art museum of Oswaldo Guayasamin, an Ecuadorian who painted huge paintings about human suffering, slavery, race and religion. We hailed a cab a few blocks down the road and were unsettled by a few things. First, the dude didn’t turn on his taximetro, the counter that keeps track of the cost of the ride. If drivers don’t have it, that’s a good sign that it’s not a real cab and they’re likely to charge you exorbitantly since you don’t know better. Also, when Molly finally convinced him to turn it on, it was green instead of the regulated red lights, further unnerving the gringos aboard. When we finally got out, it was about a dollar. But the dude hit a button on it and it jumped to $1.45, after I had already started to hand him a dollar. If you know my sister at all, you know she didn’t take kindly to the driver insisting that the minimum for a cab ride was $1.45. And if you know me at all, you know I just shrugged at the driver as if to say, dude, this is a battle you won’t win. Now, I know what you’re thinking. And yes, we argued over forty-five cents. Later, when he was cooking some extravagant dinner for us, we asked Mauricio if there was indeed a minimum cab charge, to which he responded, oh yes, it’s $1.65. When he turned back to the stove, I looked at Molly and we exchanged another sheepish shrug. Woops.

Spanish word of the Day: Going with a tricky verb here. Conocer has quite a few meanings, but we'll stick to the most common. Firstly, it means to know, but with regard to people or places. Yo conozco JJ would be "I know JJ" and nosotros conocemos Quito would be "we know Quito" but in the sense that we've been there, not just that we know of its existence. This last one I didn't figure out for a while, and I always thought it was strange that people were asking me if I know of places in Europe, Asia, or the states. Now people probably think I've travelled everywhere.  

Song in my head lately: I don't listen to a lot of Bronze Radio Return, but when I do, it's usually Shake, Shake, Shake. It's a pretty short song, so I try to pay for a longer one at the Middy. But if this song doesn't at least get your head bobbin', you don't like music.

J.

We also hiked Cajas National Park, Ecuadorian Middle Earth just outside of Cuenca. 

Shitting in the Woods, For Example

A while back, we Roskes borrowed a family tradition from the Eggermont clan, whose daughter, Ellory, married my brother, Ben, a couple summers ago in my favorite wedding yet. The tradition? When it's your birthday, you have to tell everyone something you've learned in the last year. The lesson learned can be of varying levels of profundity, from I learned how strong and independent I really am, to I learned how to shit in the woods! I know I'm a few days late, but it's mostly due to the fact that I didn't know what to say. But I'll keep it simple this year: I learned how important names are. Big whoop, names. Glad I looked at this post, JJ... Well, names are important for me in Colombia for two reasons. First, being a teacher means you have to learn a lot of names. Sure, you could be the ass that just says Hey you! when someone is misbehaving. But learning your students' names is pretty important because it says you give enough of a crap about them that you've learned their names. Even in my short stint as a wannabe teacher, I can promise that your students will respect you more if you know their names. I have learned around 90% of the names in my classes which total close to about 150 kids, the outliers usually being the quiet and/or the ones sitting in the far back. Another reason names are important is in greeting someone. In the states, if we pass someone in the street, hall, bar, etc, we can usually get by with a quick Hey, howzit goin'? In Colombia, I've tried this and sometimes get Do you remember my name? as the response. It didn't take long to notice that the other teachers greet all their colleagues and students with their names. Though it's normal for me now, it felt a little Tolkien-esque at the beginning (Gimli, son of Gloin, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, etc.)

*          *          *

Anyone who knows me well knows that I’m not huge on birthdays, having always felt that I had to do more than survive another 365 days to warrant a celebration about my life. Indeed, it wasn’t with sadness that I spent my 21^st birthday cramming for an art and culture test in Chile, and my 18^th birthday eating pizza and watching basketball while my parents both had meetings that night (come to think of it, what more could a guy ask for??) So it was with some relief when I discovered that my birthday would fall after the end of the academic year here and I wouldn’t need to be bombarded at school. But as is the case with most plans made in Colombia, they were changed rather dramatically.

The monks really went all out with their announcement board.

It started when I decided to go to work early on Tuesday. There were no classes, and no finals. But everyone was there because that’s when the kids found out if they passed the year or failed, something that happens with uncommon frequency at this school because of their high, self-imposed standards of needing above 72% to pass. I get to school around 7:30, and find them all in the auditorium in the middle of mass led by Nicolas, a priest at the monastery here and also the principal of the school. I inconspicuously found a seat near the back, but Nicolas must have spotted me, because after the mass ended he said he had a few announcements. After some end of the year notices, he slipped in that since it was the last time this year that we would all be gathered together we were going to sing happy birthday to our volunteer whose birthday is approaching. So after an agonizing minute of standing and getting sung at, I then went through the next few days battling well wishers who thought my birthday was actually on Tuesday.

Birthday pizza, Papa John's.

On Friday, the real Dday, I went in to play some music with a student who had just graduated. When I was attempting my getaway, I was met by the horde of teachers returning from lunch who made sure I didn’t escape without another singing. Alex, the 6^th grade math teacher and one of the basketball coaches gave me a huge bottle of Corona for a present, and told me to stick around because some of the other teachers were going to the mall afterwards. We had the end of the school year awards ceremony that night, and a bunch of the male teachers were going to buy bowties to look real swanky. So after an hour or two of shopping like teenage girls (and avoiding getting sung to by midgets dressed as Santa’s elves) I quickly made my way back to the monastery to get my newly purchased dress shirt ironed. After I asked if one of the cooks would iron it for me (they also do the laundry, and if you’ve ever met a South American woman you probably know they don’t let you in the kitchen nor the laundry room), they all sang the dreaded song to me as well, and the head cook (Amparo) gave me a gift bag that had candy and a Colombian flag beanie in it. As if they don’t spoil me enough.    

Brandon, one of our best basketball players,
receiving the coveted Athlete of the Year award.

We made our way to the award ceremony (called “noche de los mejores” = night of the best students) where we teachers got to hand out awards to the students who excelled in each subject or sport. I learned that another benefit of teaching is getting to see these overjoyed, beaming kids hop up the stairs of the stage to receive their plaque from their equally as happy teacher. Afterwards, we teachers had a private party (affectionately called “noche de los peores” = night of the worst teachers) where a presentation was made of funny photos, videos, quotes, and other gaffs from teachers throughout the year. Unfortunately, the video of our Single Ladies dance made the cut. After some food and drink, teachers started to trickle back home. I was a little bummed at first because some had expressed a desire to go out not only because it was my birthday, but because we were already dressed to the nines and together anyways. But I thought that the week probably couldn't have gone much better, so I made my way back to the monastery. I had just gotten to my room and untucked my shirt when Alex called me. "Hey, where are you, man?!" I'm in my room, everyone left! "Nah, I just had to drop some people off. We're going dancing, want to come with? I'll pick you up outside the monastery!" I tucked my shirt back in, grabbed my keys, and went to finish off the best birthday I can remember.

J.

Song in my head lately: A recently graduated student named Kevyn introduced me to Esteman, a Colombian pop singer. Even if you don't understand the lyrics, Como Vez Primera is a really smooth, lighthearted reggae-pop song that got stuck in my head real quick.

Spanish word of the day: Parce (par-say), or sometimes seen as parse, is used in how we say dude, bro, or man, when referring to our friends. So, since we've covered que hubo in a past blog post meaning "what's up" putting them together to say, "What's up, dude?" would be "Que hubo, parce?" Or, when some teachers and I showed up to the award ceremony wearing bowties, we were "parce corabtin" or bowtie dudes. 

The two troublemakers in the monastery, Gerson and Esteban.
These two can either be found doing art in the studio
or throwing rocks at my window to get my attention.

That's Why I'm Here

My schedule has steadily gotten busier since my arrival. I started with under twenty hours of work a week. Then I started helping coach the boys basketball team. Then I started after-school tutoring with some students on days I didn't have practices or games. Over time, other teachers approached me and asked that I help them with their English. So, I'd pull out my schedule and tell them to write their name in one of the dwindling blank spots. Now, I'm usually at school just after 8am and rarely get back to my room before 5:30pm. But don't let me get too dramatic; sure I might be busy with my time, but I'm rarely stressed because I have very few actual responsibilities in and around the school other than being there as a resource for others. In their unending kindness and consideration, many teachers will feel bad at giving me something to do because they have seen my schedule. But I just always give them another James Taylor line, that's why I'm here. Because, really, it is.

This week is finals week, and it's technically the end of the academic year, since they go in quarters and we showed up for the third and fourth. Now that I have a whopping four months of semi-teaching experience, let me sit in my student desk and report on what I've learned so far.

Sometimes, you just gotta nap.
Like Yerson here.

Hygiene is important. First off, for me, most of my kids are at armpit height. Therefore, they would be the soon-unconscious victims of my fragrance should I ever forget to deodorant up one morning. Also, it's best to keep some mints in the old desk drawer. I always dreaded asking a question to a teacher who I knew drank a lot of coffee because their helpful response would be accompanied by a whirlwind of rank coffee breath. With a few mints on hand, I can at least ensure that if the student gags when I talk to them, it's not due to my breath (side note, crop-dusting is also an ill-advised classroom habit). Overall, teachers have to be pretty confident in how they look since you have at least thirty pairs of eyes fixed on you throughout the day. And since you can hardly check yourself out during class, messy hair or an open fly can go unnoticed by you for a while, much to the delight of your students. The writer is speaking from experience on both accounts there.

Get as many of the kids involved as often as possible. This is especially true for classes on learning a new language, since their advancement depends on using it often. This means lectures and PowerPoints are usually off limits. If we're learning a new topic in our English class, we'll spend some time introducing the rules and some examples before creating a dialogue between the students, having them ask each other questions using the verb form we just learned. Group work is tricky at the high-school level since you're more or less gifting them talking time. But presenting in small groups has always been pretty effective for us.

Don't waste class time. We teach two sections of 8th and 9th grade, and each gets just over three hours of English each week. So when we're in the classroom with them, we try to waste as little of those three hours a week with them as possible. This means getting class started promptly, and using leftover time at the end productively. This means asking for volunteers but not waiting too long for hands to raise before simply calling on someone. This means having one of the kids write on the board while you keep talking so everyone's not waiting for you to finish writing and continuing.

Don't pick on your kids. This comes with a story I'm not exactly proud of. One day in English with 9A, we were playing a vocabulary game. With two teams, one member from each team went to the board and when I named a category the first person to write four words within that category got a point for their team e.g. when I say "objects in a classroom" they write things like desk, pencil, notebook, teacher etc. During one round, in an effort to learn more about the dancing scene, I said the category was types of dance. The boys team was the first to have four different dances all spelled correctly. But I was caught off guard by the girl's answers which were Urban Dance, Reggeaton, and Balls, the last one inducing a sort of stifled laughter on my part, the kind you'd get if your sweet, sweet grandmother said something that came off way more racist than she'd intended. After conferring with the young girl, we figured out she meant Walz, "balls" being the very phonetic way of spelling it from a Spanish speakers point of view. I tried to use the paper I was holding to cover my face which was red from laughter, but the damage was already done: the little girl's face got bright red and she didn't participate the rest of class. I made sure to apologize after class, but felt pretty shitty about myself for the next couple of days. Though the story's resolution made me feel a little less guilty after she asked to join my tutor sessions the next week. But the point is, high-schoolers deal with enough shit from peers and from within, they don't need it from those they may look up to as well.

Let's be real, Maria, no way a father
would let a strange woman take his children
into the Austrian Hills during WW2.

Always have a positive attitude. Many teachers will say that their kids give them "so much energy." And while that's true, the road goes both ways. If my teacher dragged his feet into the room, yawned all through class, and could be frequently spotted staring at the floor or wall, I probably wouldn't give two craps that day either. I'm not saying you have to take kids on adventures and sing like Maria Von Trapp. But I've found that even just walking around the school with a smile and a bounce to your step goes a long way in letting the kids know that you're happy to be there, even on days when you didn't get enough sleep, burned your tongue on your coffee, or stepped in what you're hoping is dog poop on your way to school (all very likely in Bogota).

Finally, much like the rest of life, It's the little things that matter: Show up early, even if you don't have class for a while. All of us teachers have a desk in one large office space, and I've found that just being there and chatting not only helps my Spanish, but I also get to know the other teachers better. Stay late and make yourself available for tutoring. If you leave school right when the bell rings, that's letting people know you have somewhere else you'd rather be. Whereas if you linger and chat with students, it gives others the chance to ask you questions. Who knew a Minnesota goodbye would come in handy in Colombia? Say yes. I used to give my dad grief for not being able to tell people no, unless of course I was trying to abuse it by persuading him to let me go to a friend's house, borrow the car, money, etc. And it took me until college to figure out how important saying yes to people can be. And it's no different here. Whether it's correcting another teacher's assignments, reviewing other students' resumes in English, or helping a student in another subject that isn't even English, telling people yes lets them know you give enough of a crap about their lives as individuals that you want them to do well in everything, not just the subject you're there to teach. Also, it tells people how reliable you are. Some call it brownie points or karma, most might call it trust. But don't get me wrong. I can still be insensitive, lazy in the classroom, and smell terrible.

*        *        *

You know those saps who say teaching is the most rewarding thing ever and you just nod and think, sure, whatever helps dry your wallet's tears? Well I'm beginning to see what they mean. On our last day of class, Wilmer, the teacher I assist in English classes, brought a chair to the front of the class and told me to sit down. This wasn't abnormal, since often class can turn into more of a conversation between the learners and the gringo. But Wilmer said, "Okay, guys, tell JJ what you think of him and how he's done as a teacher." First off, wow is that giving kids the chance to strike! They were taken aback almost as much as I was. After some awkward silence, all one girl could stammer was "I like your hair" before Wilmer told them they could use Spanish just for this. Thus commenced a few minutes of getting some of the best compliments a teacher could receive, from "never gets mad" to "makes us laugh" to "always says what I tell him to say in Spanish so we can laugh at his accent."
Throughout, I felt like the Grinch when his heart starts biggering and biggering until it grows three sizes and breaks the scale. And the grin on my face must have looked just as silly. As someone who's very new and unexperienced in the business of having control over another's education, it was nice to hear that I'm not doing such a shitty job after all. Finally, they were done, and the next student followed, and we took turns saying nice things about each other. And for eighth graders, they were incredibly heartfelt and profound thoughts that you wouldn't find expressed in many American college students. Needless to say, it was awesome to see my students come together, celebrate each other, and slowly turn into some kick-ass human beings. That, too, is why I'm here.

J.


Spanish word of the day: Listo means ready, but in Colombia I've found it can also mean something similar to okay or understood, as in "Can you guys come in early tomorrow?" -Ah okay, listo, adios.

Song in my head lately: Last weekend the monks watched a Bollywood movie about a young boy who has Dyslexia. He is just told he's lazy and stupid and goes undiagnosed until a substitute art teacher understands because he had the same learning issues growing up. In this song, Bum Bum Bole, the class meets the new teacher, who shows them that learning is more about being creative and opening your mind rather than filling it with often useless information. Though a bit unrealistic, his attitude obviously has a good effect on his students. You might have to click CC on the bottom of the player for English subtitles. But even without the words, the song is pretty rad. Check out the movie, too.

Also, I apparently promised some classes I'd play them a song at the end of the year.
So that happened. This, however, is from a sunporch outside a classroom I practice in.

Two videos here. One is Wilmer's attempt to get some energy in the classroom. The other is from our English and French day (the same one where we danced to All the Single Ladies) when each grade had to prepare a dance as well. These are one of my 8th grade groups, 8A. The dude with the lightsaber is Felipe, and he's the kid who always asks me to repeat things he says in Spanish.