Floods, Fires, and Festivals

This last weekend I came to a small realization, the kind of personal epiphany that impacts one person but most couldn't care less. So what better way to start a blog post!

 I had just biked over to Alex's house on Saturday. It was el Dia de los Amigos, loosely translated as friends day, and doesn't sound as cheesy in Spanish. Alex was hosting a barbecue to celebrate and had called me asking if I was available to help set things up. I made it to his place in record time, thanks to my recently purchased beater of a bicycle. Alex's house is relatively large, but pretty standard when it comes to Latin American housing. He and his wife, Fernanda, share it with other family members, it includes a large central area surrounded by various rooms, and each floor is inhabited by a different faction of the family. I was ushered upstairs to the rooftop patio where the barbecue was to be enjoyed. We set up a tent for when, not if, it rained, even though we were currently sweating in the hot, equatorial sun. We had been chatting, preparing meat, cutting vegetables, drinking beer - normal barbecue stuff - when Sergio called us and said he was on his way with his girlfriend but didn't know where to go from the bus stop. Sergio lives a ways away and doesn't come up this far too often if he's not headed to school. Since Alex needed to be at his place in case other guests showed up, I offered to pedal my flattening two wheels over to the bus stop to collect our Phy Ed teacher and company. As I hopped the curb off into the street (likely the cause of said flattened tires) and sped past the empanada and bread shops, a wave of comfort came over me. Maybe my Colombian bike's new seat fit my buttcheeks just so. But that wouldn't have been the only thing that felt right. Life dropped a boonies kid here in one of the largest cities in Latin America. There are still things I loathe about cities, and aspects of my Minnesota home that I miss dearly. But as I hung off my cushy bike seat, weaving through cars, around strollers, and lifting my legs over aggressively curious dogs, all to get some friends to a barbecue on a day that celebrated friendship, I couldn't help but that the whole experience felt right. Whether the city or its inhabitants approved or even gave a hoot, I felt like I belonged.

 *               *               *

My weekends seem to be outdoing each other lately. Maybe it's because we work so hard during the week that we want to take advantage of those two precious days we have off. But I can already hear my father saying something along the lines of, "Dude! You? Work hard? Bullshit!" And to his credit, my weekend seemed to start a little early this time around.

Estereopicnic. Bogota, 2016.

My friend Amber was passing through town again, and we had decided to go to Bogota's biggest musical festival, Estereopicnic. This three day festival, however, was no picnic. Though headliners of different days were big names like Snoop, Skrillex, Kygo, and the Flaming Lips, our chosen day, Thursday, was hosted by a modest lineup of Die Antwoord, Of Monsters and Men, Tame Impala, and Mumford and Sons. We waited for the rain to stop before catching a short taxi ride further north to the park just in time to catch Of Monsters and Men's opening songs. The night was a weird mix of music for me. I arrived excited to see one of my favorite musical groups, Of Monsters and Men. But after them, we watched Odesza and Tame Impala. Definitely great groups, but as their music tends to be a little trancey, I discovered my middle of the week exhaustion and had the strong desire to just lay down in the grass and listen to the music. Instead, I just closed my eyes and bobbed to the tunes with everyone else.

Marcus Mumford.

 It didn't take long, however, for Marcus Mumford to get up there and wake everyone up with their characteristic hard driving songs. Then, all hell broke loose with Die Antwoord as we got pushed around for a few songs before deciding we'd be safer on the outskirts. Overall, I was glad that after months of talking about this festival we actually went. Though I will say the tame and well-behaved Colombian crowds made me miss my crazy gringo outdoor concerts i.e. Trampled by Turtles  shows, with everyone jumping, dancing, and letting it all go.

View from the teachers' lounge.
Notice the collected hail on the roof.

Friday was a normal day, until just after school ended when many of us teachers were stuck in the lounge. At around 3:15, when the majority of the students had made their ways home and we were finishing up paperwork and correcting in the lounge where all our desks are, it began to pour. It started much like a Midwestern summer rainstorm that sends everyone indoors, before quickly advancing to near monsoon status. But by 3:30, I was searching for two of the office cats and guard dogs to bring with me on the ark I was hoping would float by. The rain came in such heavy blankets that one could barely make out the building right next door. In the teachers' lounge, some of the windows have downward facing grates above them to help with ventilation. The winds were so strong that water was spraying in over the desks, and those of us that hadn't escaped yet now scrambled to unplug computers and carry desks full of essays and tests away from the sprinkler system that used to be our windows. The storm grew deafening as hail began to fall in blizzardish quantities. But if anyone was truly worried, you couldn't tell, since we had music going and spatterings of dancing here and there. Yet another quality I love about Colombians is their desire to always have a good time, even during a rain and hail storm. After the rain slowed to a normal wettening, we got word from those who'd ventured downstairs that the drainage grates had plugged and that the whole ground floor - so all the classrooms, outdoor hallways, and the auditorium - were covered in about five inches of standing water. 


As much fun as I was having shootin' the breeze with the other maestros, it was a Friday afternoon and I wasn't about to spend any more time at the school than I needed. That, and with everything clogged, I wasn't about to wait for the sea levels to recede either. So I ingeniously scrapped together some waders. And by that I mean I found two plastic bags and shoved my "huge" gringo feet in 'em. We made our way downstairs and waded our way out to the swimming lane hallways. It was at this moment that I realized the baggies had holes in them. Not that I expected them to be stupid proof. But I was hoping for more than ten feet before my feet were just as wet as Ambers' were in Chacos. Pretty expectedly, my last steps out of the schools drowned compound were hurried and squelching. 

We had originally planned to meet Tatiana at the mall to watch a movie. But since it had been a long week, everywhere we walked was drenched, and we were cheapskates, we decided instead to pick her up and have a mini party in the monastery guesthouse. It really brought me back to my freshman year of college, partying in my room. Except this time we were trying not to disturb other guests with our music and antics instead of avoiding the RAs and Life Safety.

We already know most of my Saturday, or at least the beginning. I should probably admit that when Alex called me to come help with the barbecue, I'd thought it'd be a quick fix and I'd be back for lunch at the monastery. Well four hours later, as equivalent amount of Poker beer (a local favorite), and a bike ride to pick up Sergio later and we were welcoming more guests to the party. We weren't exactly a crowd, but there were enough other teachers and friends of Alex's family that things got going quick. Previously, I had let Devon and Amber know that I wouldn't be able to come back to collect them. So they were on their own getting to Alex's. When they did show up was when things really got going. And by that I mean it started to pour again. Luckily, Alex, Sergio, Felipe and I had just finished the grilling process and frantically began shuffling everything from the rooftop patio down to the main gathering space on the ground floor. It would take more than a little rain to stop a Colombian party, however. So long as the beer lasted and the music blasted, we were having a good time. There wasn't the normal barrage of dancing, which probably had more to do with everyone having eaten their weight in meat than anything else (Poker having rid all other possible inhibitions).

One memorable moment was probably when racing Alex to see how many beers we could finish. Juvenile? Maybe. But shit, it was friend's day, which meant Poker beers were 1,000 pesos each (about 30 cents). Anyways, I had just finished my fifteenth beer and was telling him as much. (For you PG readers and mother out there, keep in mind I had been there for a solid 10 hours at this point). Upon hearing of my feat, he said something like, "No way! You caught up to me??" He then proceeded to tip his bottle upside down with a boyish giggle and cheered, "Empty, man, ha HA!" Another memory was when Camilo, a friend of Alex and Fernanda's whom I'd met on other occasions, was introducing us to some other attendees. "This is Devon from the states. This is Amber. She speaks pretty good Spanish. And JJ? No, marica, JJ es colombiano!"

Well, it's off to Guate mañana. Catch ya on the flip!

J.

Fireflies Dancing in a Marsh

Totally unrelated to the post, but I had
my 6th grade English class to draw
 2 people and write sentences describing
 them. This is one student's rendition
of their teacher.

It's probably safe to say that most people in my generation, at some point during their scholarly years, took the time to Google their teachers or tried to find them on Facebook. I remember finding an assistant teacher's Facebook page when I was in middle school. His profile picture featured his nonathletic self in basketball shorts hiked up to his nipples and I thought I had stumbled upon the world's greatest secret, mostly because I only ever saw him in khakis and a dress shirt that never seemed to fit. So I wasn't too surprised to have my own students start adding me on Facebook last year. That hasn't been too much of a problem this year since I moved down to 6th and 7th grade (our school doesn't allow kids under 13 to have Facebook, so them adding me would be asking for punishment from the school). What did catch me a little off guard was when a student told me on Monday that he'd seen my video on Youtube. For a moment, my mind screamed, "Shit, what videos do I have on Youtube??" before remembering that I only appear in three videos (I'll save you some time: one is a relay finish before my body began failing me in life, another is making leche asada in Chile for a Spanish assignment with my friend, Bobby, and the last one is our Beyonce dance last year at school here in Colombia). But, much like 12 year old JJ, this kid thought he'd struck gold. Or, at least black mail. Naturally, by the time Friday came around, nearly all of my students had seen me either dance in a Chilean kitchen or in front of hundreds of innocent Colombian youths. Unfortunately for this kid who'd thought he'd discovered my darkest secrets, I could give zero you-know-whats if everyone saw me dancing because I've grown to enjoy the hell out of it.

I should probably clarify some things. First, when I say dancing, I sure as shit don't mean whatever atrocities are committed in the crapshoot that is Sal's Bar back in St. Joe. People throwing their bodies against one another in a rhythmically challenged, alcohol ridden seizure isn't really appealing to anyone involved. And second, by saying I enjoy real dancing definitely does not mean that I claim to be any good at it. But I've sure found chances to do it a lot recently.

Good pictures are impossible.

Early in the week we decided to finally go to Gringo Tuesdays, an event at a bar in the swanky Zona Rosa district that encourages learning of different languages. We had heard from other expats that we'd met that this event also helps gringo dudes meet Colombian dudettes, which played no part in our decision to go whatsoever. When we walked in I was initially taken aback by how much English I was hearing, since I never hear it spoken in public these days (you know, Colombia). We quickly found our way to an English table (there were tables for French, English, Spanish, German, and Portuguese, with basic and advanced tables for each) and said our hellos. I had asked my friend Tatiana if she wanted to join as well to practice her English. But since it was a crowded and loud bar the conversation quickly reverted back to Spanish, as two occasionally confused gringos were better than five frequently confused Colombians. It turned out to be a lot more fun than I had originally thought, meeting new people and knowing where to find an enclave of young people with a similar desire to improve a second language. What was even more fun was when the clock struck nine and security came around and started stacking chairs in the corner to make room for a dance floor. I must have been distracted by the riveting conversation with our new friends to notice how quickly a DJ got set up and dudes were on stage singing, rapping, dancing, etc. We ended up dancing way later than I'd wanted to, since I was the only one who had to work as early as 6:30 the next morning. But as is my motto: #$%& it, worth it.

Some homeroom kids, as well as my homeroom
co-director, Eliana.

Friday brought democracy to our school, an increasing rarity around the world these days it seems. We had our student body presidential vote, with the incumbent eventually winning. There were also seminars and videos on the importance of democracy. To cap the day of civic happenery, we had mini Olympics, with each grade forming teams and competing against each other in various sports. Each homeroom also was given a country and needed to create a flag and team cheer/dance. My group, 6B, represented Peru like a boss, taking home the award for the best cheer. Which is a good thing too, because we didn't win anything else the rest of the day! Later that evening, Alex and I had another basketball game. We ended up losing, but we had also lent the other team one of our better players since they were too few. What was more fun was grabbing a few beers with Alex afterward and getting to know the math man better.

Saturday was supposed to be uneventful. I had nothing on my mind but grading quizzes and reading, until I went to find Luz, one of the monastery cooks, to tell her that we had to decline her invite to go dancing with her daughter and friends next weekend because we had something previously planned. Contrary to my expectations, she lit up and said, Well that's good, because I actually wanted to ask if you wanted to go tonight instead! I thought for a second about my fun-filled evening awaiting me 'neath the stack of seventh grade quizzes on adverbs of frequency, and quickly said I'd run and grab Devon. We ended up going to a club relatively close to the monastery with Leidy - Luz' daughter - and her friends (yes, that's pronounced like lady, and yes, it's a fairly common name here). Again, the dancing lasted much longer than my body wanted it to, especially with the basketball game the night before. But, again, @#$% it, worth it. Plus this club had a bubble machine and flamethrowers on stage that nearly gave me an early hairstyle change.

When someone asks me what we dance in the States, I can already sense a long conversation arriving.  "Well, we don't have a national dance or anything. In fact we don't really dance much at all."
"Then, what do you do at clubs or parties?"
"That's a really great question."
Thus ensues having to describe typical American parties, not exactly a pleasant experience when talking to someone from any other country but Ireland and drinking isn't the focus of the party. I usually try to divert attention away from the drinking by claiming that we make up for it with lawn games, board games, bonfires, and other related shenanigans. But another topic I'm made to reconsider more while living in another country is how much Americans drink. And yes, I realize how many read that last sentence and thought to themselves, Damn right, we do! And, well, that is related to a bunch of other uniquely American problems fit for a different conversation. All those things - games and fires - are all fine and fun, but our dancing is atrocious. I learned how to polka last spring, but just as likely as someone my age having looked up a teacher on Facebook is that same someone not knowing how to dance. Again, not claiming I do it well. But I've at least lost the inhibitions of looking like an idiot, which is something I consistently do very well.

J.

Spanish word of the day: This is a random one. So I was midst quiz-grading yesterday when I was really starting to get annoyed with all the yelling happening outside my window. I looked out, and there were all the cooks and janitors of San Carlos doing fire training, complete with fires to put out and hoops to crawl under. The oft yelled word that drew me to the window was agachado! that came booming from a fully clad fireman yelling at the workers to stay ducked when they crawl under the hoops. This is because the verb agachar means to duck.

Song in my head lately: At the end of 2014, I was on my way down to Florida to canoe in the Everglades with some great people from CSB/SJU. My seat buddy on the way down, Katherine, introduced me to Matt Corby, a smoldering aussie with a vocal range that is decently rare these days. Resolution is one of his better ones, though Made of Stone - very different, stylistically - is also incredible. Listening to him will always remind me of the 30 hour van ride down to Florida and back. What a trip. Currently on another one here in Colombia.

Come here so I can paint your face, office cat.

 

To Jump or Not to Jump?

A boy with his dog getting a lift in on weight lifting equipment,
              popular in all public parks throughout South America.

Near the beginning of The Lion King, Simba and Nala go searching for the elephant graveyard, a place they’re not supposed to be since it is outside their territory where the light doesn’t touch. They ignore all the warning signs, from verbal ones like Mufasa telling them not to go, Zazu saying hell no to the point where the two lion cubs need a whole song just to get rid of him, to the visual signs like elephant corpses, skulls, and the whole lack of natural lighting in this unknown region known to be inhabited by hyenas, the lion’s nemesis. In the end, after Zazu’s failed rescue and their abduction of the aforementioned hyenas, the trio is luckily saved by Simba’s jacked and badass lion king daddy, Mufasa. 

But what if he hadn’t, and the movie drifted into nothing as Mufasa lost his only heir? The point is that signs – like darkness and corpses – are usually a good thing to keep an eye out for. Being somewhat of a realist myself, I normally like to weigh the risks against the rewards of most big decisions I make. I’d like to think this trait doesn’t make me a worrywart, nincompoop, or whichever other colorful name you want to pull out of your parents’ vocabulary. But it does mean taking time, usually no more than a few seconds, to think about whether the awesomeness of activity x outweighs the chances of death resulting from that activity x. So if I were to, let’s say, decide to go bungee jumping one weekend, a rational person might keep an eye out for all the warnings, unlike a young, eager to please, Simba. And if I were half as smart as I think I look, I would know where I was going with this sentence. Also, I would have taken better stock of all the warnings telling me not to jump off a bridge with a rope around me.

Much like this bamboo forest we found,
what looked scary
turned out to be awesome.

First of all, how did I wind up voluntarily hurling my sad excuse of a body off a bridge with nothing but a glorified rubber band as the difference between 5 seconds of adrenaline and 5 seconds of life remaining? Well, it turns out, my friend Alex (math teacher, for those who’ve forgotten or are just picking up from here) invited me. His sister-in-law had gifted bungee jumping coupons to his wife for her birthday a few weeks ago. And like any rational person, Alex’s wife said, thanks, but I like my life. So, there were four tickets, but only three people willing to jump (Alex, his wife’s sister, and wife’s sister’s boyfriend). Apparently, the only logical next step was to ask the crazy gringo who teaches English if he wanted to test out the Fates' string and scissors. Naturally, crazy gringo said yes.

Let’s not be like Simba. Let’s examine the signs. First of all, we have the day before the jump when we grab a snack at the mall and everyone decides to talk about all the YouTube videos they’ve seen about bungee jumping gone wrong or all the pranks the workers might pull (like yelling at you right as you’re falling that they didn’t actually connect the cords yet, don’t jump!). JJ laughs on the outside, cringes in fear on the inside, planning which pair of pants he will bring as an undoubtedly necessary dry extra.

The four jumpers: Me, Diana Marcela, Anderson, Alex.

Then, we have the drive to the actual precipice. We had to get up and out of the bowl that Bogota lies in and up into the mountainous Andean rim of said bowl, thus guaranteeing maximum altitude necessary for bungee jumping. This meant driving through early morning clouds and fog, not being able to see more than ten feet ahead. Nearing our arrival, we passed through a couple small towns, the bungee jumping place being on the outside of one of them. What was also on the outside of the last town was the cemetery. And as we passed, I couldn’t help but question the proximity of the cemetery to the leaping point. It must expedite the process of cleaning up after a failed jump.

We pull up the rendezvous point, complete with locals out on their porches ready to witness the fresh victims tourists readying to jump. One older lady in particular walked past us and asked if we were indeed going bungee jumping. We said of course! with all the excitement we could muster. What was her reaction? She gave a forced smile before shuffling after her cane in front of her, shaking her head as if to say, Well, it was nice knowing you! 

By this time, it had started to rain, always a welcome sign when your life depends on a harness. So we piled into the truck bed that was supposed to take us far from emergency assistance and slipped, slid, and skated our way down the muddy mountain road. After rounding our fair share of hairpin turns and questioning whether our gravity experience of the day would indeed be by rope or by truck falling off mountainside, the road conditions got so bad they said we had to walk the rest of the way. Another great sign!

Before signing our life away we were given a makeshift waiver, complete with recognizing that our deaths would not be their fault and any medical costs our own. They then wrote a number on our hands. They claimed it signified our jump order, we claimed it helped them identify the bodies at the bottom of the canyon. 

Like a flying squirrel.

We also had to write down the name of our jumping off point and the company’s name, which is where things got more interesting. The name of the bridge we were to jump off was called Los Dolores, which aptly translates to “the pains”. Reassuring, to say the least. And what was the company’s name? Jr. Bungee. But wait, what happened to Bungee Senior?? Was he the latest victim, leaving his business to his son?! Or is it like junior monk, where you haven’t quite reached veteran status, and our round of tourists is your final test? The answer to my fervent questioning came when the guide was explaining how they would pull us up. “Simply find a way to grab this loose rope we’ll lower down to your swinging body and hook it onto yourself like this so we can pull you up.” He motioned where we should hook it, only to be told by his assistant that that was actually the wrong place. Our guide jokingly responded with “Sorry guys, it’s my first day, haha...” Even if he was joking, his nervous laugh did nothing to reassure me, as it was the kind of laugh you’d get if you told a divorce joke as a wedding toast.  

So our guide is joking about screwing up an eight-dollar bungee jump we’re doing in the rain from a bridge called “the pains” near a graveyard far away from medical access? Sounds fantastic!

Math and English teachers...

And, well, it was! Now, obviously, this was probably the shortest bungee jump that exists. But, you know, eight dollars. I was admittedly nervous until I saw the slippery, shaking, wet, wooden bridge. Like most, my strongest fears are of the unknown, and upon seeing where I would jump from, I wasn’t as anxious as maybe all the signs were telling me I should be. But I would strongly recommend bungee jumping to anyone that asked, and as we left we were already discussing the bigger jumps that surround the Bogota area. 

We made the most of our day from there, as we found a small pond with some falls nearby and decided to take a dip. And no sooner had we stripped to our boxers than a tour group showed up to swim as well. We kind of felt like Mulan bathing, waiting until the men left before we scurried out and got changed. We investigated other activities in the area if we wanted to return, and I even made it back in time to go to evening prayer. Commando that is.

Spanish word of the day: Ripping through the phrase book, we'll bring the expressions back to PG status from last post. Menos mal (literally, less bad) means something like "thank goodness". It can also mean "at least" like after a list of things that might be shitty, like, oh I dunno, a list of reasons to not go bungee jumping. So, yeah, it's raining and our guide's new, but at least we only paid 8 dollars! 

Song in my head lately: Seeing as I now wake up before the birds start their song, I've been playing a few songs in the morning to get me going. I blame my parents for this behavior, as they would blast some James Taylor or John McCutcheon in the mornings growing up to get us out of bed and downstairs to breakfast. So these days, I've been putting them both on shuffle in the mornings. The song that's been getting me lately is McCutcheon's Waiting for Snow, since it reminds me of how well the Roske's took advantage of the winter season, whether it was skiing or playing hockey up on the hill with friends and family, or even those times when the sun would shine through the huge bay windows and warm the living room, Mom and Dad would spread out a blanket and we'd pretend we were having a picnic. 

Exhausted But Elated

Don Wilmer, groundskeeper and
veritable San Benito Hagrid, welcomes you
to school with weedwhip in tow.

This Thursday was full of reasons why most people, including myself until a few months ago, are so turned off by teaching. We started the day off with one of our sixth graders wetting himself during class. Luckily, I don’t think anyone around him noticed, since he was sufficiently inconspicuous with his leaving the classroom. Then, before my English lesson a new boy was ushered into the classroom who had changed schools because of a fight he’d gotten into at the previous one, and he had the black eye from getting kicked in the face while he was down to prove it. Also returning to class this week was Esteban who broke his arm last week. To add to the chaos, at the end of the day we found out someone had entered the room and dug around in Sebastian’s backpack, and his things (including his phone) were strewn about the room, and we had to investigate and practically interrogate some suspects. Needless to say, I returned to the monastery needing some me time. But after playing guitar for a bit, I decided I should probably start planning classes for the next day. I open my computer to find an email from the mother of one of my students, Juan Andres, saying that he had told her that someone at school had punched him in the face. So let’s take stock: I began the day with a tired but genuine smile and hop to my step, and ended up with a broken arm, two black eyes, attempted robbery, and a wet pair of drawers.

 *          *          *

We recently began our new academic year here at Colegio San Benito, and I am tasked with teaching English to sixth and seventh grades. The grades biblically come in twos, and I have five hours each week with each half of each grade, twenty hours total. Mix in some chaperoning of recess and homeroom, and we’ve got ourselves a pretty full schedule.

 

First day of school picture, for Mom.

In a few words, all of the clichés about teaching are true. Unfortunately, few words would make for an even more boring post than it assuredly will already be. But it’s true, and an exhausted sigh has already been heard escaping my lungs up the stairs to the teachers’ office floor upon my return from class. Coming as a surprise to no one, some kids can be a lot to handle, or a whole class inattentive. Heck, an entire day can be draining, and often is. I’m finding I’m terrible at discipline. This is most likely because I was one of those who needed it most growing up. So some days, the kids can get real chatty, and it’s hard to quiet down forty twelve year olds by yourself. One of the first days was especially trying, and one of the kids in the front told me, “Teacher, make them switch places.” I thought, shit, even the kid knows how to do this better than I do. Sure, I may be at the front of the classroom, but I’m also learning everyday. A big part of it is learning names, and I’ve found quieting down a group is easier when I know the names and can single them out. “Angel, Juan Esteban, and Caterin, be quiet” works better than a big, general “Be quiet, everyone” since you single them out with a little public shaming.

How I feel calling someone out in class.

I’m also finding I spend a lot of time working on different ways to teach the same damn things. Math teachers can usually plow through new material every few classes, social studies can go through a little more history or learn a bit more geography. Even with literature, you can fruit ninja your way through a few books in no time. When teaching English as a second language, for many kids, it’s their first time seeing the letters rearranged in these ways. This normally wouldn’t bother me, and I would love the opportunity to take my time and go through the verb to be in a couple weeks. The problem is that I can’t do that with forty kids in each class, many of whom are much more advanced. So I have to hold the hands of those who are still too shy to say simple sentences in English as well as reign in those who have English in their lives already, be it through music they listen to or cousins who live in Miami. So there are some times I leave a class feeling terrible, either for proceeding too quickly through a lesson for some, or for telling someone, “thank you for knowing the present progressive tense, but we are working on the simple present right now” and possibly discouraging their drive to pursue English if they’re not challenged enough in a school that doesn’t allow you to go up a level in just one subject.

Those few words a while back really seemed to turn into a whole lot of bitching, but the point is I’m sill learning. And, like I said, the clichés are true, so while it’s challenging, a lot of work, and often exhausting, it’s also one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. I also freely admit that some of the reasons it’s so great are pretty arrogant and self-serving: I get to wear the fancy white lab coat that indicates being a teacher, in classic Uncle Jim fashion (For those of you who don’t know him, my Uncle Jim, now retired from teaching high school physics for nigh on forty years,  was known for wearing a white lab coat every day). On the first day, when one of my sixth graders found out he was in my homeroom, he approached me and said he was glad I was his homeroom director. Two other kids hugged me after the first day of class. These all make me feel good. But they’re only part of why I’ve enjoyed my short stint so far.

My friend, Sergio, thoroughly enjoys staff meetings. It reads:
"When classes are over, and they tell you there's a meeting"

Last semester, I was the gringo volunteer. My responsibility list was about as short as it had ever been, and I was mostly just a presence in the room, joking around with the kids and helping out where I could. But I felt more like a drifter than a necessary part of the community. Now, with all the responsibilities of any other teacher, I still wouldn’t say I’m necessary, but I feel at the very least like an equal part. Sure, I can’t shoot the shit with my students like I used to. But I still chat with my old students during recess, and am more privy to the goings on at school since I’m in more staff meetings (Hooray!...) So for now I think the smiles and high fives are a decent tradeoff.

And while I may have less free time during the week, here in our fair city of Bogota, efforts are continually made to have a blast on the weekends, whether that’s grabbing what started as one beer with a friend met while traveling, going to a free concert of a Grammy award winning Colombian singer in the monastery parking lot, to winning a bet placed on a terribly played Superbowl (because if the Vikings aren’t in it, is it really a football game?).

It’s this balance I’ve found between enjoying work and weekends that allows me to come to school every day with a hop in my step. Even if I’m tired, even if the smile is forced, and especially even if I have to deal with broken bones, black eyes, and a wet pair of drawers.

J.

Spanish word of the day: We'll breach some gentle swearing with this one (gasp!). The verb mamar literally means to suck, so when someone - usually a teacher who's just found out they have another meeting with parents or more paperwork to do - says, "Ay, que mamera!" it means something along the lines of "This sucks!"

Song in my head lately: I made myself prepare for our backyard concert, especially since Andres Cepeda is the pride of Colombia, second only to Shakira. He won a Grammy in 2013, and everyone knows his songs. So, thanks to my preparation, I've had Desesperado in my head for a solid week now. Even if you don't know what he's saying, he's still got a great voice and the refrain's melody will be in your head.  

Classic.

Andres Cepeda, Latin Grammy award winner, doing a show
at San Carlos, the rich school where I live but don't teach.
Cepeda dropped out of San Carlos to pursue his music career
after eighth grade, but came back for the anniversary of the
school's founding. Since he played in the school/monastery's
parking lot, we didn't even need tickets.