(no subject)
Pg. 209
Feeling useful
I watch the clock. I watch the second hand move (Tick tick tick). I watch the minute hand move (Tick tick tick). One minute passes, two minutes, three minutes, four. Where is she? The girls are running around the cancha kicking a rubber ball, blurs of red t-shirts and long black hair. They shriek and shout, too busy to notice that their Maestra has yet to arrive. I am not too busy. In five more minutes I’m going to have to do something. Where is she? I stand up and walk to the center of the field. The chaos continues around me.
“!Passamelo! Lupita!”
I glance at the clock again. It is almost 4:15. I glance briefly at the others, with their own classes already started. The three and four year olds are somersaulting across blue mats, little feet flying through the air. One of the smallest is breaking from the group, running full tilt towards the monkey bars.
“Jasmine? Quieres un tiempo fuera?”
They probably won’t be of much help right now. I’m simply going to have to do this. I take a deep breath.
“Chicas! Nessesito su attention”
Nothing happens. The girls continue to run. The ball flies over my head.
“Chicas!”
The movement begins to slow. I imagine that their sneakers are shrieking, that they are burning rubber as they bring themselves to complete stops. When Lupita stops moving the others do too. A chain reaction. All eyes are on me.
My first month in Mexico was something like wearing a gauzy blindfold and earplugs, pieces of information coming through in a constant but blurry and muted stream. There was also a gag. When understanding finally hit expressing myself proved to be a difficult process. Without the ability to speak I was an observer in the classes I worked with. I watched, I joined in the games, I asked the girls about their favorite colors, but I did not lead. Not until that day. The day in which Julia did not arrive. It was chaotic, at least three girls in each game decided that they would rather play something else. They whined and begged for other options and I had trouble staying firm in the places I needed to and trouble bending when it was necessary, as I could barely understand the complaints. The girls seemed unable to speak one at a time, rapidly speaking over each other while I struggled to piece together the information I was meant to be receiving. At some point one of the teachers from the preschool group had to come over to settle an argument I couldn’t understand. Nonetheless, I had led the class with my broken babyish Spanish. It was the first time I had held any sort of real responsibility at Acortar, and despite my only mild success and the headache I went home with, It felt good. Up until that point, while I’d loved Acortar I had not been useful there. I was useful at hogares where I could feed and clothe and hold no matter my inability to speak (what a universal language it is, touching). At Acortar I was the girl waiting on the bench, until I was given the chance to step up to bat.
Feeling useful
I watch the clock. I watch the second hand move (Tick tick tick). I watch the minute hand move (Tick tick tick). One minute passes, two minutes, three minutes, four. Where is she? The girls are running around the cancha kicking a rubber ball, blurs of red t-shirts and long black hair. They shriek and shout, too busy to notice that their Maestra has yet to arrive. I am not too busy. In five more minutes I’m going to have to do something. Where is she? I stand up and walk to the center of the field. The chaos continues around me.
“!Passamelo! Lupita!”
I glance at the clock again. It is almost 4:15. I glance briefly at the others, with their own classes already started. The three and four year olds are somersaulting across blue mats, little feet flying through the air. One of the smallest is breaking from the group, running full tilt towards the monkey bars.
“Jasmine? Quieres un tiempo fuera?”
They probably won’t be of much help right now. I’m simply going to have to do this. I take a deep breath.
“Chicas! Nessesito su attention”
Nothing happens. The girls continue to run. The ball flies over my head.
“Chicas!”
The movement begins to slow. I imagine that their sneakers are shrieking, that they are burning rubber as they bring themselves to complete stops. When Lupita stops moving the others do too. A chain reaction. All eyes are on me.
My first month in Mexico was something like wearing a gauzy blindfold and earplugs, pieces of information coming through in a constant but blurry and muted stream. There was also a gag. When understanding finally hit expressing myself proved to be a difficult process. Without the ability to speak I was an observer in the classes I worked with. I watched, I joined in the games, I asked the girls about their favorite colors, but I did not lead. Not until that day. The day in which Julia did not arrive. It was chaotic, at least three girls in each game decided that they would rather play something else. They whined and begged for other options and I had trouble staying firm in the places I needed to and trouble bending when it was necessary, as I could barely understand the complaints. The girls seemed unable to speak one at a time, rapidly speaking over each other while I struggled to piece together the information I was meant to be receiving. At some point one of the teachers from the preschool group had to come over to settle an argument I couldn’t understand. Nonetheless, I had led the class with my broken babyish Spanish. It was the first time I had held any sort of real responsibility at Acortar, and despite my only mild success and the headache I went home with, It felt good. Up until that point, while I’d loved Acortar I had not been useful there. I was useful at hogares where I could feed and clothe and hold no matter my inability to speak (what a universal language it is, touching). At Acortar I was the girl waiting on the bench, until I was given the chance to step up to bat.