Return to the Motherland

DSCN0979

Madrid’s Plaza Mayor.

Looks like I’ve officially joined the masses of sporadic bloggers. We should all form a sorry-guys-but-life-is-just-crazy-right-now society or something. We can sit around at Starbucks in our yoga pants. It will be rad.

Anyway, I have a good excuse. (I swear!) I just got back to the U.S. on the 11th, so I’ve been overcoming jet lag/unpacking/going through weird reverse culture shock since then. Things that have surprised me include:

  • One-dollar bills are really bulky. The other day I thought I had $20, but I really just had 6 one-dollar bills. I have a new appreciation for the Sacagawea dollar coins.
  • Toilets flush via a handle on the side. In most of Europe, there’s a button on top of the tank or a plunger that you pull up. For some reason that was really confusing to me for the first week home.
  • We have to drive everywhere.
  • Grocery stores. Our grocery stores are huge and have an enormous selection of items. I missed that.
  • Free water. I’m consistently surprised by those random glasses of water that appear on the table. “Is that really mine?” I whisper, eyes gleaming at such a beautiful sight.
  • Everyone understands everything I say. It’s funny, but I have a hard time talking to people when I buy things or order food. I spoke the majority of my Spanish that way, and it’s really unnerving that people here understand me with such clarity. (On that note, I can no longer use English as a secret language.)
  • A beer at a restaurant costs at least $4. Thank goodness I have all those dollar bills.

Overall, though, it’s been good to be home. I was sort of gloomy and unhappy for the first few days, especially since I didn’t really have much to do and was waking up at 6 a.m. every day. I don’t do very well without some sort of life plan, so I’ve shed a few frustrated tears and indulged in my fair share of emotional eating. I spent the first couple days here cleaning my room and purging all my old clothes to make room for my two 50-pound suitcases.

Continue reading

Advertisements

What’s Keeping Me Up At Night

And here we are, in June. It’s part of the block-lettered expiration date on my Spanish residency card, yet I somehow never thought it would arrive — it always seemed like some distant, intangible construct of time. In Madrid, its arrival has been quiet and understated, marked by warm breezes and long, sunny days. Madrileños and tourists alike are flocking to the city’s countless terraces and plazas, making each barrio hum with laughter and clinking glasses. Summer is here, and everything is as it should be. Except for my growing feelings of indecision and doubt.

I’ve been keeping my plans quiet because I’m still not sure what they are, but here goes: at the last minute, I decided to renew my position here in Madrid. I adore this city, thanks to its endless supply of museums, restaurants, nightlife, terrazas, and concerts. I love speaking Spanish, and I’ve made some wonderful friends from all over the world.

That said, I don’t think I’m coming back. Why, dear readers?

For the past seven months, I spent nearly six hours a week repeating 50 basic questions to hordes of second-graders. The goal was to prepare them for the notorious Trinity exam, but most of them only memorized the questions and the proper responses since the teacher never taught them what the questions meant in the first place.

I work with teachers who constantly tell me they haven’t planned anything, and that’s okay because we can just look at the book right now. The other day, one English teacher told me that she doesn’t like English. Nay, it goes further: she wishes everyone in the world spoke one language because it’s “inconvenient to learn other languages.”

And then there are the kids themselves, many of whom are so talkative and disrespectful that I can’t teach them anything. I’m forced to spend half the class period trying to keep them quiet while the teacher sits on the computer or leaves the room entirely.

Don’t get me wrong, some of my classes are good. Fun, even. (Read: Only my classes with teachers who prepare coursework and control the students’ behavior fall into this category.) I adore all of the first-graders, most of the second- and third-graders, and even a few of the fifth-graders. Sometimes we do special projects or help with holidays, which is usually a good time. But the teachers I work most closely with are so frustrating that I’m not sure I could handle another year.

Continue reading

“Vamos de Excursión!” or, How to Make the Auxiliar Lose Her Mind

La Mujer Gigante, Parque de Europa

La Mujer Gigante in all her 1970s animatronic glory.

A couple of weeks ago, our jefa de estudios asked me if I wanted to join the 1st and 2nd grade classes on their field trip. “Of course!” I beamed: all the other auxiliares had been on field trips before, and I’d been not-so-patiently waiting my turn for months. That Friday was my chance.

No one actually told me where we were going, so I sought out the word on the street. Or rather, word on the patio, the fenced-in and paved area that serves as their playground. The first graders successfully told me we’d be visiting La Mujer Gigante (The Giant Woman). “It’s an attractions park!” one of them gleefully shouted at me.

“Okay, so I’m going to an amusement park named after a giant woman,” I thought. After interrogating a few more children, I finally turned to a more reliable source. Paloma, one of the teachers, explained that La Mujer Gigante is actually a giant model of the human body. We’d be able to go inside of her (questionable) and learn about the internal processes that keep us all running. After our visit, we’d walk around the park that houses La Mujer Gigante, the Parque de Europa, famous for its scale replicas of famous European monuments.

Continue reading

5 Things New Auxiliares de Conversación Shouldn’t Worry About

Me in a nutshell. (Photo credit: Beth Evans. Click photo for image source.)

My pre-departure life in a nutshell. (Photo credit: Beth Evans. Click photo for image source.)

You may not know this about me, but I’m a chronic worrier. And, as a chronic worrier, you can imagine how I spent 99% of my time last summer.

You got it. Worrying.

Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. I did other things. But I was concerned about basically everything, from what kind of cell phone I should purchase to what neighborhood I should live in to getting my visa to how do I get a metro pass to oh my god why isn’t my school emailing me back they hate me.

After successfully existing here for almost 5 months now, I can safely say that most of my worrying was a complete waste of time. (You’d think I’d learn a lesson from that statement. I worry less with each passing year, I swear.)

Since I know there are hopeful applicants out there fighting the good fight against Profex, I’d like to share a few things you do not need to worry about.

Continue reading

The Problem(s) with my Spanish Bilingual School

This is actually a typical conversation you might have with one of my students.

This is actually a typical conversation you might have with one of my students.

I’ve been debating whether or not to write this post  — especially because I’m not sure I’m “qualified” to write it. But then again, I’m not qualified to be a teacher and here I am. My intent for this post is not to blindly criticize, but to provide a comparison and critique of and/or have a venting sesh about the illogical classroom practices I see every day.

I understand that this is a different country and a different system, but I’m frustrated. And I want to talk about it.

I’d like to present a few disclaimers/basic facts before I start:

  • I’m not an expert on this system. If you disagree or if you have any other insights I’ve missed, please post them in the comments. I’m always open to a friendly discussion.
  • Yes, I’m American and, yes, I know our school system has plenty of problems of its own. I’m not writing this because I want to sit around and say “Our system is the best. The end. Amurica.” Because, while I did have a great public school education, there’s so much reform and work to be done, especially in our schools with less resources.
  • There are bad teachers everywhere. I recognize that. In high school I had an economics teacher who literally read the newspaper while we did worksheets or copied the textbook. One time we watched Bee Movie, because supply and demand of honey I guess. (?) We all suffered and, needless to say, I learned very little about economics. I did learn, however, that Bee Movie = two hours of my life I’ll never get back.

Continue reading

The Truth About Living Abroad

Estanque del Retiro

El Parque del Retiro.

I’ve been struggling with the fact that I live in Madrid.

I don’t mean “struggle” in the negative, how-can-I-go-on sense of the word, but in the sense that I can’t quite believe I’m here. Even though I’ve been here for two months already, I still oscillate between random moments of Spain-fueled elation and a deepening sense of normalcy.

I realized the other day that I’ve been boxing the majority of my Spanish activities and purchases into this strange new “temporary” category of my life. Things you might typically hear me say include:

  • “I’m not going to buy that because I can’t take it home in June.” (I’ve never been on a sadder trip to Ikea.)
  • “I’ll just wait to replace my laptop battery until I go back to the States.” (My battery recently took a turn for the worse and now has less energy than Lana del Rey.)
  • “I don’t need to get a coffee maker. I can survive on green tea.” (Hahaha who am I?)

Over the past two weeks, though, it’s dawned on me that maybe my life in Spain isn’t so temporary after all. I’ve started purchasing scented candles and tacking up posters with reckless abandon. I even bought a throw pillow. (Talk about putting down roots.)

My newfound sense of permanence made me start thinking about what it means to live abroad. It’s a fact that my days in Spain are numbered — I have a job contract and a visa to prove it —  and I know I want to make the most of my time here. But it’s hard for me to decide what I’m supposed to be doing on a day-to-day basis. Is it okay to stay in and read a book on a Friday night, or is that “not taking advantage” of my time in Spain? Should I instead dedicate my free hours toward the quintessential expat quest for new tastes, new sights, and new sounds?

The bare-bones truth (drumroll, please) is that I’m doing many of the same things I’d be doing back home, just in a foreign country. Whether that’s what I’m supposed to be doing or not.

Which brings me to my first point:

It’s not all tapas and siestas, kids.

Continue reading

“Teaching” English in a Spanish Elementary School

Gleeful shouts fill the air. Erasers go flying across the room in not-so-graceful arcs. Two girls build crayon towers with wild abandon. A small boy uses his pencil case to bludgeon another boy in the head. Entire classes surround their hapless English assistants (ahem, me) from all sides in the form of one massive, sweaty hug.*

Welcome (or should I say bienvenidos?) to a typical class period at my Spanish school. Let me say that again: Not play time. Not recess. Class period. 

Sheep vs. Car

Real photo of me trying to walk through the hallways at school. (Spoiler alert: I am the car.)

Spanish primary schools just might be insanity incarnate. The reason is simple: The teachers rarely discipline anyone. Few kids raise their hands unless prompted. They get up and walk around the classroom without asking permission. One of my 2nd-graders actually pulled a wheeled drawer out of a bookcase during a lesson and proceeded to roll around in it, scooter-style.

It’s all been a little overwhelming, to say the least.

I work primarily with 1st- and 2nd-graders, although I have a couple classes each week with 3rd- and 5th-graders. The kids themselves are pretty cute, which, in the most trying times, is their only redeeming quality; that and the fact they’re all really excited to have classes with me and the other auxiliares. They’re really curious about us, and the best questions/comments I’ve received include:

  • “Do you have a son?”
  • “Are you Spanish?” (Hah hah hah really, kids?)
  • “Do you like One Direction?”
  • “Did you know that when you stab a wasp in the eye, his eye juice comes out?” (This one was asked in Spanish, with “eye juice” being “zumo del ojo.” I couldn’t help but laugh at that one.)
  • “Do you have a boyfriend?”
  • “Do you eat cheeseburgers every day in America?” (I think Europeans sincerely think this sometimes. Then again, I really struggle to tell anyone what a “typical” American meal looks like since we’ve borrowed food from so many cultures.)
  • And, my all-time favorite: “Do you like your life?”

Continue reading