Sunday, 13-October-2019, 7:34 PM CDT
Hello and welcome to another edition of Poco a Poco. This week has been great. I am seeing the students improve their English, and my level of Spanish is now, more or less, communicative. I showcased my adequacy today during my apartment search/tour of Tepexi. It's not a big town, somewhere in size and population between Trevorton and Shamokin, but I walked around all of it today. If you want to learn a new language you need to practice with native speakers whenever possible. There's no greater practice than cold-calling around your new town asking if anyone knows of rooms or apartments for rent. Turns out a lot of people did.
I walked from my family's home in La Colonia to town, about twenty minutes, and just started asking people I saw. Being, I think, the only guero (white person) in town, people are interested in talking to me, which is great because that's what I need to improve my Spanish. I met two guys in a garage who were just hanging out on battered couches drinking Modelos and enjoying their Sunday afternoon. I asked if they knew of any places, and they did. They drove me around town and introduced me to several property owners. I even found some that meet the Peace Corps's strict criteria housing. Oscar had spent fourteen years living in New York City so had good English. He even knew of the many quality junkyard in NEPA. Luis didn't speak English but asked me to teach him. He understood when I told him I can only teach at TEC.
Oscar and Luis's behavior was typical for Mexico from what I've seen during my...four months here. Mexicans are friendly, hospitable, willing to help, treat you like a friend upon meeting you. I received a similar reception when I visited San Pablo with some of my co-workers on Friday.
I often accept invitations without really knowing what's going to happen wherever I'm going (think I already mentioned this buy 🤷🏽). This was the case when I was invited by the business department to tour some Mezcalarias. Turns out they're wanting to start their own mezcal operation on campus (as far as I understand). I know you're asking, Constant Reader, "What is mezcal, Kory?" Glad you asked. You can find out more about it here. But basically it's like tequila except better, and I've somehow developed a taste for it.
I didn't sleep much Thursday night, so I was beat all day Friday. It was about an hour drive to San Pablo from Tepexi. A chunk of the trip was spent weaving down a sinuous mountain road. I only remember flashed because I was sleeping but occasionally I'd wake up and see turns that all looked the same. One time I woke up and there was a new person in the car, didn't even know how she got there. San Pablo reminded me of Telluride, CO. It's nestled in the mountains and isolated with only one way in and one way out. But instead of film festivals, skiing, and rich people with vacation homes, San Pablo has donkeys, tiendas, and mezcal.
It took us an hour to find someone to show us their operation. We met a man with skinny legs and few teeth who led us through his home, while inviting to return whenever we'd like, and out back to his mezcal shed. It had walls of sheet metal and smelled like a landfill. It was then I realized that mezcal is Mexican Moonshine. He's not currently producing but answered all our questions with laughs and smiles. I'm not totally sure, but I think he was a little nervous to be sharing so much in front of me, an agent of the US government. I assured him he had nothing to worry about as I have no power to initiate legal action against him for his time in the US.
We later found a guy who welcomed us with a Coke bottle full of clear liquid with the slightest golden tinge. Mezcal--the drink of macho Mexican men. While he and my co-workers talked, I listened and "played from a distance" with his children who were reluctant to approach me. As they snuck around one corner of the house for perks, I'd quickly look over and "catch" them. Then they'd run and hide. I like talking with the children here; I feel like pressure with them when compared with adults.
This new guy (forget his name too) took us to his operation, which was much more legit than the first. There was a big pit in the ground called "el horno" or "the oven" filled with pieces of piña. "Piña" is pineapple but they refer to stocks of agave ad "piña" probably because it resembles the tropical fruit. The owner lifted up a window flap and revealed his partner chopping up piñas with a machete. A small TV and a single lightbulb illuminated the workspace, which included a cot for those long nights of chopping. One end of the space was filled with blackened piñas, which also resemble the turning spits of meat known as tacos pastor aquí en México. In the next room, we saw the some later steps of the process.
This room had three rows of barrels filled with fermenting piña. Bring your hand to certain barrels and watch all the fruit flies flee like diseases from the mouth of John Coffey in The Green Mile. Put your ear to others and hear the fermentation occurring like little slimy footsteps down a wet hallway. Put your nose to the mush and smell the bittersweet aroma of alcohol in the making. Touch the...nevermind. I didn't touch the mush, but we did have another round here. Mezcal is somehow sweet and vicious at the same time, like a puppy that bites off chunks of your ear while cuddling. Here there's a saying that translates to, "For everything bad, mezcal. For everything good, mezcal." To some, it's believed to have medicinal purposes, such as helping with digestion after a meal of spicy food mmmmmmm.
Ok now for some random stuff. I eat grasshoppers down here on the reg, and today I went grasshopper hunting with my family which was awesome. I continue to play a lot of basketball and see improvement as a baller as well as a shot-caller--I mean Spanish speaker. Our team is in the finals next week, and I hope to contribute more than I have in past games. TEC Tepexi is getting a new director, a change in leadership caused by none other than everybody's favorite necessary? evil--politics. Here it's common to put your head on the right side during hugs, whereas the left is more common in the US, no? Habaneros are spicier than jalapeños, but the latter cause more heartburn. Guero/a is not only a name for white people from the US but also for Mexicans who have--or used to have--light skin. I am, slowly, reading El Viejo y El Mar por Ernest Hemingway because I've read it in English and because his simple prose is a good fit for my level.
Ok. Till next time. ¡Adiós!
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Where Do Unfinished Stories Go?
6-October-2019, 6:02 PM CDT, a Sunday
I'm sitting here struggling to think of what to write. If you believe in such a thing, you might be saying, "Oh, Kory, well, you have 'writer's block'." Well, CR, I don't think "writer's block" exists. I think lazy writers exist, writers who make excuses for themselves for why not to write. One popular excuse often mistaken for writer's block is "I don't know what to write about" or, even more ridiculous, "there's nothing to write about." Writer Darren Garmin would tell you that there is in fact too much to write about and that this is the real problem. Take this post for example. I sat here for about ten minutes before getting started, staring at the blank screen and listening to sounds float into my room through the only opening window I have. Dogs barking throughout the neighborhood, trucks carrying marble or onions roaring down the nearby highway, the gaudy, muffled voice of a Mexican game show host from a neighboring window. When there's "nothing to write about," write about what you hear--or see.
The window is a deliberate hole in the rock wall, the size and shape of a marble tile rolling down the highway. I've been told Italian companies buy marble from Tepexi and sell it under the guise of "Italian marble." That has a better ring in our consumer's ear, doesn't it? Italian marble. How fancy, how luxurious, how impressive to tell your status-obsessed friends or a young couple of potential buyers at an open house. It has a more prestigious connotation than Mexican marble, or does it not? Whoever was telling me all this, asked me why I thought it was so, such a disparity in perceived quality. I didn't know. The question, of course, was bigger than just the global economics of marble.
It has a frame of aged wood on hinges for keeping out the seldom cold breeze or frequent night-wandering cockroach. A yellow piece of stained glass fills the frame and shines brilliantly in the powerful Mexican sun. The square hole is covered by a screen, its edges reinforced from the outside with strips of a soda can. The cardinal directions are represented with rectangular pieces of stained glass, and they emit an ocean green-blue when receiving the sun's rays at midday.
Windows offer grand opportunities to see through to the other side. Too many of them and we feel exposed, not enough and we feel trapped. While we're resting in our beds on a cool night perfect for sleeping, they let the outside in. When the bitter cold reins and we're warming ourselves with each other, they keep the outside out. Anybody can look through your window. Is there someone looking through it right now? Or something? Did you check? Maybe. If you're one who's willing to believe, who's afraid possibilities could sprout into realities.
Lightning cracks the sky and echoes through the land. The window allows me a better hearing of the atmosphere's battle with itself. Lightning illuminates the stained glass but only for an instant--an instant which could be an eternity.
The stained glass that adorns the window, wonderfully cut and installed by Tio Benji, was crafted by a man whose name escapes me right now. He used to live in Mexico, around Juárez I think but again am not sure. This man travelled the world for the middle portion of his life, searching for interesting things to add to his collection. Nobody knew where he got his money form, or even if he used money to acquire his things or not. Odd things he acquired on his travels--shrunken heads, turquoise rocks the size of softballs chiseled into skulls, clay vessels from pre-colonial trade routes, chain mail, samurai swords, stuff that belonged in a museum, you know. By the time he was in his seventies, he had found himself, and his vast, valuable collection, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, settled into odd shop whose name also eludes me but is written somewhere.
One day he was sitting at his desk near the back of the shop translating an old Latin bible he'd found years ago in Albania. A boy walked in. His name was Ryan Cullen Fledge. While his mom was at the laundromat, he had gone to the library to return some books and get some new ones. He was a voracious reader at what? ten? eleven? years old. On his way to the laundromat, he had passed the same empty shop with dirty windows that had always been there. There had always been, for as long as he could remember anyway, a sign on the door that read, "CLOSED. Be back when the winds of Sereway blow cold once again." RCF had always thought this a peculiar message for a store owner to give. Where's Sereway? He had asked the long-time librarian--I don't know if I gave her a name, I'll have to check later--where Sereway was, but she had told him there was no such place. Why was the owner waiting for the "winds to blow cold once again" in this place? If it were somewhere on the UP, he surely would've been back by now, for the winds often blow cold off of Huron, Michigan, and Superior. Yes, the abandoned store on Main Street in..."Rupert" had always been a mystery to RCF, and as he was walking in, he was thinking that the mystery would finally end, that he'd finally get the chance to meet the owner and ask him--or her--where they'd been all this time, and what was going on in Sereway. His mind was so imbued with the curiosity children possess, an insatiable yearning to know more that too many adults lose somewhere along their walk through life.
When he heard the bell above the door ring, the old man set aside his work and moved his glasses from the tip of his bulbous nose to the top of his resilient head of long silver hair. Like RCF, he too had waited for this day. He walked slowly but on firm legs to meet the Savior of Sereway.
RCF didn't noticed the old man at the desk in the back of the shop. He was mesmerized by all the strange things in the odd shop. The boy might have been admiring a knight's helmet when he jumped at the soft voice behind him--and above him. When he turned to see the owner of the voice, books pinned against his little chest, he was eye to thigh with the man. His mouth opened involuntarily as he craned his neck to look up at the ancient mountain. At first, RCF was scared and felt like he was somewhere he was not allowed to be. Little did he know, he was right where he was meant to be, right where Sereway needed him to be.
As was everybody who encountered the old collector, RCF was enchanted by his mere presence, and sat enrapt in an old electric chair as he recounted his tail of the Chupacabra en las afueras de la ciudad de Juárez. When Ryan told the man he had to go meet his mom, that he was already ten minutes late and that she would be worried, the man told him that all the cool stuff on the shop floor was nothing compared with the treasures that waited behind the back office door. Ryan's mom was raising him to be responsible and wary of strangers. He had a funny feeling in his tummy about following the old man away from the exposure of the storefront windows. But that feeling just turned out to be curiosity, a harmless, natural feeling, right? A feeling, no, an intuition that when followed never yields any extraordinary consequences, whether they be good or bad. Deciding that he was experiencing another instance of curiosity, the same stirring that caused him to choose The Boy Hero of Canaan by Darren Garmin earlier in the library, he followed the old man to the back.
When they arrived, the collector stepped aside and gestured for RCF to stand square in front of the door. In the middle, near the top, Ryan saw a window just like the one you saw in the Facebook post when you followed this link, just like the one I gaze through when I don't know what to say next. Lights flashed on the other side of the door. He could see it when the stained glass flashed with its snap of illumination. On the other side of the door he heard the rumble of hooves and the stifled battlecries of valiant warrior atop huge and exotic beasts. Golden light also shone through the crack at the bottom of the door. A breeze wafted out from there, carrying with it the aromas of sweet grass and freshly-hunted boar turning on spits, dripping grease into fire, causing flames to dance even more. Ryan felt fire in his belly, too. He craved the meat, the tea brewed with the sweet grass, the feeling of a tame beast, his beast beneath him. He could not deny the allure of what lay beyond the door. It was the mystery as much as the sentient sensations that urged him forward. His mother ceased to exist, his little brother, the fledgeling, as well, the old man behind him and the books that had fallen to the floor. He forgot it all as he opened the door and walked into Sereway.
So. Where do unfinished stories go? Nowhere. They stay set in the disarray of your memory and wait loyally for your return. Just as the denizens of Sereway waited for the unknown savior to come when they so needed him.
I'm sitting here struggling to think of what to write. If you believe in such a thing, you might be saying, "Oh, Kory, well, you have 'writer's block'." Well, CR, I don't think "writer's block" exists. I think lazy writers exist, writers who make excuses for themselves for why not to write. One popular excuse often mistaken for writer's block is "I don't know what to write about" or, even more ridiculous, "there's nothing to write about." Writer Darren Garmin would tell you that there is in fact too much to write about and that this is the real problem. Take this post for example. I sat here for about ten minutes before getting started, staring at the blank screen and listening to sounds float into my room through the only opening window I have. Dogs barking throughout the neighborhood, trucks carrying marble or onions roaring down the nearby highway, the gaudy, muffled voice of a Mexican game show host from a neighboring window. When there's "nothing to write about," write about what you hear--or see.
The window is a deliberate hole in the rock wall, the size and shape of a marble tile rolling down the highway. I've been told Italian companies buy marble from Tepexi and sell it under the guise of "Italian marble." That has a better ring in our consumer's ear, doesn't it? Italian marble. How fancy, how luxurious, how impressive to tell your status-obsessed friends or a young couple of potential buyers at an open house. It has a more prestigious connotation than Mexican marble, or does it not? Whoever was telling me all this, asked me why I thought it was so, such a disparity in perceived quality. I didn't know. The question, of course, was bigger than just the global economics of marble.
It has a frame of aged wood on hinges for keeping out the seldom cold breeze or frequent night-wandering cockroach. A yellow piece of stained glass fills the frame and shines brilliantly in the powerful Mexican sun. The square hole is covered by a screen, its edges reinforced from the outside with strips of a soda can. The cardinal directions are represented with rectangular pieces of stained glass, and they emit an ocean green-blue when receiving the sun's rays at midday.
Windows offer grand opportunities to see through to the other side. Too many of them and we feel exposed, not enough and we feel trapped. While we're resting in our beds on a cool night perfect for sleeping, they let the outside in. When the bitter cold reins and we're warming ourselves with each other, they keep the outside out. Anybody can look through your window. Is there someone looking through it right now? Or something? Did you check? Maybe. If you're one who's willing to believe, who's afraid possibilities could sprout into realities.
Lightning cracks the sky and echoes through the land. The window allows me a better hearing of the atmosphere's battle with itself. Lightning illuminates the stained glass but only for an instant--an instant which could be an eternity.
The stained glass that adorns the window, wonderfully cut and installed by Tio Benji, was crafted by a man whose name escapes me right now. He used to live in Mexico, around Juárez I think but again am not sure. This man travelled the world for the middle portion of his life, searching for interesting things to add to his collection. Nobody knew where he got his money form, or even if he used money to acquire his things or not. Odd things he acquired on his travels--shrunken heads, turquoise rocks the size of softballs chiseled into skulls, clay vessels from pre-colonial trade routes, chain mail, samurai swords, stuff that belonged in a museum, you know. By the time he was in his seventies, he had found himself, and his vast, valuable collection, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, settled into odd shop whose name also eludes me but is written somewhere.
One day he was sitting at his desk near the back of the shop translating an old Latin bible he'd found years ago in Albania. A boy walked in. His name was Ryan Cullen Fledge. While his mom was at the laundromat, he had gone to the library to return some books and get some new ones. He was a voracious reader at what? ten? eleven? years old. On his way to the laundromat, he had passed the same empty shop with dirty windows that had always been there. There had always been, for as long as he could remember anyway, a sign on the door that read, "CLOSED. Be back when the winds of Sereway blow cold once again." RCF had always thought this a peculiar message for a store owner to give. Where's Sereway? He had asked the long-time librarian--I don't know if I gave her a name, I'll have to check later--where Sereway was, but she had told him there was no such place. Why was the owner waiting for the "winds to blow cold once again" in this place? If it were somewhere on the UP, he surely would've been back by now, for the winds often blow cold off of Huron, Michigan, and Superior. Yes, the abandoned store on Main Street in..."Rupert" had always been a mystery to RCF, and as he was walking in, he was thinking that the mystery would finally end, that he'd finally get the chance to meet the owner and ask him--or her--where they'd been all this time, and what was going on in Sereway. His mind was so imbued with the curiosity children possess, an insatiable yearning to know more that too many adults lose somewhere along their walk through life.
When he heard the bell above the door ring, the old man set aside his work and moved his glasses from the tip of his bulbous nose to the top of his resilient head of long silver hair. Like RCF, he too had waited for this day. He walked slowly but on firm legs to meet the Savior of Sereway.
RCF didn't noticed the old man at the desk in the back of the shop. He was mesmerized by all the strange things in the odd shop. The boy might have been admiring a knight's helmet when he jumped at the soft voice behind him--and above him. When he turned to see the owner of the voice, books pinned against his little chest, he was eye to thigh with the man. His mouth opened involuntarily as he craned his neck to look up at the ancient mountain. At first, RCF was scared and felt like he was somewhere he was not allowed to be. Little did he know, he was right where he was meant to be, right where Sereway needed him to be.
As was everybody who encountered the old collector, RCF was enchanted by his mere presence, and sat enrapt in an old electric chair as he recounted his tail of the Chupacabra en las afueras de la ciudad de Juárez. When Ryan told the man he had to go meet his mom, that he was already ten minutes late and that she would be worried, the man told him that all the cool stuff on the shop floor was nothing compared with the treasures that waited behind the back office door. Ryan's mom was raising him to be responsible and wary of strangers. He had a funny feeling in his tummy about following the old man away from the exposure of the storefront windows. But that feeling just turned out to be curiosity, a harmless, natural feeling, right? A feeling, no, an intuition that when followed never yields any extraordinary consequences, whether they be good or bad. Deciding that he was experiencing another instance of curiosity, the same stirring that caused him to choose The Boy Hero of Canaan by Darren Garmin earlier in the library, he followed the old man to the back.
When they arrived, the collector stepped aside and gestured for RCF to stand square in front of the door. In the middle, near the top, Ryan saw a window just like the one you saw in the Facebook post when you followed this link, just like the one I gaze through when I don't know what to say next. Lights flashed on the other side of the door. He could see it when the stained glass flashed with its snap of illumination. On the other side of the door he heard the rumble of hooves and the stifled battlecries of valiant warrior atop huge and exotic beasts. Golden light also shone through the crack at the bottom of the door. A breeze wafted out from there, carrying with it the aromas of sweet grass and freshly-hunted boar turning on spits, dripping grease into fire, causing flames to dance even more. Ryan felt fire in his belly, too. He craved the meat, the tea brewed with the sweet grass, the feeling of a tame beast, his beast beneath him. He could not deny the allure of what lay beyond the door. It was the mystery as much as the sentient sensations that urged him forward. His mother ceased to exist, his little brother, the fledgeling, as well, the old man behind him and the books that had fallen to the floor. He forgot it all as he opened the door and walked into Sereway.
So. Where do unfinished stories go? Nowhere. They stay set in the disarray of your memory and wait loyally for your return. Just as the denizens of Sereway waited for the unknown savior to come when they so needed him.
Sunday, September 29, 2019
Caught Me Slacking
29-September-2019, Sunday, 7:52 PM CDT
(Me seeing you, Constant Reader, and quickly turning the corner to avoid your eye.)
"Not so fast!" says you, Constant Reader. "Where have you been the last two weeks?"
There is no excuse. I just neglected to post. All great writers have talent, but the best have discipline as well. I need more discipline as a writer. But it's just so easy to make excuses for ourselves, isn't it?
I can't write today because I'm too tired or because it's too much work or because nobody's going to read it anyway, so what's the point?
Nada de esto, por favor.
It's a classic yet never passable excuse, but the last two weeks have been, you guessed it, busy. And think of it this way--if I'm not blogging, it's probably because I'm out doing Mexican things. Take two weeks ago for example. It was El Quince de Septiembre, the Mexican equivalent of the Fourth of July. I went to watch some students dance in a neighboring pueblo (town). The girls wore long dresses that flowed in waves of blue and pink, the boys all white with colorful ribbons for ties around their neck. It was a dancing show of all ages, from kindergarten to college. Then in another pueblo we screamed then names of famous Mexican patriots during El Grito (The Scream). It was one-thirty by the time I got home. You expected me to blog then?
"'This will be a weekly blog,' you said. 'It's going to be about language teaching and learning,' you said. So what's your excuse for last week?"
Let me think...oh yeah. Last weekend I was in Puebla visiting Fes. Hadn't seen him in nine years. You expected me to blog Sunday night from his house in the city? Ignore my hosts just to satisfy your curiosity?
(Silence from you, Constant Reader, as you mercifully withhold further challenge.)
Ok. Let's just move on to this past week, shall we?
(Obstinate silence continues.)
You'll get over it...but thanks for giving me flak.
There has been a lot of rain this week. It rained all day today. I didn't feel like leaving my room but did anyway, as I accepted an invitation to a birthday party for one of my students; the same student, in fact, to whom I endeavored to explain carnal to, remember? The rain didn't stop us from enjoying some barbacoa (goat), elotes (corn), and pastel (cake) to celebrate his birthday. The set-up was a couple big tarps rigged up just off the road outside Tepexi. Nothing fancy, but it kept us dry. I continue to be welcomed by families here as if I was one of their own.
In class this week we learned numbers, time, and days. There's a fun game called Fizz Buzz that is my go to for numbers. It's akin to Hello, Governor if you're familiar, and you can find out more about it here. To get students interested and motivated to learn how to give and ask for the time, I played Rock Around the Clock and danced around the class for a few minutes. And for days I used one of the most lasting language teaching strategies--listening to music. Students had to fill in the blanks to The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love" in hopes of solidifying the days of the week in their memories. I still remember parts of the German song Professor Joerg Meindl played for us at Leb Val. I haven't used German, in earnest, for ten years, but I remember that Peter Fox had twenty kids and a pretty wife in his song "Haus am See". Hopefully the students will remember the days of the week for our second exam, which most will be taking this week.
What else? I've been playing a lot of basketball, and it's been really funny. Learning a new sport is similar to learning a new language. In the beginning, I was not very good. In fact, I was frustratingly bad. But little by little, poco a poco, with consistent practice, desire to learn, and refusal to give up, I began to improve. Now I'm kinda ok at speaking Spanish and playing basketball. I always hold myself to a (sometimes) unreasonably high standard, but it's because I want to be good, I want to be competent and credible. As a lifelong learner, I need to learn how to recognize small gains and believe they are adding up.
The highlight of last week was the welcoming of new students to TEC. They were called Baby Raptors, and we held a sort of orientation for them. I was involved in all sorts of fun games like human train and extreme musical chairs. I tore a hole in my jeans after spinning around an empty bottle several times and diving for an empty chair during this one. We danced to mariachi and ate pozole, threw water balloons at each other and tossed giant dice. Only a month and a half at-site, and I already feel like a member of the community.
And now for the random wrap-up--in half-court basketball here, we don't "take it back" if we rebound a missed shot by the other team, we just put it right back up no matter who shot it, on Thursday my good friend Carmelo, another guy, and I won six straight games to five in a rotation of three teams, at the end of some work days my counterpart Hugo and I stay late and have a bilingual chat, he in English and me in Spanish, the topics get pretty deep--from God to reality and the universe to reincarnation, I'm proud to finally be code-switching (going from one language to another) and can do so easily in my mind and on my phone keyboard lol, I saw my first tarantula the other night at basketball, about the diameter of coffee mug, the other night I sang karaoke which is insanely useful for pronunciation and vocab-building, not to mention super fun, my clothes have been hanging out on the line all day in the rain, and I don't even care hahaha, they'll dry tomorrow.
Ok, friends, Romans, countrymen, that's all for now. Check back next week for--
"Next week? Are you sure?"
Callate, CR. Yes, check back next week for another post, and if it's not here, just be patient with me, ok? It's probably because I'm out trying to be a Mexican somewhere.
Have a good week, America.
(Me seeing you, Constant Reader, and quickly turning the corner to avoid your eye.)
"Not so fast!" says you, Constant Reader. "Where have you been the last two weeks?"
There is no excuse. I just neglected to post. All great writers have talent, but the best have discipline as well. I need more discipline as a writer. But it's just so easy to make excuses for ourselves, isn't it?
I can't write today because I'm too tired or because it's too much work or because nobody's going to read it anyway, so what's the point?
Nada de esto, por favor.
It's a classic yet never passable excuse, but the last two weeks have been, you guessed it, busy. And think of it this way--if I'm not blogging, it's probably because I'm out doing Mexican things. Take two weeks ago for example. It was El Quince de Septiembre, the Mexican equivalent of the Fourth of July. I went to watch some students dance in a neighboring pueblo (town). The girls wore long dresses that flowed in waves of blue and pink, the boys all white with colorful ribbons for ties around their neck. It was a dancing show of all ages, from kindergarten to college. Then in another pueblo we screamed then names of famous Mexican patriots during El Grito (The Scream). It was one-thirty by the time I got home. You expected me to blog then?
"'This will be a weekly blog,' you said. 'It's going to be about language teaching and learning,' you said. So what's your excuse for last week?"
Let me think...oh yeah. Last weekend I was in Puebla visiting Fes. Hadn't seen him in nine years. You expected me to blog Sunday night from his house in the city? Ignore my hosts just to satisfy your curiosity?
(Silence from you, Constant Reader, as you mercifully withhold further challenge.)
Ok. Let's just move on to this past week, shall we?
(Obstinate silence continues.)
You'll get over it...but thanks for giving me flak.
There has been a lot of rain this week. It rained all day today. I didn't feel like leaving my room but did anyway, as I accepted an invitation to a birthday party for one of my students; the same student, in fact, to whom I endeavored to explain carnal to, remember? The rain didn't stop us from enjoying some barbacoa (goat), elotes (corn), and pastel (cake) to celebrate his birthday. The set-up was a couple big tarps rigged up just off the road outside Tepexi. Nothing fancy, but it kept us dry. I continue to be welcomed by families here as if I was one of their own.
In class this week we learned numbers, time, and days. There's a fun game called Fizz Buzz that is my go to for numbers. It's akin to Hello, Governor if you're familiar, and you can find out more about it here. To get students interested and motivated to learn how to give and ask for the time, I played Rock Around the Clock and danced around the class for a few minutes. And for days I used one of the most lasting language teaching strategies--listening to music. Students had to fill in the blanks to The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love" in hopes of solidifying the days of the week in their memories. I still remember parts of the German song Professor Joerg Meindl played for us at Leb Val. I haven't used German, in earnest, for ten years, but I remember that Peter Fox had twenty kids and a pretty wife in his song "Haus am See". Hopefully the students will remember the days of the week for our second exam, which most will be taking this week.
What else? I've been playing a lot of basketball, and it's been really funny. Learning a new sport is similar to learning a new language. In the beginning, I was not very good. In fact, I was frustratingly bad. But little by little, poco a poco, with consistent practice, desire to learn, and refusal to give up, I began to improve. Now I'm kinda ok at speaking Spanish and playing basketball. I always hold myself to a (sometimes) unreasonably high standard, but it's because I want to be good, I want to be competent and credible. As a lifelong learner, I need to learn how to recognize small gains and believe they are adding up.
The highlight of last week was the welcoming of new students to TEC. They were called Baby Raptors, and we held a sort of orientation for them. I was involved in all sorts of fun games like human train and extreme musical chairs. I tore a hole in my jeans after spinning around an empty bottle several times and diving for an empty chair during this one. We danced to mariachi and ate pozole, threw water balloons at each other and tossed giant dice. Only a month and a half at-site, and I already feel like a member of the community.
And now for the random wrap-up--in half-court basketball here, we don't "take it back" if we rebound a missed shot by the other team, we just put it right back up no matter who shot it, on Thursday my good friend Carmelo, another guy, and I won six straight games to five in a rotation of three teams, at the end of some work days my counterpart Hugo and I stay late and have a bilingual chat, he in English and me in Spanish, the topics get pretty deep--from God to reality and the universe to reincarnation, I'm proud to finally be code-switching (going from one language to another) and can do so easily in my mind and on my phone keyboard lol, I saw my first tarantula the other night at basketball, about the diameter of coffee mug, the other night I sang karaoke which is insanely useful for pronunciation and vocab-building, not to mention super fun, my clothes have been hanging out on the line all day in the rain, and I don't even care hahaha, they'll dry tomorrow.
Ok, friends, Romans, countrymen, that's all for now. Check back next week for--
"Next week? Are you sure?"
Callate, CR. Yes, check back next week for another post, and if it's not here, just be patient with me, ok? It's probably because I'm out trying to be a Mexican somewhere.
Have a good week, America.
Sunday, September 8, 2019
¿Que Onda, Carnal?
Hola y buenos días de Tepexi. Today I woke up at seven and was in the pew for quarter of
eight. I missed church last week, but God forgave me because He has to. It was a typical
Catholic ceremony with a lot of kneeling, call and response, chanting, candles, incense,
singing, and communion. I haven’t attended many Catholic churches but have spelt
spiritually aroused during all of my visits. People ask if I’m Catholic and don’t seem
disappointed when I tell them I am not but that I believe in the same one true God that they
do. In addition to the vanilla, in-house ceremony, I attended another, more active one earlier
in the week.
eight. I missed church last week, but God forgave me because He has to. It was a typical
Catholic ceremony with a lot of kneeling, call and response, chanting, candles, incense,
singing, and communion. I haven’t attended many Catholic churches but have spelt
spiritually aroused during all of my visits. People ask if I’m Catholic and don’t seem
disappointed when I tell them I am not but that I believe in the same one true God that they
do. In addition to the vanilla, in-house ceremony, I attended another, more active one earlier
in the week.
I am trying my best to integrate and become a Mexicano Guero (White Mexican), so I
accept a lot of invitations. I often accept them without fully understanding their details and
what they entail. Such was the case late last week when I was invited to a procession.
Initially, I thought we’d be going an hour away to serve food to poor people. I accepted the
invitation reluctantly because of my vague understanding and the fact that I’d be missing
basketball practice (I need a lot of that). Gracias a Dios, it was an unexpectedly successful
outing.
accept a lot of invitations. I often accept them without fully understanding their details and
what they entail. Such was the case late last week when I was invited to a procession.
Initially, I thought we’d be going an hour away to serve food to poor people. I accepted the
invitation reluctantly because of my vague understanding and the fact that I’d be missing
basketball practice (I need a lot of that). Gracias a Dios, it was an unexpectedly successful
outing.
On the day of the mystery adventure I was working in my office when one of my students
came in and told me it was time to go. I learned then of his relationship to the woman that
had invited me, his mom, a librarian at TEC. We trudged up the long, steep hill toward
el centro and waited in a family business for his uncle to arrive with the truck. Before long,
I was crammed in the middle backseat between two people, and the bed was filled with
more people and a bunch of food and equipment. I was told it was an hour ride.
came in and told me it was time to go. I learned then of his relationship to the woman that
had invited me, his mom, a librarian at TEC. We trudged up the long, steep hill toward
el centro and waited in a family business for his uncle to arrive with the truck. Before long,
I was crammed in the middle backseat between two people, and the bed was filled with
more people and a bunch of food and equipment. I was told it was an hour ride.
I don’t know where we’re going, I’m going to be sitting cramped like this for at least an
hour, we’re gonna be out there all night, I have work to do. What did I get myself into?
Don’t hate, integrate.
hour, we’re gonna be out there all night, I have work to do. What did I get myself into?
Don’t hate, integrate.
We left Tepexi, a town of about 5,000 people, and ventured into el campo, the countryside.
The ride was beautiful, with mountain vistas, fields of corn, and primitive country houses.
The ride was also quick because the student and I were deep in a bilingual conversation.
He taught me the Mexican Spanish word carnal (car-NAL) which basically means good friend.
Carnal. In English, it means something more than friends ; )
The ride was beautiful, with mountain vistas, fields of corn, and primitive country houses.
The ride was also quick because the student and I were deep in a bilingual conversation.
He taught me the Mexican Spanish word carnal (car-NAL) which basically means good friend.
Carnal. In English, it means something more than friends ; )
Are you gonna try and teach carnal to this nineteen year old, basic level English speaker?
Yep. His grandmother, aunt, and uncle won’t know what we’re talking about lol.
His knowledge needed to be scaffolded before he could understand carnal. He first
thought it was something animals had, like, you know.
thought it was something animals had, like, you know.
He needs to know it’s an adjective. Does he know the parts of speech?
Turns out he needed a recap on nouns vs. verbs vs. adjectives, and he soon identified
each in the sentence, “That is a fat dog.”
each in the sentence, “That is a fat dog.”
“Carnal is a type of desire,” I told him, but he didn’t know that word, and I didn’t know
it in Spanish. After consulting the handy-dandy Google Translate, we bridge our
knowledge gap with deseo.
it in Spanish. After consulting the handy-dandy Google Translate, we bridge our
knowledge gap with deseo.
So now he knows that it’s an adjective, and it’s a type of desire, now I need to make
it relevant to him.
it relevant to him.
“When one person really, REALLY likes another person and wants to...you know,
he or she has carnal desires.”
he or she has carnal desires.”
The subject changed, as they do, but considering his ohs and head nods, I think he
obtained a basic understanding of the word. It’s nearly impossible to tell, though, which
is a difficult part of teaching. How do we measure what anyone “knows”?
obtained a basic understanding of the word. It’s nearly impossible to tell, though, which
is a difficult part of teaching. How do we measure what anyone “knows”?
Anyway, the ride wasn’t all that bad and shorter than I expected. We drove on rough
roads to an isolated part of the country. Along the way we saw fellow followers walking,
donkeys tied up and observing us curiously while chewing cud, and heard rather than
saw bottle rockets exploding well before the reached the heavens. Utility poles were
strung with white and yellow pennants, holey, allowing the wind to penetrate their thin,
flimsy bodies. About 100 people waited there, and I recieved looks of intrigue and
curiosity as the only guero there. Soon four men approached, shouldering a litter of
flowers and led by un padre. We walked and sang songs for a couple miles to the local
iglesia.
roads to an isolated part of the country. Along the way we saw fellow followers walking,
donkeys tied up and observing us curiously while chewing cud, and heard rather than
saw bottle rockets exploding well before the reached the heavens. Utility poles were
strung with white and yellow pennants, holey, allowing the wind to penetrate their thin,
flimsy bodies. About 100 people waited there, and I recieved looks of intrigue and
curiosity as the only guero there. Soon four men approached, shouldering a litter of
flowers and led by un padre. We walked and sang songs for a couple miles to the local
iglesia.
Here the devout took part in a two or three hour long ceremony while others,
including me, flocked to the play/cooking area away from the mass. Here I stirred a
kettle of pig parts and talked a lot to the curious, smart, ambitious ten year old brother
of my student. I met Santiago, who spoke a little English and celebrated his knowledge
a lot with me. He pointed in all directions and told me which major cities would be
encountered if we went as the crow flies. Given this orientation, he asked me to point to
China, Russia, Los Angeles, my home, and many other places. It was a proud time for
me because he wanted to know many English equivalents, and I was able to translate
for him. Poca a Poca is proving true, like I knew it would. What I thought was going to
be a drag ended up being a great experience. Classic cultural immersion.
including me, flocked to the play/cooking area away from the mass. Here I stirred a
kettle of pig parts and talked a lot to the curious, smart, ambitious ten year old brother
of my student. I met Santiago, who spoke a little English and celebrated his knowledge
a lot with me. He pointed in all directions and told me which major cities would be
encountered if we went as the crow flies. Given this orientation, he asked me to point to
China, Russia, Los Angeles, my home, and many other places. It was a proud time for
me because he wanted to know many English equivalents, and I was able to translate
for him. Poca a Poca is proving true, like I knew it would. What I thought was going to
be a drag ended up being a great experience. Classic cultural immersion.
Another week in the books, so let’s wrap it up randomly. Many of the English
-tion words translate easily into -cion words in Spanish (e.g. information and información),
yesterday I my way to surprise Hugo Dos, remember the archaeologist?, I encountered
him in the street and we started our search for my bike, in class we have our first exam
this week (we’ll review using Give or Take Jeopardy which involves more risk and
excitement than regular Jeopardy), I play too much MTG Arena (but at least it’s in
Spanish), I had my first scorpion the other day! First ever seen outside of a petshop,
he was eating a spider (I killed him with the ole Merell), and, finally, we have our exam
this week because a week from today is September 15th, the Mexican equivalent to the
4th of July, and I can’t wait for the celebration.
-tion words translate easily into -cion words in Spanish (e.g. information and información),
yesterday I my way to surprise Hugo Dos, remember the archaeologist?, I encountered
him in the street and we started our search for my bike, in class we have our first exam
this week (we’ll review using Give or Take Jeopardy which involves more risk and
excitement than regular Jeopardy), I play too much MTG Arena (but at least it’s in
Spanish), I had my first scorpion the other day! First ever seen outside of a petshop,
he was eating a spider (I killed him with the ole Merell), and, finally, we have our exam
this week because a week from today is September 15th, the Mexican equivalent to the
4th of July, and I can’t wait for the celebration.
Thanks for reading. See you next week.
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| My first scorpion, eating a spider :) |
 |
| Giant moth, 10 peso coin is about the size of a US quarter |
 |
| Cool shot during the procession |
 |
The beauty of Mexico |
Sunday, September 1, 2019
Speaking a New Language Is Hard
Sunday, 1-September-2019, 7:44 PM CDT
Yo yo and greetings from Mexico! Things have been going wonderfully here.
The second week of classes at TEC Tepexi is in the books, and we’re ready to move
onto the third. I’m going to write about a topic I’ve been thinking a lot about--talking.
We do it every day--if we’re able--and it’s the alpha of the four areas of language
(sorry, Writing, but it’s true, I still love you the best). We talk to our friends, we talk
to children, we talk to our family, our pets, ourselves, our coworkers, strangers, people
we don’t want to talk to, people who are dead and plants to help them grow. We talk
A LOT, and that’s great for an ESL learning community--if you can get people to talk
English.
The second week of classes at TEC Tepexi is in the books, and we’re ready to move
onto the third. I’m going to write about a topic I’ve been thinking a lot about--talking.
We do it every day--if we’re able--and it’s the alpha of the four areas of language
(sorry, Writing, but it’s true, I still love you the best). We talk to our friends, we talk
to children, we talk to our family, our pets, ourselves, our coworkers, strangers, people
we don’t want to talk to, people who are dead and plants to help them grow. We talk
A LOT, and that’s great for an ESL learning community--if you can get people to talk
English.
My students speak a lot of Spanish in English class. Initially, I was frustrated by this.
This is English class. Why aren’t they speaking English exclusively?
The answer was simple and twofold--they don’t know enough English to say what
they want to say, and they like to talk. People gon talk yo, so as ESL teachers we have
to capitalize on this human propensity.
they want to say, and they like to talk. People gon talk yo, so as ESL teachers we have
to capitalize on this human propensity.
There are amazing ELTs (English language teachers) out there who don’t speak
another language, but that experience would be valuable. I remember during PST
when we had our language and culture classes. They were by far my favorite part of
training and the most useful. I was afraid to speak Spanish. I didn’t have the words or
grammar to say what I wanted to say, but I spoke anyway. It rarely made grammatical
sense, and even today my sentences are formed using my own rules for Spanish
(largely derived from English) and not the prescribed ones. But my utterances
almost always convey the messages I want them to. If you want to learn a new
language, or anything, don’t be afraid to make mistakes--that’s where learning
happens. Now I need to instill this intel in my students. I’m expecting success from
the beginning, which is a HUGE flaw of thought. The students and I have, I think,
two years together, and we will refer to the title of this blog often.
another language, but that experience would be valuable. I remember during PST
when we had our language and culture classes. They were by far my favorite part of
training and the most useful. I was afraid to speak Spanish. I didn’t have the words or
grammar to say what I wanted to say, but I spoke anyway. It rarely made grammatical
sense, and even today my sentences are formed using my own rules for Spanish
(largely derived from English) and not the prescribed ones. But my utterances
almost always convey the messages I want them to. If you want to learn a new
language, or anything, don’t be afraid to make mistakes--that’s where learning
happens. Now I need to instill this intel in my students. I’m expecting success from
the beginning, which is a HUGE flaw of thought. The students and I have, I think,
two years together, and we will refer to the title of this blog often.
So, how can I get my students to start speaking English? Man, I wish I knew,
but, unfortunately, I forgot my vials of English Ilixir in the states, so I guess I’ll have to
do it the ole fashioned way, which is...uh...I don’t know. Seriously. The silent period,
or in this case the frequent use of native language period, is totally common, and
even linguists don’t know exactly why language learners are often reticent and
reluctant. They have a pretty good idea though.
but, unfortunately, I forgot my vials of English Ilixir in the states, so I guess I’ll have to
do it the ole fashioned way, which is...uh...I don’t know. Seriously. The silent period,
or in this case the frequent use of native language period, is totally common, and
even linguists don’t know exactly why language learners are often reticent and
reluctant. They have a pretty good idea though.
Students need to be comfortable, and most are in our learning communities--I think.
And they also need to be confident. If they say something that I understand, even if it’s
not “correct,” I say, “Very nice!”. They need opportunities to practice the other areas
of language, in addition to speaking. I need to arrange ways for them to practice with
each other, or me, by giving them the phrases they need. And like all learners, they
need the discipline and desire necessary to start thinking in English and producing
utterances in English.
And they also need to be confident. If they say something that I understand, even if it’s
not “correct,” I say, “Very nice!”. They need opportunities to practice the other areas
of language, in addition to speaking. I need to arrange ways for them to practice with
each other, or me, by giving them the phrases they need. And like all learners, they
need the discipline and desire necessary to start thinking in English and producing
utterances in English.
I’m determined to see them all succeed. I knew my writing would take a backseat
while I was here, and I was ready for that. In addition to the Peace Corps’s goals, I
have two of my own--become a better teacher AND a fluent Spanish speaker. If I work
hard toward both every day, willing to make mistakes and learn from them, I will be
successful at the end. Just like HTD said, “If one advances confidently in the direction
of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with
a success unexpected in common hours.”
while I was here, and I was ready for that. In addition to the Peace Corps’s goals, I
have two of my own--become a better teacher AND a fluent Spanish speaker. If I work
hard toward both every day, willing to make mistakes and learn from them, I will be
successful at the end. Just like HTD said, “If one advances confidently in the direction
of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with
a success unexpected in common hours.”
Ok. Now for the random wrap-up. I’m integrating well into my community. I play for
the TEC Tepexi basketball team of students and teachers on Saturdays. I also play
volleyball in a nearby pueblo, San Juan, on Thursdays. After my clothes go through
the washer, I have to wring the soap from them using a washboard. When given the
option between two exam dates, students chose Thursday the 12th over Friday the
13th. Spanish uses one verb for both wait and hope (esperar), which is cool.
Today there was an election for mayor in my pueblo, La Colonia, before which a little
town hallish event took place. Also, a couple drops of mezcal works magic for the
digestive system. Things I miss from home: my family and friends, June, Fall :(,
high school and college football, Screamers, craft beer, and camping down the river.
But it’s all good. That’s all for now because cousin Korah just said to me,
“¡Vamos a comer, Kory!” Ah the beauty of speech.
the TEC Tepexi basketball team of students and teachers on Saturdays. I also play
volleyball in a nearby pueblo, San Juan, on Thursdays. After my clothes go through
the washer, I have to wring the soap from them using a washboard. When given the
option between two exam dates, students chose Thursday the 12th over Friday the
13th. Spanish uses one verb for both wait and hope (esperar), which is cool.
Today there was an election for mayor in my pueblo, La Colonia, before which a little
town hallish event took place. Also, a couple drops of mezcal works magic for the
digestive system. Things I miss from home: my family and friends, June, Fall :(,
high school and college football, Screamers, craft beer, and camping down the river.
But it’s all good. That’s all for now because cousin Korah just said to me,
“¡Vamos a comer, Kory!” Ah the beauty of speech.
Till next time. Thanks for reading.
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| A butterfly on my favorite type of flower here. |
 |
| My host brother Miguel and I |
 |
| Robby Porto, his host mom Titi, Miguel, and I after swearing in |
 |
| Coolest cathedral in Puebla City, forget what it's called |
Sunday, August 25, 2019
I am a Peace Corps Volunteer
25-August-2019, Sunday, 12:39 CDT
Wow. Welcome to another edition of Poco a Poco, likely the most significant post yet. I slacked off and made excuses for myself last week, but there was A LOT going on. Let’s start with the swearing-in ceremony. As of Wednesday, August 14, we are officially volunteers. We spent the rest of that week chilling and training in a fancy hotel in Queretaro. On Friday, we dispersed to our respective sites throughout Central Mexico. On the way to Puebla, I visited the massive Mexican capital of Mexico City. I spent the weekend in Puebla at great hostel with an awesome host and left for Tepexi one week ago. This week has been full of positive experiences.
Let’s start with the students, 51% of the reason why I am here. They are amazing. All of them are at least willing if not eager to learn English. As always, we share the responsibility of motivation. Teachers need to make class interesting and engaging, and students need to reach for the hand that’s being extended to them. I don’t foresee motivation being a problem as long as I continue to improve as a teacher. And I’m already noticing areas that I need to improve.
It’s difficult to give directions to people in a language they don’t understand. After working on an information sheet about themselves, I asked students to practice speaking by sharing what they wrote on it. I modeled what I wanted with the student who spoke the most English, told them to pair up using exaggerated hand gestures, and wrote “partners” on the board then pointed to pairs of people. In short, I did all I thought was necessary to convey a message and assumed it was enough. Wrong.
Students continued working individually on their information sheets though I wanted them to be speaking (they truly want to do good work and were worried about not finishing it). So I got their attention and tried again to get them talking, and again they kept writing. Now, classroom management is self management, and at this point I realized I was getting frustrated.
They’re ignoring me because they’re afraid. Unbelievable.
That wasn’t the case at all. They simply just didn’t understand me. And that’s not their fault; they don’t speak English. It was my fault. So I tried it again, maintaining my cool, and finally they understood and began timidly chatting with each other in their basic English. Sometimes language teachers need to give directions three or four times before students begin to get it. It’s vital we stay calm and confident in our students’ abilities and intentions. To quote the maestro of classroom management himself, Dr. Thomas Starmack, “If you want it, teach it,” and that’s what I continued to do.
With that same class, the very next day, I was giving a diagnostic test. “I,” I began, pointing to myself and speaking slowly, “need to know,” pointing to my head, “what you,” pointing to each of them, “know,” pointing to my head again. “This is not,” shaking my head, “an exam.” I wrote “exam” on the board and crossed it out (exam is examen in Spanish, so I figured they’d get it). Then I wrote common Mexican grades on the board--10 9 8 7--and struck each of them out. Heads nodded, they understood it was not for a grade and relaxed. Next I had to make my life easier by teaching them what I wanted.
Teachers have a lot of work, and grading is a big chunk of that work. TEC doesn’t have scantrons or even internet in the classrooms, so that makes even more work for teachers. I’m grading the diagnostic tests by hand, the old-fashioned way. The first class numbered their papers any which way (there’s also little paper for printing here, so I used the projector to display the questions). Because the students numbered their papers differently, the key I made matched up to few of their papers, which meant they took longer to grade. Problem. Solution: if you want it, teach it. With the next class, I wrote on the board how I wanted them to number and answer the questions. Some got it right away, others later, and even some way later, but eventually they all got it. These are the strategies that ease the difficulties of life as a English teacher in Mexico.
OK, now for some fun stuff to temper the boring pedagogical stuff. To end pre-service training, we had an event called Mex Factor. Peace Corps staff and trainees performed acts such as juggling, dancing, an ad hoc discussion of whether robots should have rights, and of course, singing. Rob and I, with very little practice, sang an original song titled, “Mi Esposa” (My Wife). Below are the lyrics in Spanish and English.
Verse 1
Mi esposa es bonita -- My wife is beautiful
Ella tiene un buen trabajo -- She has a good job
Conocimos en una cantina -- We met in a cantina
Y ahora deseo yo nunca vi ella -- And now I wish I never saw her
Verse 2
Aquella noche en la cantina -- That night in the cantina
Ella me estudió con ojos de una gata callejera -- She studied me with the eyes of a street cat
No pude negar la mira en sus ojos -- I could not deny the look in her eyes
Y yo supe ella será todo un viaje -- and I knew she would take me on a trip
Chorus
Si tú siempre en una cantina -- If you’re ever in a cantina
En una noche mística -- On a mystic night
Correr lejos, muy lejos -- Run far, very far
De la mujer con ojos verdes y grandes -- From the women with big green eyes
Verse 3
La noche estuvo mágica -- The night was magical
Larga y llena de pasión -- Long and full of passion
Ella dijo que me ama -- She told me she loved me
Y mi corazón gritó, mi mente susurró -- And my heart screamed, my mind whispered
Verse 4
Volvimos al norte, mano en tentáculo -- We returned to the north, hand in tentacle
Su belleza escondè muy bien -- Her beauty hid very well
La decepción en su alma -- The deception in her soul
La boda tuvo un castillo inflable -- The wedding had a bouncy castle
Chorus
Si tú siempre en una cantina -- If you’re ever in a cantina
En una noche mística -- On a mystic night
Correr lejos, muy lejos -- Run far, very far
De la mujer con ojos verdes y grandes -- From the women with big green eyes
Verse 5
En mi ciudad natal, feliz y estable -- In my hometown, happy and stable
Ella tuvo my mente, cuerpo, corazon -- She had my mind, body, heart
Pero ella quiso lo que no pude dar -- But she wanted what I could not give her
Una vida rica y famosa, encima mi humildad -- A life rich and famous above my humility
Verse 6
Ella salio un dia nublado -- She left on a cloudy day
Con un hombre, cara blanca -- With a man, white face
El carro estuvo pequeño -- The car was small
Su nariz, grande y rojo -- His nose, big and red
Bridge
Él estuvo el mejor payaso en la escena -- He was the best clown on the scene
Yo nunca tuve un oportunidad -- I never had a chance
Sus zapatos eran muy grandes -- His shoes were very big
Chorus
Si tú siempre en una cantina -- If you’re ever in a cantina
En una noche mística -- On a mystic night
Correr lejos, muy lejos -- Run far, very far
De la mujer con ojos verdes y grandes -- From the women with big green eyes
And now for the random wrap-up. In Puebla City, people like to talk...A LOT. I sat at a table after some chiles en nogada and listened to a table--two men, four women--talk for SEVEN HOURS about politics mostly. I contributed little (I don’t speak a lot of Spanish and I don’t even like talking politics in English). I ate dead crickets earlier this week, not bad, food of the future, some say. I wasn’t prepared for my first class on Tuesday and no students showed up :) I ate more chiles en nogada with Tepexi big wigs while 90s soft rock played in the lobby (Linger, Cranberries; Shiny Happy People, REM), eleven of us in a pretty small room, with little talking, embrace the awkwardness. I sat and listened for another three hours while some stalwarts of Tepexi talked politics and were served sandwiches, tarts, and horchata by women employees of the university. Are you still reading this? Thanks. My host family has six kids, and the oldest, Lulu, 10, is already taking up a motherly role by telling her cousin Kiki, 6, to eat his vegetables. Yesterday I played basketball in a pick-up league with coworkers and students of TEC. Basketball is not my sport, but we won with little thanks to me. Yesterday I also attended a baby shower which was much more exciting than those in the states. There was an MC, games, guests attacking an entire table of dulces (sweets), a presentation of gift-giving in which the givers got to draw on the faces of the parents with lipstick. A lot going on hahaha.
Thanks for stopping by. Have a good week, and I’ll see you next time.
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