The Christmas Party

Some months ago I received a flyer in my mail box that said, “Enhance your Mexican experience. Become an English teacher.” So I did. I signed up as a volunteer teacher at the San Miguel School of English, an adult education program that has been around for over 50 years.

“Here are your books,” the President of the organization said. And that was the extent of my training. I am the youngest teacher in the group.

I have second year students and was told that my class size was to be around 30 students but I’d lose 30% of those before the end of the semester due to family or work conflicts, or just because it is too hard. I had determined that I would be such a great teacher that I’d have a much lower attrition rate. As predicted, I’m down by 30%. However, one of the other second year teachers has resigned and moved to Mazatlan so they are splitting her class between mine and one other (so I’ll be back to 30 students when the semester begins again). However, attendance is all over the board so each class tends to down by five or more.

What a strange language, English. Try explaining that, “They’re”, “There”, and “Their” are all pronounced the same but have different meanings. Or “Two”, “To” and “Too”.

I find that I get annoyed thinking, “Shit, I have to teach tonight. I’d better sit down and do my lesson plan.” But once I’m in front of the class, at the board, I get into it.

Alex decided to come observe one night, to see if it might be something he’d like to do. Before we even got into my classroom, the President had enlisted him in a month of substitute teaching for one of the teachers who was traveling. (Volunteer organizations can be ruthless.) He enjoyed the experience and helped conquer his fear of public speaking. (“Look at it this way,” I said, “All you have to do is stand up there and talk and you’re providing more than they’d get otherwise.”) For the time, he replaced me as the youngest teacher.

I was told that we could have our Christmas party in the classroom, or, some teachers offer to hold the party at their home. The students bring absolutely everything. The teacher just provides the space. Given that I live out in the “campo” I thought they’d opt for the classroom. Guess again. They had their meeting and handed out tasks. I handed out maps.

Most of the regular students, the ones with good attendance, participated. As I was told, they brought absolutely everything. The food was traditional and delicious. We had a chocolate gift exchange. After a few hours I was wondering how long they were going to stay. As if reading my mine, one of the women walked by wearing my cowboy hat and said, “We are leaving when the tequila is gone.” The bottle was half full.

People milled about the living and dinning room and walked outside to look at the stars. Martha had brought her seven-year-old daughter so I put “Finding Nemo” in the DVD player in Spanish. Martha and her daughter ended up leaving shortly after the move started but a group of the adults plopped themselves down with their tequila and watched.

I came out to the group. I hadn’t intended to but a couple of people asked me if I lived at the ranchito “solo”. In my Spanish (about the level of their English) I explained that I had recently split from my “Novio” (boyfriend). “Novia” (girlfriend) they corrected me. “No, novio,” I corrected them. There were murmurs in Spanish and a general wide opening of eyes.

They asked how long it had been and I must have started to tear over when I said only a few weeks, because everyone began comforting me, telling me that I’d be fine after time. I got hugs from everyone when they left, even the men. The acceptance of this community continues to impress me.