changes

It's autumn now, temperatures like our October, only somewhat warmer.  People wear coats--some down, many quilted, even leather.  It doesn't feel that cold to me and besides, I didn't bring a coat so I'm saving my almost-a-sweatshirt for winter.  But while the air doesn't seem as cold as what the garments people on the street would suggest, I'm ready to retire my sandals and shorts.


But I couldn't last week.  I've been interviewing potential new Spanish teachers and walking great distances to do so for the exercise.  On Monday it took me almost 60 minutes to get to, and 45 minutes to return from a teacher in Congresso.  I would have liked her just fine except that she kept glancing at her computer screen for emails and twice answered a text while we were talking. Since I was paying her for the privilege of this interview/lesson I was more than a little annoyed.  But I did get to see another non-touristy part of town...lots of butcher shops and rolls-of-fabric stores.   


During both ends of the walking I was moving very quickly because I did not know where I was going (and overshot the place getting there hence the extra minutes).  But walking fast is not unusual for me and I was wearing my puma sneaker like things, which do not stand out as would my usual sneakers.  Anyway, I woke up the next morning unable to put any pressure on my right foot.  This happened to me once before, last year, when I walked several hours in my flip flops.  I had to hop down the stairs (my space is a very small loft) and wait until Candida brought me breakfast and then pantomimed what was wrong with my foot/ankle.  I kept saying that my 'foot was sick' in Spanish but she seemed to get the point because then Carlos came up to ask if I needed something that I could not understand but he pantomimed a bandage and I said 'elastico' and off he went.  I was afraid he'd come back with gauze but I think between the three of us he bought the right thing.  I wrapped my foot and ankle so that I could at least locomote without cringing and texted Berta to ask if I could hold class on the 0 floor next to the kitchen so that I wouldn't have to hop up the stairs two more flights.  I took a cab, hopped in, and held a class in the noisiest part of the building.  It was a very sad class.  Only two of my regular students were there, and two others--a man in his 40s with very long and wavy hair, wearing a soccer shirt, and a young boy about twelve. The two newcomers knew a bit of English, longhair from having attended four previous sessions with other volunteers and young boy because he was studying it in school.  This made it very difficult for Gloria who is really struggling with the simplest of things but is very motivated to learn.  And she and Johan and I were missing Natalie because with the two of us, one could work directly with the student(s) not getting it, while the other could move things ahead.  


By Thursday I was able to put pressure on my foot for short periods of time but I still wore the compression bandage, meaning I needed to wear my sandals and that's when I really looked out of place, with everyone bundled in jackets. Not that my toes didn't get cold when the sun went down, but it was in the 50s for criminy's sake.  That class went much better.  We were back up on the third floor (meaning 4th) and I had my five most faithful students with me.  I tried another tactic.  Fredd gave me a day-by-day calendar with sayings in Spanish and English, and I brought in a handful and we went through them to see if the translations made sense.  It really entertained everyone when they were senseless.  And I corrected homework--some of it seemed to be from about three or four weeks ago, but who cares.  But for most of the time we watched music videos with lyrics.  All Beatles, all the time.  First I'd play the song with Spanish subtitles.  I know this is against all rules of second language acquisition, but I was teaching to the needs of the class.  Second I played the videos with English subtitles.  Then finally with none.  Then we talked about them.  Lila said she always thought she hated music in English but she realized that it was because she didn't understand what was being said.  Marcos put his ear up against the tinny speaker because he wanted to hear the pronunciation (eech, British!) Gloria kept speaking about her love of John Lennon, Johan focused very closely on the English words to Imagine...and everyone sang All Together Now in English through all three takes.  We could have kept going--we actually got kicked out of the space because it was needed by others.  Before we ended, I asked them to write me the words to the title of Spanish songs they liked so I could find them with English subtitles.  I must have said the wrong thing because I got lyrics instead of titles.  And none of the ones that I could suss out had English subtitles.  Instead, I found that Bon Jovi had recorded many of their hits in Spanish...I found live and studio versions...so I may use them instead.  Anyway, I don't care if I'm violating standards of teaching ESL.  I know that I could not keep a class coming back if I only spoke English.  So while my Spanish is laden with mistakes, if I need to explain something, like 'I, Me, Mine' in Spanish (Berta said "You know this sentence doesn't make sense in Spanish) then I'm going to go right ahead and do it.  


I've become aware of how much I'm flaunting the rules because I've been looking into getting a certificate in TESL.  I'm interviewing for the possibility of doing so this week, so I should have more to say on this subject next time.


Now, as to what I really want to write today--it has to do with Natalie's last day, but after the time of the pictures I posted last week.  After she left my apartment (after cutting off the party-part of my mullet), I checked my email and found that I could meet another potential teacher in Palermo.  I tried calling Natalie so she could wait for me at the subte.  No answer.  I figured I would just go by myself.  While I was standing amidst a huge crowd on the platform she texted me back and said she was on the train but would wait for me at Plaza de Mayo.  By the time my train came, the platform was so thick with people I was sure someone would get pushed on to the tracks.  Instead we surged into the train without an inch to move one direction or another.  Plaza de Mayo was two stops ahead and I realized it was a stupid place for us to meet because we'd have to get back on the train to the combinacion stop of Diagonal Norte / Av 9 Julio.  Nevertheless we found each other amidst total chaos.  The doors kept opening and closing (good thing too because first I jumped off, then I thought she said she was on the train, jumped back on, saw her outside my car, jumped back out).  The reason this was happening was that there were marchers with flags and poles keeping the doors open.  Remember we had to have the going away party early because Los Pibes was going to march?  Well it was that march that these people were going to and they were making the trains even more crowded than usual because of the banners and such.  We never figured out why they were messing with the doors...but we decided to go above ground to catch a bus or cab since it was overly crowded down below and there is something about being in a tunnel or train in a crowd that creates a sense of never being able to move again.  We went above ground where things were even more chaotic.  People with banners and poles.  Families and children sitting on the curb eating sandwiches.  Traffic nearly at a standstill.  We walked toward where we might catch one of several buses to Palermo Soho, but they didn't seem to be moving either and even had they been, they were as crowded as the trains.  And of course just finding one isn't enough--you have to be at the exact stop or the bus won't stop.  Or if it is stopped, it won't open the doors.  So we wended across Av 9 Julio, made easier because most of the traffic was at a standstill because of the marchers.  We kept heading toward where we might be able to find a bus.  The march was not very organized--small pockets of this group or that, but no long sustained this side or that side.  Perhaps that came later.  These marches are frequent and disruptive, and on this day, frenetic.  I could not tell what was being protested...everyone had argentine blue and white.  We found the right street and headed down it after ascertaining where the stop was from a shopkeeper who was looking out at the gridlock with amusement.  It's like the leader never showed up but the little groups were going to march anyway, in whatever direction they happened to be headed.


As we passed back over the corner we'd just come from, I saw something that has haunted me all week.  A woman, a carbonera (sp?), was sitting on the corner going through garbage bags looking for her cardboard, glass, and plastic.  Right next to her were two boxes, which I assumed were for her collection.  Then out of one of the boxes popped an adorable dark haired, dark eyed, dirt smeared boy of about three, laughing and laughing because he was certain that he'd scared me.  He ducked back down again and repeated his game with the next person walking by.  So I peeked into the other box where a much younger child, equally dirty but swathed in blankets, lay sleeping.  This is where mama kept the kids while she worked.  Perhaps someone with a cart would come by later to pick them up.  I don't know.  But it would be nearly impossible to carry the two boxes of living children and a bag of 'gold'--the garbage that could be traded for pesos alone.  


I started thinking about the conversation I'd had with A. weeks earlier about how presumptuous it was of me to think that the cartoneros were not happy.  How I was imposing my own (capitalist) standards of happiness upon others.  Now, that's easy for him to say too since he's also obviously lived a life of 'have' instead of 'have-not'.  But, this little boy seemed happier than many petulant kids I know who have to have the latest greatest thing they just saw on television.  And this mother was able to carry her kids to work.  On the other hand, I thought about arguments I'd heard justifying slavery in our own country--hear them singing in the fields and all that.  


I'm definitely troubled by the caboneros.  I have difficulty thinking about them riding a special train with no windows, coming from the outlying villas into town so that they can do the work of picking through garbage.  Marginalized but sanctioned, I guess?  Happy?  Those kids I saw weeks ago in the cardboard little enclave were just being kids---can my buddy come out to play--?  This is the life they know.  What's wrong with being happy with it?


But then I think about justifications made in history about other groups, marginalized, enslaved, banished.  Look at the children, they look happy.  Listen to the people, they're singing in harmony.  What's different?  I agree that I should not impose my idea of happiness upon others, but it makes it difficult to know when to stop and help.  Was Gloria any less happy because she had not been to a restaurant until Natalie's going away party?  Definitely not.  What about the family I saw this morning as I crossed Av 9 de Julio, encamped on one of the wide islands in between the two sets of four lanes.  They had a huge cardboard box, bottom up, a ratty mattress, socks laid out on the grass.  Two kids were playing with sticks, maybe light sabers, maybe swords, maybe just sticks, as the man and woman examined items from huge plastic bags.  I read that the cabaneros are territorial and perhaps it is sometimes necessary to take in a promising haul without sorting through it first.  I don't know.  The thing the man was inspecting looked like a metal piece from the inside of a vehicle.  The woman was focused on separating her glass bottles from plastic.  But the kids--playing with nothing but their imagination and props...they were squealing and falling down laughing just like I remember doing when playing make believe.  


Maybe it is the seeming lack of possibility that bothers me.  But is that because of my misguided belief in a world where anything is possible?  It's my teaching guide, but I don't want set up a world of wanting in people happy with what already is.  It's not the mark I want to leave--longing for something that may never be in reach.     


This week has already begun so I'll stop for now.  I'm walking a new working people neighborhood so I'll write about that next time.


Chau.