Language Tug of War

My job is to teach English. The “theory” behind my “practice” is communicative, which means I have my students do more speaking and listening activities than grammar exercises. It also means I am supposed to speak 100% English, even when my students stare blankly at me and moan, “Spanish, PLEASE!?” While I tote a Trinity TESOL certificate and claim to be “professional,” I often feel like a fraud. This feeling especially emerges when I resort to Spanish to explain something, when my students have to make embarrassing noises and gestures to be understood, or when I practically beg them to practice English.

Eight-year-old Jesus recently hurdled a communication barrier by remembering the words, “Bathroom, please.” This success was greater than most. All last trimester, whenever his bladder was full, he looked like he was going to pass out. Waving his arm urgently in the air, his face turning red as an apple, he’d hiss, “PSSSSSSSS” while accidentally spitting and obscenely cupping an imaginary private part. My response: feigning seriousness and pushing down the laughter bubbling up my chest. “Jesus!! That’s very inappropriate! The question is “Can I go to the bathroom, please?”” Finally, after writing the question on the board numerous times, he at least says, “BATHROOM PLEASE!” and no longer gesticulates.



Class Clown Jesus. He has no idea he´s one of my favorite students.

Alfonso is a chatty five-year-old whose mother dresses him in navy blue knit stockings under plaid short overalls. Lately, his favorite thing to do at the start of class has been to press me about my personal life (in Spanish). “Do you have a boyfriend?! Do you have a husband?! What about kids?!? I know you at least have a husband.” Again, trying not to laugh too hard, I simply say “Alfonso, that is none of your business. And do I really look like I’m old enough to have kids?!” “SI!” he replies. The rest of the hour, he squirms around in his chair, smiling and blushing every time I call on him. But trying to get him to speak English is harder than it is for the rest of the class. I’m convinced that some of his confusion is pretend. Sometimes I let this class “play teacher.” One day, it was Alfonso’s turn to be the teacher and call out names of jungle animals. The rest of the class was supposed to respond by making the relevant animal sound or movement. Even though he at least knew “monkey,” he looked at me with big longing eyes and a faint smile, waiting for me to whisper a word into his ear. He rested his little arm on my lap and leaned in towards me. “Snake,” I whispered, and he blushed. “ESNAAAAAGGGUH!” gushed from his mouth. The other kids were dumbfounded and didn’t get down on their stomachs to wiggle around like they usually do. Sometimes my younger students imitate me perfectly, but others, my words transfer into their minds like hacking vomit noises. The subtle “uh” sounds (the shwa) entwined in our language are sounds we hardly notice, but often impede effective student-teacher communication, at least in my classroom. Sometimes my students try so hard to regurgitate my words that they stress every single sound, not just the important ones that I stress. This comes out like Alfonso’s version of “snake” and may accurately portray how American English sounds to non-native ears. It’s not pretty.



Me and Alfonso

Alfonso’s favorite word in any language is “caca.” He’s not the only one, though. Four and five year olds are obsessed with anything potty-related. It’s no longer surprising, nor amusing, when innocent English phrases become “caca” phrases. The phrase “Hello caca!” coined by mischievous little Raquel caught on like wildfire with a four year old class not too long ago. During drills, at least one kid refuses to repeat “cat” or “boat” and instead belts out a giggly “Caca!” Sometimes, I think, “You’re right; this is all a bunch of caca.”

This rings true when I have to beg four-year-old Javelu to come to class. For the first couple of months, I spent the first 10 minutes of class chasing Javelu around the playground. Every Tuesday and Thursday when he’d see me march up to the playground to gather my class, he’d peer at me like a deer caught in headlights, then run for his life. Through tunnels, up ladders, under staircases – you name it, he ran there and I had to follow. With the help of other teachers, sometimes I’d catch him, but then he’d collapse into heart-wrenching sobs. “I don’t want to go to English! I hate English! I’m not going! NO!” This hurt my feelings, but more than that, I sympathized with the kid. I mean, he goes to school from 9 to 4 without a nap. “Oh, Javelu, no pasa nada!” The words carelessly spilled out. That’s what all the preschool teachers say to the criers, “Oh, it’s no big deal.” But that’s the last thing Javelu wanted to hear. So, in my heavily accented, non-comforting Spanish, I’d say “Javelu, we’re going to have fun! We’ll play games and sing songs, and you can even be the leader today! Please come, everyone wants you to come.” He’d choke out a few more snot-filled ‘NO’s, and then the other teachers would take over. I gave up. After a couple weeks of cutting class, Javelu’s father demanded he go, tears or no tears. Now I can persuade Javelu to sit in class without crying, but I still can’t get him to participate. Songs, games, coloring, and occasional permission to stand on his chair won’t even bend the corners of his frown. My capability of teaching Javelu compared to his ability to shut me out is pathetic. He doesn’t say much, not even “caca,” but I know he’s thinking it. One day, not long after his tears had dried, he turned to me and spoke with surprising fervor. “QUE FEA!” stormed out of his little mouth. That means “HOW UGLY!”

Javelu, in many ways, is similar to my sixteen-year-old students who mostly refuse to speak English unless forced. Juancho and Ines, twins with matching bad attitudes and motorcycles, try harder to wheedle Spanish words out of me than they do to utter words in English. The only times they have ever spoken in English without incessant pleading is to talk about dating in Spain, which inevitably leads to probing me about my personal life. For awhile, I thought, “Who cares what they’re talking about, as long as it’s in English?” But on Valentine’s Day, after inventing romance fortunes for their classmates (in the future tense, thank you very much!), they asked if they could tell me my Valentine’s Day fortune. “OK,” I said nervously, “As long as you keep speaking English.” Bad move. Whatever flimsy wall I had built between my twenty-three-year-old-self and them, was completely knocked down. What they said was not only inappropriate, but also proof their English was good enough to humiliate me. The bell rang and I didn’t see them for another week because they cut class. Apparently, making fun of their teacher in English isn’t even fun enough.

A few of the ¨Caca¨crowd

Between understanding mean remarks like “Que fea,” and copping out of successfully giving instructions in English, sometimes I wish I didn’t know so much Spanish. Like Juan and Ines, most of my students do everything in their power to make me speak it. It often feels like I’m in a contest against my students for the dominant classroom language. I’m at one end of the rope, pulling with all my might to encourage them across the language barrier. They’re in a gang at the other end, steadily dragging me over to the Spanish side. As of right now, I’m somewhere in the middle, just trying to teach them something, anything, new in English.

Customs across the Pond

The U.S. and Spain are much more similar than they are different – I mean, Spaniards are technologically advanced, work long hours, dress like us, listen to a lot of the same music, believe in equal rights, and speak the same language as half (or more) of our population. At first glance, the differences appear to be little more than 14-year-old motorcyclists and ostentatious displays of affection. After a three-week-long interval in the Lone Star State, however, subtle differences lit up like the neon lights on S. Congress, cementing my American – or Texan – identity.

First of all, America has a distinct highway culture. Our gas stations are so representative of their towns that they even sell t-shirts, coffee mugs, ceramic bald eagles and local cuisine. Pulling up to the Czech Stop gas station on I-35 for a 32 oz. Dr. Pepper and jalapeño & sausage kolache w/ cheese never felt so patriotic as it did four weeks ago. Kolaches actually make me sick after two bites, but I realized on this trip that I eat them out of reverence for the place. The man in line behind me ordered pickled pig’s feet. I’m not that Texan, but I appreciated the cultural transaction. While the sight of pickled pig’s feet is unappetizing to say the least, it’s comforting to always see the giant jar displayed on countertops alongside jumbo pickles.



Best exit off the Austin-Dallas corridor



I know Spain’s highway culture only from the perspective of public transport. Views out bus and train windows are void of billboards and tall signs luring travelers into gas stations and restaurants. Instead, olive groves and orange tree orchards are stitched into hillsides like patches on a quilt. While many gas station signs and billboards could be anywhere, olives and oranges ingrain a sense of place. Spanish transportation methods may be less entertaining in terms of the radio and convenience stores, but they are much more advanced than America’s. Efficient trains take you virtually anywhere you need to go with plenty of room to stretch your legs. And their tracks tend to run through the countryside, so you’re sure to have breathtaking views out your giant window. While less comfortable, buses are cheaper and go more places than their train counterparts. The views are a little less impressive, but at least you don’t have to pay for gasoline. Americans spend so much alone time in their cars. I’m not sure which is lonelier, though – driving alone in your car, slouching and looking sloppy, slurping down a Big Gulp from 7-11, and listening to your favorite music, or sitting on a bus next to strangers with white Ipod wires coming out of their heads.

Spanish countryside and the famous Ronda bridge

Manners on Spanish buses make having your own car extremely attractive, though. I spend between 1.5 to 2.5 hours on buses Monday-Thursday, and have grown immune to “me first” attitudes. While I believe that the old and decrepit should have seat priority, sometimes I don’t notice them waddle onto the bus. They have no qualms about nudging me, and others younger than forty, to get off their well-deserved, blue-carpeted bus seats. Sometimes I’ll be standing on the bus, and all the sudden I’m pushed left, then right, then left again as if by an ocean wave. It’s usually just someone bigger trying to find a seat. Several times, older women have literally pushed my hand off the railing so they could have their desired grip. They never say “perdon” or “por favor.” Unfortunately, I caught myself behaving similarly in the U.S. and got a few disgusted, deserved stares. It’s definitely not culturally acceptable to push yourself through a crowded bar in Texas without smiling and sweetly saying, “Excuse me,” or “Would you mind letting me by?”

There’s also not much concept of a line here in Spain. Trying to wait in line at the bakery or market is like trying to scream your way to the front of the line in the U.S. It just doesn’t happen because it won’t work. Here, whoever screams the loudest and fastest for the vendor’s attention gets priority. The first time I bought bread, I entered an empty store. I watched four other women waltz in after me and order first, as if I was invisible. I was so intimidated and upset by such selfish clientele that I ducked out and thought, “Fine! I don’t need their bread anyway!” What I realize now is that “nice” behavior in American terms is often awkward and ridiculous in the eyes of the Spanish. For example, every time I tell my waiter “gracias” or ask the grocery store clerk “que tal?” I receive strained smiles and rushed answers. No need for small talk, just take your goods and get out.

But that is not to say that Spaniards are anti-social. The volume of cackles, hollers, and kisses heard from my street is incomparable to any other country I’ve visited. You’d think the population was part-deaf by how loudly it communicates. In many U.S. cities, the only noises heard in busy streets are engines, horns, and teenaged boys’ bass systems. I think this is due in large part to urban planning with nothing but efficient travel in mind. On the contrary, most of the streets in my neighborhood are pedestrian-only and beckon leisurely strolls and social interactions. Half or more of the streets in the city center are pedestrian-only, as well, and truly act as Malaga’s blood vessels. They contain all the best bars, banks, and outdoor cafes, not to mention frequent parades and street performances. It’s much easier to celebrate here because the city doesn’t have to block off roads. American roads are wide and airy, often void of people but full of vehicles. Therefore, partying usually takes place indoors and on private property. Andalucians may find this oddly private and stifling. They’d just rather be outside and in public, which makes sense since they boast the best weather in all of Europe. There’s no doubt I’ll miss my lively narrow street when it’s time to go home.


View out my window, always full of bicycles, couples, and screaming babies


Another pedestrian thoroughfare in my barrio

And on the subject of celebrations, every day is reason to indulge a little in the eyes of the Spanish. I think America generally has a deny-and-binge mentality. We work hard all year and take luxurious vacations in the summer. Some of us eat healthy all week so we can pig out at the weekend. We don’t drink at lunch, but once the clock strikes happy hour, drunkenness is suddenly permissible. The Spanish, on the other hand, indulge more often, which is different from binging. There’s no such thing as happy hour here, for it’s acceptable to drink (moderately) at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Also, work hours are not set in stone, as my friend who owns the local internet café will open later than scheduled if she has something better to do in the mornings. Restaurants along my street close at random times of the year posting signs that say things like, “Taking a vacation to rest Dec. 6-20.” People have three-course lunches, take naps, and return to work for five more hours. If a couple is walking along my street and feels like making out, they’ll park themselves wherever convenient, sometimes against my window, and go at it. Discipline in any form is one subject I just don’t hear much about. The Spaniards I know, at least, appear to do what they want, when they want, and don’t suffer from obesity, anorexia, mental illness, or unemployment.


The lack of discipline has been a problem for me, though, in the classroom. That´s a subject I may delve into deeper in future blogs. Until then, bottoms up to American courtesy and Spanish consumption habits!