Vexed

I've had to change peluqueros again. This must be the fifth or sixth one I've tried here. I've lost count.

After an incident with one in El Centro back in 2012, I'd been trekking out to Barrio Yungay to Marcos* who did a consistent job of maintaining my hair style.

The problem? It was two-fold. Over time, I'd noticed that all the magazines in the salon had disappeared and were replaced by religious pamphlets. Along with my haircut, I could expect an evangelical lecture.

Then, there arose the scenario of their son and his learning English. This year, he was accepted into a "prestigious" Chilean school. He had not learned much English before and, now, he is struggling at the new school.

On my last visit to the salon, I'd had the foresight to take my Kindle and was reading the latest trashy novel, in plain view of their religious propaganda, when I heard a little voice say, "Hello, Tía."

I looked up to find Juanito* peeking into the salon. Since they live upstairs, this didn't surprise me, but this time, his mother frog-marched him in, one hand on each shoulder, and plunked him down in a chair opposite me. In his 12-year old hands was his English textbook.

"Please, he needs help with his homework. He doesn't understand it," pleaded his mother.

This wasn't the first time that they had asked for my help. I'd given mini-English lessons on previous salon visits and, last year, his mother had emailed me a homework assignment, along with a note begging me to do it for him. The task had been to translate a report which he would then have to read in class.

Put between the rock and being forced to find a new hairdresser, I'd reluctantly done the translation and sent it back with a stern note, reminding her that Juanito would learn nothing this way. They calmed down for awhile, but this year at his new school, he seems completely lost.

I looked at Juanito, seated across from me, and started asking him questions in English. "Does your teacher speak to the class in English?" I already suspected the answer to this, and he confirmed it with the blank stare.

I asked him again, in Spanish, and he shook his head. "Can he speak English at all?"

"Oh, yes. He can."

"Then, why doesn't he?"

"The first day of school, he asked who could understand him in English. When no one raised his hand, he gave up and started speaking to us in Spanish."

Uh-huh. If the kids can't understand the English teacher, isn't it his job to actually make sure that they learn how? I suggested that Juanito's parents go to the school and speak with the teacher, ask him why the kids aren't being taught in English. If the teacher wasn't receptive, my advice would be to complain to the administration.

"But how could we do that?" What?! "Why don't you come and do some workshops?"

I explained that I would soon be leaving Chile for this year, that I was not available to begin workshops. I thought that they had understood me.

They ignored my recommendation that they speak with the teacher, but they went to the administration alright...to ask if I could come to the school to teach remedial workshops to Juanito's class.

Next thing I knew, I had received an email from an "inspector" at the school, inviting me to send in a proposal, along with lesson plans, so that they could approve it before I arrived to do the free workshops.

After stewing for a couple of weeks, I wrote the inspector a polite note, explaining that I'm not going to be here long enough to begin workshops this year. He wrote back to say that I should inform Juanito's parents.

Since I'd already tried to inform them and they'd chosen not to hear me, I didn't bother to attempt it again. This, of course, all means that I've had to find yet another peluquería.

I've managed to locate a salon downtown where I was able to relax and thumb through the latest issue of Vanidades while waiting, and best of all, the Linda Hunt doppelgänger stylist doesn't seem the least bit interested in learning English.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

*names changed

Ojos Abiertos

In my quest to find viable volunteer opportunities for teaching English, I recently attended a meeting of a new organizaton called Ojos Abiertos.

"To empower children to grow as individuals and valuable community members through initiatives designed to nurture empathy, support learning, and promote respect and self-autonomy" reads its mission statement.

The founder of the group is a dedicated young woman named Helen who has put together an international team of volunteers to spearhead the program. Their first project will be at a municipal school in Conchalí, on the north side of Santiago.

Last year, I had met with the director of this school. He is serious about improving the lives of his students and is determined to give them more opportunities for success in life. Ojos Abiertos is proposing English and art workshops at this school.

When I visited, I did a brief English encounter in a 7th grade classroom. Like at most Chilean schools, the kids were timid, but curious. By the end of the presentation, most of them had warmed up enough to participate.

Afterward, as I was leaving, one of the girls from the class ran up, leaned into me, and blurted out, "I think you are a very good person."

I put my arm around her shoulders, looked into her shining eyes, and told her, "I think you are a very good person, too."

She gave me a big hug, and an even bigger grin, before running back to join her circle of giggling classmates.

If you have ever considered volunteering, think about contacting Helen at Ojos Abiertos. You will probably receive much more than you can give.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

Presenting A Million Sticky Kisses, the Story of a Gringa Teacher in Chile

People often ask me, "Why Chile?" If you've read this blog for awhile, you may already have a clue to the answer. If you haven't, I'll give you a hint: volunteer teaching.

If you'd like to know the story of my original visits to Chile to be a volunteer teacher, it's all in my book, A Million Sticky Kisses. Now available on Amazon in both print and Kindle versions.

Watch my new book trailer here.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

Not Lost, Just Wandering

This week, I received two Facebook friend requests from former students.

I taught these kids two years ago when I was volunteering as an assistant in 11th grade "Social Communication" classes in English. Their teacher had requested a volunteer. It turned out that she was pregnant and didn't feel well enough to be at school at least half the time.

Given the choice of going to school only when she was present or going no matter what, and teaching the classes myself, I chose to go. There was no book, no lesson plans either. I never knew in advance whether or not the teacher would be there, so like a good Girl Scout, I started preparing my own lesson plans "just in case."

If someone had previously told me that I would be teaching 16 year olds, I would have told them to have their head examined. But these 16-year olds were a dream, polite, respectful, and timidly interested in learning English. I spent the entire year in their classrooms and, because of their enthusiasm about English, I also initiated extra workshops on two levels. Level One was for those who needed reinforcement. Level Two was a conversation workshop for those who were already able to communicate in English.

I grew close to those students. Probably too close because, when the year ended, saying goodbye was heartbreaking.

The school had been sold and these kids, "my" kids, all had to move to different schools to complete their final year of high school. One young lady, a smiley girl who had always been excited about learning English, was also moving to a new area of Santiago.

On the final day that I was at school, I asked her where she would be going to school. She said, "I'm not going to school any more. I'm going to study at home."

I stared at her for a few seconds, thinking that this day would be the end of her education. Then, without warning, I suddenly burst into tears. Shocked, she gave me a hug and patted my back, murmuring, "It's okay, Miss Sally. Don't cry, Miss Sally," which only made me sob harder.

I hate losing track of a student, but since then, I had heard nothing from her nor about her...until last week when she "friended" me. I can't wait to hear how she's doing.

No more tears now. Can you see me smiling?

~~Sally Rose

Coming Soon

Ever since my first volunteer visits to Chile, I've been threatening to publish a book about my experiences.

That was back in 2009 and 2010. The story was written then and has sat, forlorn, in a computer file until now.

Last September, I returned to the US to publish this book. Little did I realize how long it would take to actually get it done. I was blissfully ignorant of the endless edits, the delays, the waiting. The revisions. I have read and reread the manuscript until I am cross-eyed.

Now, I can see light at the end of the tunnel. I've approved the cover and the final "big" revision is done. "A Million Sticky Kisses" is now being formatted.

It's a good thing, too, because I want to have this book in my suitcase when I board the plane to return to Chile. With less than three weeks to go, I feel like I am playing Beat the Clock.

Coming soon, very soon, "A Million Sticky Kisses," the story of a gringa teacher in Chile.

Happy anyway

The following is an except from my upcoming book, A Million Sticky Kisses.

"After school, I was invited to go with the chorus to the annual Christmas concert at a nearby cathedral. Students from each of The Network’s schools participated. My kids were partnered with girls from the adjacent high school.

We left from school in a large van, zigging and zagging down narrow backstreets to arrive at the church just in time. In the 90-degree heat, my clothes clung to me as we hurried the kids inside to find our pews. I left summer temperatures behind as I stepped into the ancient church where it was blessedly cool. The air smelled of candles and furniture wax.

I sat with the mother of one of my students and kept an eye on them. In our chorus were eighteen girls and one lone boy. They were the only ones wearing their “every day” uniforms, the same tired, gray sweatsuits that they wore to school. Choir members from the other schools had on school uniforms, too, but they were cleaner, dressier, and more expensive. White shirts, navy pants for boys and white shirts with navy jumpers for girls. I had never seen my kids in any uniform except the sweatsuit and I wondered if my school might be the poorest in The Network.

Hearing commotion behind me, I turned around to find little girls pushing off one side and sliding to the opposite end of the polished pew. I gave them a look that included an arched eyebrow and they settled down again, giggling.

The concert began, only fifteen minutes late, with "It Came upon a Midnight Clear." I recognized it from the melody, not the lyrics, since it was sung in Spanish. My kids were next. I'd never heard their song before, but it was beautiful with their young voices echoing strong in the vaulted cathedral. They accompanied the song by clapping their hands in flamenco-style rhythm as the youngest girl pinged on a triangle.

Out of the twenty or more songs that were sung, I only recognized five. The rest were traditional Chilean Christmas songs, unknown to me.

After the concert, we were dropped off back at school. It was later than usual when I boarded the Metro to go home. The train car was crowded and, at first, I didn't notice the man who had followed me in..."

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays, Happy Whatever-You-Celebrate or even if you don't, Happy anyway.