For all those stressed about upcoming Valentine's celebrations, either lonely at the lack of a significant other or wondering just how to remind a beloved that they are truly loved, imagine how much easier things were when you were a child. When everyone in school decorated brown paper bags with red hearts and doilies, and teachers mandated that if you were to pass out any cards at all you had to have enough for everyone. Moreover, the whole question of significant others takes on different meaning through the eyes of a child.
After gym class the other day, my second-graders were lining up to go inside. Divided by an invisible barrier, the boys stayed to the front of the line discussing the merits of Real Madrid versus FC Barcelona while the girls sniffed at the kiddie-perfume they'd dabbed on to their wrists at the back of the line. As we waited for the bell to ring, Javi-the-gym-teacher reminded the kids that Valentine's was coming up. Two boys wanted to let Javi know about their girlfriend--singular (nuestra novia). Javi and I expressed shock.
"You both have the same girlfriend?"
The boys shrugged their shoulders. "Sure, why not?" They were good friends and shared many other things in their lives--juice boxes, crayons--so why not a girlfriend?
"Well, who is it?" Javi asked.
"Andrea," they said.
Javi and I went to the back of the line where Andrea was twirling her hair unsuspectingly. He asked if she knew she had two boyfriends. She said she didn't, though she seemed unfazed by the idea that two of the boys in class would have put forth the idea. Javi and I went to the front of the line again.
"Andrea says she has no boyfriend," Javi asserted to the young Romeos. They shrugged again.
"She's wrong," they said. "We are her boyfriends."
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Bread Sins
"Lunch" is provided for the teachers at my school during recess. Due to the Spanish eating schedule (no food at the beginning of the day, a piece of toast with coffee at 10:00 am, a large family meal at 3 pm, and a dinner meal at 10 pm) lunch consists solely of toasted bread and hot drinks. Every school day at 11:30 am, there is a rush on the one toaster in the teachers' lounge, which is inconveniently placed in the corner of the room, on top of the microwave (to which there is a similar rush for heated milk, coffee, and water for tea).
One day last fall I decided to forgo the long wait, and buttered a piece of un-toasted bread. The looks my actions were met with were completely horrified. Bread, un-toasted? How could someone consume such filth? I might as well have been eating an uncooked piece of meat, still dripping blood (on second thought, that might have been more acceptable). After that experience I never consumed another piece of un-toasted bread, at least not while anyone was looking.
Yesterday I stayed at school after lunch to plan a lesson and avoid the rainstorm outside. The butter, jelly, and pate that are offered as toppings for toast had all been put away in the refrigerator, but the bread was still out. I placed a slice in the toaster. When it was done I didn't want to be a nuisance and dirty up a just-washed knife, so I began to munch away on my piece of toast. Once again: looks of horror. "Why are you eating a piece of dry toast?!" cried one teacher, while another quickly assured me that there was still butter and jelly available (implying: for the love of God, just put something on your bread!) I sighed and walked to the fridge.
In the future, I will remember to prepare my bread properly or face the consequences. I can only imagine what must be said about me: "that foreign girl, wherever she's from, sure is a weird one. You'll never guess what she was eating today!"
One day last fall I decided to forgo the long wait, and buttered a piece of un-toasted bread. The looks my actions were met with were completely horrified. Bread, un-toasted? How could someone consume such filth? I might as well have been eating an uncooked piece of meat, still dripping blood (on second thought, that might have been more acceptable). After that experience I never consumed another piece of un-toasted bread, at least not while anyone was looking.
Yesterday I stayed at school after lunch to plan a lesson and avoid the rainstorm outside. The butter, jelly, and pate that are offered as toppings for toast had all been put away in the refrigerator, but the bread was still out. I placed a slice in the toaster. When it was done I didn't want to be a nuisance and dirty up a just-washed knife, so I began to munch away on my piece of toast. Once again: looks of horror. "Why are you eating a piece of dry toast?!" cried one teacher, while another quickly assured me that there was still butter and jelly available (implying: for the love of God, just put something on your bread!) I sighed and walked to the fridge.
In the future, I will remember to prepare my bread properly or face the consequences. I can only imagine what must be said about me: "that foreign girl, wherever she's from, sure is a weird one. You'll never guess what she was eating today!"
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The flamenco affair
I've been attending a flamenco class since October in "bulerias," a class that's more of a gossip session for elderly women in town than one dedicated to learning flamenco. We've been doing the same 30-second routine since, well, October. Thus, when Patra and I saw a notice for a new flamenco class in town, we jumped at the chance to learn some new steps. This class focuses on "tangos" (which has nothing to do with the Argentinian partner dance). And, since the tangos class is Monday/Wednesday and my bulerias class is Tuesdays/Thursday, I thought it wouldn't hurt anyone to do both at once.
In my bulerias class this evening, I had my shoes on already and decided to practice a step from the tangos class during a break (the bulerias class is ostensibly 6-8, though we start around 6:15 at the earliest, take at least one 10-minute smoke break, and rarely get out later than 7:45). My teacher saw me do a small turn and called out "Shenna! Where'd you learn that?" Caught! Cheating! So I sort of shrugged my shoulders and feigned innocence. "Oh," she rationalized, "your friend [Patra] must have taught it to you. No?" To which I said, "ummm...si!" I didn't want her to know I'd been seeing someone else...
In my bulerias class this evening, I had my shoes on already and decided to practice a step from the tangos class during a break (the bulerias class is ostensibly 6-8, though we start around 6:15 at the earliest, take at least one 10-minute smoke break, and rarely get out later than 7:45). My teacher saw me do a small turn and called out "Shenna! Where'd you learn that?" Caught! Cheating! So I sort of shrugged my shoulders and feigned innocence. "Oh," she rationalized, "your friend [Patra] must have taught it to you. No?" To which I said, "ummm...si!" I didn't want her to know I'd been seeing someone else...
Friday, January 30, 2009
Bluebloods
Relating to my last post: Wikipedia tells me that Andalucia (Al-Andalus) was once a place of notable racial tolerance, which was then replaced with extreme segregation and expulsion of racial and religious Others. Perhaps it has nothing to do with the current atmosphere, but I found the connection interesting all the same.
"Richard E. Nisbett has said that the question of racial superiority may go back at least a thousand years, to the time when the Umayyad Caliphate invaded Hispania, occupying most of the Iberian Peninsula for six centuries, where they founded the advanced civilization of Al-Andalus (711-1492). Al-Andalus coincided with La Convivencia, an era of religious tolerance, and with the Golden age of Jewish culture in Iberia. It was followed by a violent Reconquista under the Reyes Catolicos (Catholic Kings), Ferdinand V and Isabella I. The Catholic Spaniards then formulated the Cleanliness of blood doctrine. It was during this time in history that the Western concept of aristocratic "blue blood" emerged in a highly racialized and implicitly white supremacist context, as author Robert Lacey explains:
It was the Spaniards who gave the world the notion that an aristocrat's blood is not red but blue. A nobleman demonstrated his pedigree by holding up his sword arm to display the filigree of blue-blooded veins beneath his pale skin--proof that his birth had not been contaminated by the dark-skinned enemy. Sangre azul, blue blood, was thus a euphemism for being a white man--Spain's own particular reminder that the refined footsteps of the aristocracy through history carry the rather less refined spoor of racism."
"Richard E. Nisbett has said that the question of racial superiority may go back at least a thousand years, to the time when the Umayyad Caliphate invaded Hispania, occupying most of the Iberian Peninsula for six centuries, where they founded the advanced civilization of Al-Andalus (711-1492). Al-Andalus coincided with La Convivencia, an era of religious tolerance, and with the Golden age of Jewish culture in Iberia. It was followed by a violent Reconquista under the Reyes Catolicos (Catholic Kings), Ferdinand V and Isabella I. The Catholic Spaniards then formulated the Cleanliness of blood doctrine. It was during this time in history that the Western concept of aristocratic "blue blood" emerged in a highly racialized and implicitly white supremacist context, as author Robert Lacey explains:
It was the Spaniards who gave the world the notion that an aristocrat's blood is not red but blue. A nobleman demonstrated his pedigree by holding up his sword arm to display the filigree of blue-blooded veins beneath his pale skin--proof that his birth had not been contaminated by the dark-skinned enemy. Sangre azul, blue blood, was thus a euphemism for being a white man--Spain's own particular reminder that the refined footsteps of the aristocracy through history carry the rather less refined spoor of racism."
Monday, January 26, 2009
And bones in our hair
This past summer, the Spanish Olympic basketball team took out a full-page ad in a newspaper showing all the players pulling the sides of their eyes so as to look "Chinese" as an expression of solidarity with the host city of Beijing. Americans were outraged, the Chinese less so, and the Spaniards simply confused. How, they wondered, was this perceived as racism? How, the Americans wondered, could it not be perceived in such a way?
On Thanksgiving, I was with a gathering of some Americans, a few other varied English speakers, and several Spaniards. At the end of the evening, as most guests were leaving, one fellow American brought up the concept of racism in Spain; he argued that Spaniards were the most racist people he knew. He cited the incident of the Spanish basketball players. In the midst of Spaniards, he was fighting a losing battle. They countered that their potential ignorance should not be misinterpreted as discrimination. Should they be expected to know the difference between Chinese people and Vietnamese people, they wondered, if they'd never seen representatives of either? Hoping we Americans would support him, he turned to us. Yet, at the time, I could not say I agreed with him. I couldn't support the idea that ignorance is an allowable excuse for racism, yet I doubted racism could be determined by the same gestures and terms from one country to another. Moreover, could it not be a form of racism to overlook the reasons for another set of cultural assumptions, taboos, allowances? Certainly, Spaniards are not politically correct in the cautious way of Americans; at times this can even be refreshing for me. Yet I am still thoroughly American, with an American's capacity to be offended.
Tonight at choir practice, our directory passed out a new song. One I had sung previously, in fact, in my church choir: Siyahamba, a song of Zulu origin. The women to my left--fellow altos, women I love dearly--laughed. "Zulu?" they said. "We should paint our faces black for the concert!" one said, doubling over. "And put bones in our hair!" said the next, gleeful. Blackface--unequivocally racist in the USA--is still featured prominently in Spain's Christmas celebrations, as children sit not on Santa's lap to ask for presents, but on the laps of the three kings, one of whom wears dark brown makeup to portray Balthasar (Caspar being European and Melchior Asian in Spanish folklore). However uncomfortable I was seeing these blackface kings, the jokes from my altos were much further over the line into inexcusable xenophobia. My personal line, clearly, yet a firm one nonetheless.
On Thanksgiving, I was with a gathering of some Americans, a few other varied English speakers, and several Spaniards. At the end of the evening, as most guests were leaving, one fellow American brought up the concept of racism in Spain; he argued that Spaniards were the most racist people he knew. He cited the incident of the Spanish basketball players. In the midst of Spaniards, he was fighting a losing battle. They countered that their potential ignorance should not be misinterpreted as discrimination. Should they be expected to know the difference between Chinese people and Vietnamese people, they wondered, if they'd never seen representatives of either? Hoping we Americans would support him, he turned to us. Yet, at the time, I could not say I agreed with him. I couldn't support the idea that ignorance is an allowable excuse for racism, yet I doubted racism could be determined by the same gestures and terms from one country to another. Moreover, could it not be a form of racism to overlook the reasons for another set of cultural assumptions, taboos, allowances? Certainly, Spaniards are not politically correct in the cautious way of Americans; at times this can even be refreshing for me. Yet I am still thoroughly American, with an American's capacity to be offended.
Tonight at choir practice, our directory passed out a new song. One I had sung previously, in fact, in my church choir: Siyahamba, a song of Zulu origin. The women to my left--fellow altos, women I love dearly--laughed. "Zulu?" they said. "We should paint our faces black for the concert!" one said, doubling over. "And put bones in our hair!" said the next, gleeful. Blackface--unequivocally racist in the USA--is still featured prominently in Spain's Christmas celebrations, as children sit not on Santa's lap to ask for presents, but on the laps of the three kings, one of whom wears dark brown makeup to portray Balthasar (Caspar being European and Melchior Asian in Spanish folklore). However uncomfortable I was seeing these blackface kings, the jokes from my altos were much further over the line into inexcusable xenophobia. My personal line, clearly, yet a firm one nonetheless.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Jenna, the exotic zoo animal
I don't know all that many people in Arcos, so I always get excited to see one of my 300 or so Spanish schoolchildren around town. I have come to realize, however, that seeing me usually inspires some excitement for the kids, and then fear. Miss Jenna, out in the wild? What to do?
Similar to a zoo, the children are thrilled to see me move around and make utterances when in the confines of a classroom. Sometimes they chant my name when I enter or cheer or even take pictures. This adds to my sense that the kids might actually, you know, like me.
In the supermarket or on the street, though, it's more like the kids are on safari. They spot me, they grin, and then they get nervous. Avoid eye contact! She might growl (in English)! She might advance toward me! She might....well, I'm not even sure of all that they're afraid of. But I do remember when I was a kid that some people just didn't exist out of a certain sphere of my life. Schoolteachers were NOT real people and therefore had no need to buy groceries or be anywhere outside their cages...ahem, classrooms.
Lesson: lions are cute and cuddly when you watch them from outside a protective glass barrier, but when you could be prey to their claws and golden manes (allow me that), you're best off just freezing, hoping they haven't seen you, and slinking off in the opposite direction as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Which is exactly what my children do.
Similar to a zoo, the children are thrilled to see me move around and make utterances when in the confines of a classroom. Sometimes they chant my name when I enter or cheer or even take pictures. This adds to my sense that the kids might actually, you know, like me.
In the supermarket or on the street, though, it's more like the kids are on safari. They spot me, they grin, and then they get nervous. Avoid eye contact! She might growl (in English)! She might advance toward me! She might....well, I'm not even sure of all that they're afraid of. But I do remember when I was a kid that some people just didn't exist out of a certain sphere of my life. Schoolteachers were NOT real people and therefore had no need to buy groceries or be anywhere outside their cages...ahem, classrooms.
Lesson: lions are cute and cuddly when you watch them from outside a protective glass barrier, but when you could be prey to their claws and golden manes (allow me that), you're best off just freezing, hoping they haven't seen you, and slinking off in the opposite direction as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Which is exactly what my children do.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Happy Holidays to all!
I have been on an extended vacation for approximately the past month and therefore have not been so faithful to my writing. I will try to catch up on all the adventures I've had through Spain and Morocco...stay tuned.
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