Sunglasses in the Rain

A few days ago I was walking to my go-to cafe: the Colombian gem Juan Valdez. I was walking in the rain. My umbrella protecting my freshly washed hair from frizz (ha, like that's even possible) and my sunglasses protecting my squinty eyes from the sun. Yes, the sun was out and yet the rain was pouring down. I smiled at the backwardness of the situation. The juxtaposition. This country is like that sometimes. Seemingly backwards, and yet my gringo friends and I are the only ones that really notice. To Colombia, this is normal.

I can bring this to life with a single phrase that I hear quite frequently, "Si pero no." ...yes, but no. What does this even mean? Are you affirming something or negating it? Or maybe you just don't want to form an opinion? I kind of like the indecisiveness of it. But it's backwards.

Let's talk about another backwardness.  A few weeks ago the presidential elections were on Sunday. Per Colombian law, alcohol cannot be sold during an election weekend. That means no sales Saturday or Sunday. That is unless there is a World Cup game. Saturday Colombia played Greece (and won 3-0!) and I can assure you that there were plenty of alcohol sales occurring. Some things are more important than Colombian law....Colombian futbol! Now that's a little backwards.

That brings us to another backwardsness related to the elections. That Sunday was Father's day. But Colombia didn't want to double dip and have Father's day on Election day so they just moved Father's day. No big deal. It was the following Sunday instead. Backwards.

The Way of Colombian Men

 There are some things I really enjoy about my work week.  One is my morning coffee time in the staff room from 7:00-7:25. It’s pretty much fantastic.  It consists of sitting around a table with some of my favorite co-workers, sipping coffee and talking about nothing of much significance.  Well, it is significant though because it brings us together.  The regulars are as follows:  Leo, the lovable and sometimes vulgar Colombian chemistry teacher; Andrew, the coffee-making, good-natured, super friendly science/math Canadian teacher;  Steve, the witty, tea-drinking, “I do what I want” American English teacher; And last but not least, Bill, the intelligent and thoughtful grandfather figure social studies teacher.  Every morning our crew is there until the bell summons us to really start the day.

Leo walks in this morning, looks at me and exclaims, “hello gorgeous woman.” He threw in another admiration but I’ve since pushed it out of my working memory. These comments don’t mean much to me anymore. It’s the way of Colombian men. They have no reserve when it comes to praising women. Americans might attribute such compliments as flirting, but in reality it’s far from it. Leo is happily living with his girlfriend.  Another example, Alvarito (the 50 year old physics teachers) telling me daily that he’s in love with me and I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.  Turn the corner and he’s saying the same thing to Laura. Colombian men are smooth-talkers and quick to tell women how beautiful they are.  I remember Leo telling me once, “You have a lot of men telling you nice things.”  My response, “Yeah, but they’re saying the same nonsense to every other woman as well.” He quizzically looked at me, “You’re a smart girl.”  I’ll repeat myself: it’s the way of Colombian men. (okay, case in point:  no joke, as I’m sitting in my room writing this, our security guard, Jaime, peeks in my room, “Good morning beautiful . You look great in yellow. It’s like you are brilliant as the sun. And when the sun sets and it is night then you will shine like the moon and the stars. Even more, like the planets. Have a great day beautiful.”  Jaime, thanks for proving my point.)

Another way of the Colombian man: they LOVE to dance. And can they ever dance. It is a stark contrast to the stiffness and reluctance of American men to get on the floor.  Going to staff parties is always so much fun because as soon as the Latin music starts (salsa, merengue, bachata, etc.) people are up dancing. Initially I was so uncomfortable because I was kind of like a tree when it comes to dancing. Meaning I didn't dance.  Now I just relax and have fun. The men know how to lead so all I have to do is silently count the steps, move my hips, and be pulled along. By the end of the night my calves will be aching from being on tip-toe and my cheeks will be hurting from smiling and laughing the night away. Dancing. It’s the way of Colombian men.

One last way of Colombian men that is shocking to me in regard to personal hygiene: they shave their armpits and get manicures and pedicures. When I found this out I couldn't stop laughing. In the United States you sacrifice your man-card by doing these things. Here, it’s completely acceptable and quite common. Colombians care a lot about appearance and therefore do what it takes to stay well groomed. I won’t say all Colombian men do it, but it’s definitely not an abnormality.

Oh Colombia, you've made some pretty fantastic men!

Ultimate Dork: Accepted

It's 1:23 AM on a school night. That's pretty late...or is it pretty early? 1:23. It doesn't matter which stance you take - I should be sleeping. But I can't because nightmares are keeping me awake. Well not "nightmares". Rather one particular thought. Whenever I close my eyes I am absorbed with the anatomy of the heart and can't stop my brain from repeating the path of blood. Superior vena cava, right atria, tricuspid valve (as it closes, you hear the "lub" of the heart), continuing into the right ventricle, pulmonic artery, pulmonic valve (as this one closes the following "dub" is heard)...etc.  It's not just the path of blood that consumes me, but I also visualize my gloved hand sticking my fingers in the orifices. Yes, I understand that it's quite weird. It is also robbing sleep from me. Am I allowed to blame my kiddos for sleepless nights? We started the cardiovascular system earlier this week and they wanted to dissect hearts. I told them human hearts were out of the picture, but if they brought in cow hearts (which are 4-chambered like ours) that we could do it. Did I actually think they'd bring them in? Nope. Did they actually bring them in? Yup. So I learned a lot yesterday. Top 3. Ready, go!

(1) Cow hearts are big. Big and heavy. No joke, I could do bicep curls with them and would probably benefit. Don't judge the size of my muscles. Just let a picture of a giant heart consume your thoughts. But don't think about it too much. You might be infected with my nightmares.

(2) Colombians eat cow hearts. I've never tried the delicacy, but I guess it's pretty popular. Popular enough that you can go to any meat market and request a heart. And to think, I doubted that anyone would actually be able to find one to bring in to dissect. Oh Leanne, when will you learn to think like a Colombian?

(3) I love gloves. Before class I skipped over to the nurse and asked her for a pair of gloves. Best. Idea. Ever. The majority of the kids were squeamishly prodding  the hearts with pop-sickle sticks and forceps while I just dove right in. I'd stick my little fingers right through the major blood vessels and have each group tell me the names. Kind of sweet but I wouldn't be doing it without hand coverings. That particular dead-meat smell tends to linger on the hands and makes me want to vomit.

Being a biology teacher is sometimes hard. Like when your cursed with anatomical nightmares. I guess there are worse things to keep me awake at night. This one just promotes me to ultimate dork. I suppose I accept.

One last thought as my eyelids get heavy: is that allowed in the United States? Just randomly bringing in cow hearts supplied by a meat market and letting kids hack away? These are things I take for granted in Colombia. Every day this country captures a larger piece of my heart. Ha! Pun intended.

My Special 10th Grade

Today is Thursday and I have the day off. It feels like a Saturday. Several times today I've thought about how I'm going to fill my day tomorrow. Maybe I'll make french-toast for breakfast, then read for a bit, hit the gym around 8:00 and meander to a cafe in the afternoon. My floors need mopping, my piano needs playing, and my cat needs brushing. Perfect.  But then I remember: tomorrow I have work. May 1st (today) is labor day, so of course the day is free. Tomorrow is May 2nd, which is not labor day and a Friday, so I have work. It seems logical, but it feels strange. It should be the weekend.

Due to my lack of class today, I was able to have lunch with some fellow gringas. I met a foreigner who works for a non-profit organization a few weeks back and we had been meaning to grab lunch. Today was the perfect day. A few of the volunteers she coordinates also joined us. As we made small-talk the inevitable question eventually came up, "So, you teach English, right?" I laugh. Well, at least on the inside I'm laughing. I find the picture of me teaching English quite comical. If you know me and my struggle with this silly language, you're hopefully laughing with me. Sure, I can usually speak half-way intelligently but the spelling and grammar of it? Yeah right! There's a reason I always make sure my mom is the first to read my blog. She sends me all my errors to correct (even though I read through it 5 times.) My brain just doesn't do language well.

So that brings me to what I really want to discuss here: what I teach.  I'm not certain I've ever clarified that in a blog entry. I teach in the high school: 9th grade general science, 10th grade biology, and 12th grade "environmental science" (Why the quotes around the last one? Well, that's a lame name to make the school look good. It's really remedial biology. The biology teacher these students had in 10th grade didn't fulfill his contract, left before the year was over, and they got jack-squat in their biology class. So instead of having 2 biology classes on their transcripts, the 12th graders now have "biology" and "environmental science". It looks snazzy, but don't be fooled, it's remedial biology.)

There we have it. I teach 9th, 10th, and 12th graders. It's fascinating having 3 different groups of kids because they each have their own personality. The 9th graders are crazy, the 12 graders are lazy, and the 10th graders...well...they're my special group. You see, I had all these students last year and they've been with me since day 1. They've been a part of my most amazing lessons and patiently endured my failures. They've seen me at my craziest and they've seen me at my lowest. They've made me laugh until my stomach hurts and they've even made me cry. We've been through a lot. When I leave in July, they will have been the only students that were with me my entire time in Colombia. And now I'm trying to put words to them. Is it even possible? It's worth a shot.

My 10th graders are my touchy-feely group. In the United States there are boundaries. Or rather, bubbles. First there are bubbles around the teachers and bubbles around the students. They don't come into physical contact as the fear of a sexual harassment charge is always looming. Second there are little bubbles around each student. This is called personal space. Neither really exists in Colombia and this lack of personal space is exaggerated even more in this 10th grade group. Within the first 10 minutes of class I will have been in physical contact with over 50% of my students. The hand shake. The arm around my shoulder. The hand on my arm as they ask a question. At first this was weird, but now, to be honest I enjoy it. Not in some twisted sexual-predator way, but in the fact that it makes me feel closer to them. They also touch each other all the time. Not too much anymore, but last year I probably said "Don't touch each other" about a million times. And no, I'm not exaggerating. None of my other groups really do this, and this makes my 10th graders special.

My 10th graders are my incredibly bright group. It's not just intelligence with them. Yeah, there are a lot of smart kiddos, but more importantly they ask questions like crazy. I can hardly get through 5 minutes of lecture without someone interjecting a question. And these questions aren't just surface level, they dissect the material and desire to know the inner workings. They crave understanding. It's marvelous and humbling at the same time. Marvelous because of their curiosity. Humbling because there are several times when I have to answer a question with "I don't know." It's hard to be a teacher (the supposed expert on the subject) and have to tell an inquisitive mind that you don't have the answer. At first it was uncomfortable, but now I don't mind. What is my other option? Make something up? I respect them too much for that. So, they ask a lot of questions. None of my other groups really do this, and this makes my 10th graders special.

My 10th graders are my continual company. If I leave my door open during any break in class, I'm sure to have a 10th grade visitor. Sometimes they want to do work on homework in my room. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they want to pester me. Sometimes they want to stand in front of my fan. Sometimes they just want a place to hang out. Without fail, I won't be alone. None of my other groups really do this, and this makes my 10th graders special.

There is one major problem that I should address however: my 10th graders mean the world to me. And this is a problem because they make leaving Colombia hard. Really hard.  None of my other groups really do this, and this makes my 10th graders special. 

Cuidado

This is how it works living on the 4th floor: stairs down and elevator up. The first 2 months I practiced equality: stairs down and stairs up. Now I just don't like huffing and puffing my way up to my apartment. Not that I'm entirely out of shape (my resting heart rate is consistently around 60 bpm) but it's just a lot of stairs. I prefer greeting Ami as I walk in the door without the heaving.

A few days ago I was patiently waiting in the lobby for the decent of the elevator. It was a rainy day and I was carrying groceries. I heard the familiar ding and looked up as the door was opening. There standing was a gentleman and we locked eyes. Man alive, did he look familiar. I couldn't place him fast enough, "Are you walking a little slower today?" The memory came back to me. The disaster of last month. The reason I knew this man. I smiled, giggled a little and told him that I'm done prancing around in the rain. He got off, the door closed, and I relived the situation in which we met.

It was a different rainy day and I had come back from being out of town all day. I typically walk with a little bounce in my step and that day was no different. I skipped down the outside stairs to the door and my portero (doorman) greeted me and buzzed me in. As I opened the door he nonchalantly cautioned, "Cuidado". Whenever it's raining he tells me to be careful because the tile floors in our apartment turn into an ice rink with the tiniest drop of water. I stepped over the ledge that makes up the door frame and landed in a giant puddle. Mind you this is in our lobby. I gently stole a glance at my portero: really bro, there are 3 inches of standing water and all you tell me is "cuidado?" 

After less than 2 seconds in the puddle, I took a bounding leap to a dry spot. Splash. I landed in another puddle. What the heck, does the water go on forever? In hopes to escape the water again I made a final jump to the lower level of the lobby. Remember that ice rink I mentioned? Well, that was the last thing on my mind. As I made contact with the tiles, my feet went out from under me, my knee smashed the tile, and then motion stopped. At this point I didn't even try to scramble up. I knew I wasn't going to get out of this predicament dry, so I rolled over to a comfortable sitting position and just let the soaking happen.  The water permeated my tennis shoes and jeans. Then the giggles came. I couldn't help it. My portero just shook his head and looked at me, "Cuidado?"  Thanks for nothing.

At that point my pride is gone and I'm sitting in a puddle of water laughing. I teetered up on the slippery surface and waddled toward the elevator. That's when I saw him. A kindly man standing at the edge of the room gaping. Yes sir, you just saw me take a flying sprawl into our lobby turned slip-and-slide. I promise I'm okay, you can close your mouth now. I said hi, he mumbled something in Spanish (clearly more embarrassed than I was) and I disappeared into the elevator.

And that's how I met him. A nameless man who hasn't forgot my lobby blunder. "Are you walking a little slower today?"

My Small Town Pereira

I walked home alone today. It was 5:00. My principal had driven me to a central position between our apartments and I just did a tuck-and-roll out of the car. Okay, not so much. He pulled over and I hopped out. There is this secretive pathway that jogs over a river (or perhaps sewage stream) at the bottom of a dead-end road. It's sandwiched between an empty building currently under construction and the back side of another building. At night it's pretty sketchy, but in the evening with an hour or so left of sunlight I had no hesitation. That was my route. I choose it because it cuts off a good 10 minutes and a treacherous hill from the normal route.

Down I go, approaching the dead end and I hear it, "Señora!" It was coming from behind me, so I ignored it. Then I heard the same plead again. I turned around and saw a man and a woman sitting on the front porch of a house on the street. Upon making eye-contact the man continued (in Spanish, but I'll do you a favor a translate), "Be careful, there is some riff-raff on the path." I had already scanned out the situation and evaluated it as being safe, but I could understand their concern. Instead of ignoring them and trodding ahead, I decided to just turn back and take the long way home. The hill-of-death (as I like to call it) would be waiting for me. Coming down the road behind me, however, was another single lady around my age. The woman on the porch suggested, "Why don't you two just walk together. Then you'll be safe."

So, there I found myself, walking with a stranger. She told me it was a good idea to walk together. As I explained to her the added significance for me because I'm a gringa, she looked at me surprised, "You're a gringa?!"  Ha! I had passed for 13.5 seconds as a Colombian. We walked the path together without trouble and had a lovely conversation. She was excited that I loved Pereira and curious about my work.Then, when it was time for our paths to split we said goodbye and that's that.

I continued my walk home with an obvious smile of contentment. Those people didn't need to warn me, but they did. They were just looking out for a stranger. Then I was given the opportunity to walk with another single lady and we had a great chat. Although I live in a city of 500,000 people, I felt like Periera was a small town. A small town that I belong to. A small town that I'm proud to be a part of.

My Colombian Names

I'm not just Leanne here. Colombia has given me a handful of new names. It makes me smile as individuals claim the liberty of re-naming me. Sometimes mistakenly, other times because my name is so hard to pronounce, and then the few who call me something because they don't know my real name. No matter the reason, I'm left with multiple identities.

"Mease": This student designated name is enough to drive me crazy. It is used upwards to one hundred times a work week. This is not an exageration.  It doesn't seem so bad written down, but when the whiny tone brings it to life, this address brings a shiver down my back. MEEEEEEEAAASE.  Usually this name is put to rest on the weekends, but every so often a student will see me out-and-about and to my horror the name is resurrected.

"Measter": Yes. I am called mister a handful of times a day. My response, "We need to do a lesson on human anatomy."  ...this links back to the student laziness in using proper english. Maybe that will be the next error I attack.

"Mease Lean": This is another student designated name, but only amongst a sprinkling of beloved 11th graders. I don't really know why or how, but my named morphed into this. Maybe it's easier to pronounce. Maybe they just wanted to give me a nick name. I kind of like it. But only when those 11th graders use it.

"Leannecita": In Spanish when you at "-ita" or "-ito" to the end of something it makes it little or cute. For example, my cat is a "gato" but when I refer to her she is always my "gatito". It also can mark endearment. I have a student, Simon, who has started referring to me as Leannecita. Am I little, cute or endeared? Without knowing, I've lashed back: he is officially Simoncito.

"Niña": This name means girl. If I greet someone walking down the street that appears older than me, I am frequently "niña". It makes me smile and feel youthful. Yes!!! I guess 24 really isn't THAT old. Ha! Even now the name gives me the empowerment and giddiness of girlhood.

"Senora": Then there is the flip side of the coin. On my typical walk from my apartment to the grocery store or my favorite cafe, I pass this little corner store and know all the delivery boys (probably between the ages of 16-22) by friendly recognition. To them I am "senora" - the old lady. Ugh. Okay, it's also a term of respect, but really guys, you're compiling the years onto me as quickly as I'm drinking from the "niña" fountain of youth. Reality sinks in, maybe 24 is closer to 30 than I'd like to admit.

"Reina": Last but not least is the all to familiar name: queen (and sometimes princess). Men here are quick to use these names for unknown unnamed females. Taxi drivers, store clerks, gym trainers, bus drivers, maintenance workers, etc. Initially it made me recoil, but I quickly realized the innocence in the names. They are used for every woman, regardless of age/beauty/clothing/anything and Colombian women expect to be addressed as such. Therefore I've learned to embrace it. While I'm here I might as well get used to it.