I've never felt compelled to refuse to perform an assigned task based on principle, but last week was nearly an exception.
As a final project in their English class, the students of tercero medio B at San Lorenzo were assigned the work of putting on a musical for the school. Myriam, their teacher, had suggested various well-known, classic musical numbers, but it was apparent from the get-go that the students had seen this assignment coming and had already thought of their number... they wanted High School Musical 2.
If you haven't seen High School Musical 2, don't despair, it most likely means you still retain some form of sanity in your life. That might sound a tad harsh, but I would seriously consider a healthy flogging before watching that movie. There are just some things I don't do, and to watch High School Musical is one of them.
I'm really at the mercy of my prejudices since I haven't actually seen the musical, but I've seen enough through the media to equate it with your standard-issue adolescent brainwash nowadays. I see the general Disney Channel characteristics that I loathe: the cliché storyline centered on a jock-cheerleader romance with overly theatrical adolescents that talk so animatedly it appears they might either get their face stuck in a constant strained expression or faint from overexertion.
And if that isn't enough, I've never really enjoyed any musical. Almost every musical I've ever watched either leaves me thinking about the inappropriateness of singing at a crucial point in the performance, or gives me an impatient feeling when the characters break into some extended poetic lament about love lost. Some may argue in favor of its "artsyness", but my brain can't get past its superfluousness. I enjoy movies, I enjoy music, but for some reason a musical seems to me like mating a horse and a mule: the result works but is ultimately infertile.
I can count the musicals I've managed to sit through with my eyeballs: Grease and Hairspray. Grease was more or less bearable, but Hairspray took an act of God to endure, which came in the form of the theatrical genius and master of rug cutting, Christopher Walken himself. Had it not been for Walken, I can assure you my chin would suffice for counting.
But enough out of Mr. Philistine... back to the point.
As part of the preparation for the musical Myriam asked me to prepare a wall display for a large bulletin board located along the main corridor of the school. She wanted pictures of the characters, song lyrics, and basically anything having to do with High School Musical 2 that I thought would be good to put up... er, so nothing?
If I didn't respect the students and their interests, I probably would have put up lots of mind-numbing grammar tidbits instead and claimed ignorance to my devious insubordination. But alas, I couldn't bring myself to disappoint the class, so I made the display and painfully stapled the items to the board.
I finished my work on Thursday afternoon at 1:30 p.m. Apart from showing Jer the board shortly after I had finished it, I didn't return to it until the following morning. We arrived extra early that morning, second only to the doorman, because Rodrigo had to go to the airport to pick up a visiting monk. As I was strolling past the display on my way to Lauds my eyes beheld the wall in shambles. Someone had torn down the protective plastic covering of the display and heisted everything except the lyrics to one of the songs... apparently I have below average taste in teeny bop music—mhmm, what a pity.
I was a bit sad that someone had disrespected my display like that, but at the same time I felt a bit of ironic redemption. My reluctance to adorn the bulletin board with High School Musical memorabilia was met by a student's uncontrollable frenzy to have it all.
In light of my recent proclamation of my dislike of musicals and special disdain for High School Musical, it might be natural to pin the act on me, hypothesizing that I hired a hit girl (or boy, I suppose) to tear down the wall. However cunning that would be, I must admit that such a plan never crossed my mind, and if it did I wouldn't state it outright. Of course, I can't prove anything, so you'll just have to take my word that this was truly an act of High School Musical hysteria and not a personally motivated crime.
And also, one can't be sure that the perpetrator wasn't motivated by the same feeling that almost kept me from putting up the display, but I have fairly good evidence that they were motivated on the contrary: From the time I brought my materials to the wall to the time I had jammed the last staple into the board (which wasn't long), there were multiple attempts to run off with the pictures and a few polite inquiries for me to give out the photos. I guess I thought the plastic cover would be a sufficient psychological barrier to keep the wall intact. Lesson learned.
But one matter still remains: with the gusto to ravage a bulletin board in pure daylight, there's no telling what atrocities might transpire on opening day. If I wasn't familiar with the type of hysteria created by Disney creations, i.e. The Jonas Brothers, Hannah Montana, I might cede victory to a pure act of vandalism, but I suspect it is much more grave and profound than the work of amateur vandals—what we're dealing with here are crazed fans ready to drive across the country in diapers to sequester their own Zac Efron.
I heard the call to restore sanity. The administration has been alerted to the threat and security measures are in motion. I'm making sure nobody pulls a fast one this next time around.
With this in mind, I hope the next time I write to you about the High School Musical 2 project is after the premier, recounting the professional quality and the superb acting and singing talents of the students. And who knows, maybe it will be the performance that changes my opinion to the affirmative on musicals.
But until then, keep it real!
Andrew
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Something they call photographs
As a cover up for not writing often enough, here are some of my favorite pictures.
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| From the Chilean style rodeo. We went to a festival in a nearby town to watch these guasos (cowboys) throw cattle into the wall. It sounds crude, but I loved it! |
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| The three schools in downtown Santiago in procession for the Virgin Mary of Carmen, the Marian devotion of Chile. I joined the procession right after I took this photo. |
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| View of Manquehue hill from afar. Rodrigo and I climbed in poor visibility, which turned out to be a problem, but this was one of the few good views we got of the summit all day. |
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| Picnic in the Andes mountains. Hard to beat it. |
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| The class I'm helping out with: Tercero medio B, humanistas. They are the equivalent of Juniors in high school. Great students. |
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| Working hard. |
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| View of the Andes from near the summit of Manquehue |
Monday, October 11, 2010
Monday-Hospedería Santa Francisca Romana
You know when you were in school and your teachers told you to avoid making “laundry lists” out of your writing? I’m almost 23 and I while I can imagine what one might be like, I’ve still never encountered an actual laundry list (and this is no fault of a sheltered upbringing or that sort of thing). Instead, why don’t teachers tell their students to avoid “grocery lists”? If they were anyone like me, one reminder would be more than enough to turn them into Charles Dickens.
Being handed a grocery list naturally and inevitably leads to a trip to the grocery store. What’s so horrifying about that? you may ask. Well, unlike my mother, who could draw the blueprints of our local Cub Foods with a blindfold on, I might die of starvation just trying to finish shopping for everything on a grocery list. The closest I ever got to a laundry list was remembering to wash clothes in college so I didn’t have to go commando… but even that was normally refreshing. On the other hand, wheeling around in an unknown labyrinth and risking exhaustion… now that is something to avoid like the plague.
So, out of my fear of grocery lists, I will not be sharing an exhausting account of the week in its entirety; instead, I will keep things spicy and take each day one at a time. I know you’ll forgive me.
So, let us embark.
On Monday morning we head off to school as normal, but at about 9:30 am we leave school and walk to the nearby bus station. We catch the B06, and depending on our luck we either get a heap of scrap metal on its way to the junkyard, or a modern bus that seems as if it could actually drive up a hill without dismantling itself. Regardless, once aboard, B06 takes us to the metro station “Zapadores” where we descend to the subterranean tunnels of Santiago’s metro system.
Note: “Underground” in Spanish is “subterráneo”, which translated means “subterranean.” I don't think the word subterranean carries the same added significance in Spanish as it does in English, and I don't know about you, but I think it's an exciting word. Every time I’m descending the escalator and I hear that robotic voice call out “subterráneo” I feel like I’m entering some clandestine adventure. But, I am yet to have any subterranean thrills.
Anyway, it’s not long on the metro until we get off at “Cerro Blanco” and climb back above ground. From Cerro Blanco we walk a few blocks down the road until we turn down calle Juarez Largo. Its roughness undoubtedly pales in comparison to Juarez, Mexico, be nevertheless we traverse past haggard-looking street dogs, over shattered beer bottles, and around unconscious drunkards sprawled out on the sidewalk until we turn onto calle Juarez Corto and arrive at the Hospedería Santa Francisca Romana where we are most often greeted by a couple guests puffing a cigarette and, I can only assume, gossiping.
The Hospedería is a house located in the neighborhood of Recoleta where single women and their children can come to sleep in a bed, wash their clothes, take a shower, and get a couple good meals. It’s basic, but without the house these women would be living in the street with nothing. The house works with the government and local hospitals and takes in women when they have no place to go; and in accordance with the government programs, the staff at the house is able to help the women get a job and find a place to live.
Because the women are mandated to leave the house by 10 am, and Jer and I start work at 10 am, the only contact we really have with the women is the brief exchange with the smoking gossipers. Apart from that it’s strictly business for us.
We usually arrive a bit before 10 and have some tea or coffee, whatever suits or fancy on the given day, and then we get to work. Our function? Don’t tell anyone, but Jer and I cook the books for the house, inventing guests so the house gets more government funding.
Just kidding. Our job is to transfer the daily guest list from notebook hard copy onto Excel spreadsheets so they can run statistics on the guests and determine who is a “permanent guest”—a woman who has stayed more than 60 days (not necessarily consecutive).
One of the most rewarding parts of the job is that we are so practiced in Excel and the use of a keyboard that we have astounded the staff with our efficiency. Really, the only setbacks we’ve had have been due to the staff’s error. The first time we found discrepancies between our records and the notebook records we went back to double check our work, but it turned out that the receptionist had made an error.
And last week our boss deleted some of our work because she assumed she was deleting and old record, when really we had just worked farther than she thought. It wasn’t too much of an inconvenience, but she was embarrassed and from then on vowed to keep her nose out of our work. Thank God.
We work hard, but we keep the atmosphere light. I think it would be funny to walk in on one of our more colorful moments. Maybe I’m just imagining the humor we emit, but I think you could have a nice chuckle at our expense.
“Hey, did Soledad stay last night?”
“By last night do you mean August 11th? If so, then yes she was here last night.”
Or:
“What?!! No Carmen? How can that be? She hasn’t missed a day in years?!”
“Ha just kidding she was here.”
“Oh, you scared me, I thought she slept out in the cold for a moment there.”
I also think we puzzled the painter with our dialogues last week. All he saw were two gringos, a notebook, and a computer; and all he heard was one gringo spitting out Spanish names like an auctioneer. Then why would we all of a sudden burst into laughter? By the looks I caught in my peripherals, anyone’s answer was as good as his.
So, when we finish with our quasi-work we say goodbye to all the women and head back out into the unforgiving streets of Recoleta. From there our destination is San Lorenzo where we run an after-school English workshop for students, but more on that another day.
Until then!
Andrew
Being handed a grocery list naturally and inevitably leads to a trip to the grocery store. What’s so horrifying about that? you may ask. Well, unlike my mother, who could draw the blueprints of our local Cub Foods with a blindfold on, I might die of starvation just trying to finish shopping for everything on a grocery list. The closest I ever got to a laundry list was remembering to wash clothes in college so I didn’t have to go commando… but even that was normally refreshing. On the other hand, wheeling around in an unknown labyrinth and risking exhaustion… now that is something to avoid like the plague.
So, out of my fear of grocery lists, I will not be sharing an exhausting account of the week in its entirety; instead, I will keep things spicy and take each day one at a time. I know you’ll forgive me.
So, let us embark.
On Monday morning we head off to school as normal, but at about 9:30 am we leave school and walk to the nearby bus station. We catch the B06, and depending on our luck we either get a heap of scrap metal on its way to the junkyard, or a modern bus that seems as if it could actually drive up a hill without dismantling itself. Regardless, once aboard, B06 takes us to the metro station “Zapadores” where we descend to the subterranean tunnels of Santiago’s metro system.
Note: “Underground” in Spanish is “subterráneo”, which translated means “subterranean.” I don't think the word subterranean carries the same added significance in Spanish as it does in English, and I don't know about you, but I think it's an exciting word. Every time I’m descending the escalator and I hear that robotic voice call out “subterráneo” I feel like I’m entering some clandestine adventure. But, I am yet to have any subterranean thrills.
Anyway, it’s not long on the metro until we get off at “Cerro Blanco” and climb back above ground. From Cerro Blanco we walk a few blocks down the road until we turn down calle Juarez Largo. Its roughness undoubtedly pales in comparison to Juarez, Mexico, be nevertheless we traverse past haggard-looking street dogs, over shattered beer bottles, and around unconscious drunkards sprawled out on the sidewalk until we turn onto calle Juarez Corto and arrive at the Hospedería Santa Francisca Romana where we are most often greeted by a couple guests puffing a cigarette and, I can only assume, gossiping.
The Hospedería is a house located in the neighborhood of Recoleta where single women and their children can come to sleep in a bed, wash their clothes, take a shower, and get a couple good meals. It’s basic, but without the house these women would be living in the street with nothing. The house works with the government and local hospitals and takes in women when they have no place to go; and in accordance with the government programs, the staff at the house is able to help the women get a job and find a place to live.
Because the women are mandated to leave the house by 10 am, and Jer and I start work at 10 am, the only contact we really have with the women is the brief exchange with the smoking gossipers. Apart from that it’s strictly business for us.
We usually arrive a bit before 10 and have some tea or coffee, whatever suits or fancy on the given day, and then we get to work. Our function? Don’t tell anyone, but Jer and I cook the books for the house, inventing guests so the house gets more government funding.
Just kidding. Our job is to transfer the daily guest list from notebook hard copy onto Excel spreadsheets so they can run statistics on the guests and determine who is a “permanent guest”—a woman who has stayed more than 60 days (not necessarily consecutive).
One of the most rewarding parts of the job is that we are so practiced in Excel and the use of a keyboard that we have astounded the staff with our efficiency. Really, the only setbacks we’ve had have been due to the staff’s error. The first time we found discrepancies between our records and the notebook records we went back to double check our work, but it turned out that the receptionist had made an error.
And last week our boss deleted some of our work because she assumed she was deleting and old record, when really we had just worked farther than she thought. It wasn’t too much of an inconvenience, but she was embarrassed and from then on vowed to keep her nose out of our work. Thank God.
We work hard, but we keep the atmosphere light. I think it would be funny to walk in on one of our more colorful moments. Maybe I’m just imagining the humor we emit, but I think you could have a nice chuckle at our expense.
“Hey, did Soledad stay last night?”
“By last night do you mean August 11th? If so, then yes she was here last night.”
Or:
“What?!! No Carmen? How can that be? She hasn’t missed a day in years?!”
“Ha just kidding she was here.”
“Oh, you scared me, I thought she slept out in the cold for a moment there.”
I also think we puzzled the painter with our dialogues last week. All he saw were two gringos, a notebook, and a computer; and all he heard was one gringo spitting out Spanish names like an auctioneer. Then why would we all of a sudden burst into laughter? By the looks I caught in my peripherals, anyone’s answer was as good as his.
So, when we finish with our quasi-work we say goodbye to all the women and head back out into the unforgiving streets of Recoleta. From there our destination is San Lorenzo where we run an after-school English workshop for students, but more on that another day.
Until then!
Andrew
Saturday, October 9, 2010
What I've been "pining" for
Rodrigo and I ran some errands this afternoon, and our way home took us through an affluent suburb of Santiago. The houses were nice, but reminded me of most modern neighborhoods in the United States—too many houses too close together with too little yard space.
Many years ago my neighbor’s garage started on fire. They were planning on grilling inside the garage and the gas they used to start the fire combusted a bit more erratically than they had expected. Within minutes the whole garage was engulfed in flames. As I watched the twenty-foot tall flames lick the roof and nearby trees, the neighbors adjacent to the conflagrant garage sprayed the side of their house down with water to prevent the fire from spreading to their intact garage. Thankfully, the fire never made the leap.
Where was I going with that? Well, if Jose Smith, resident of aforementioned neighborhood, were to blow up his garage in a grilling accident like my innocent neighbors did that fateful afternoon, I doubt Señor Smith’s neighbors would be lucky enough to escape with an intact garage. Hence, give your kids some space to play, and God shall reward you with a garage free of charcoal (except charcoal that you may have purchased for a barbecue that is to take place outside of the garage).
But, the suffocated houses were only an afterthought. What I was really fixated on were the trees. Oh, the quantity and quality was breath…giving. And since we’re in spring, the trees are in full bloom. Spectacular. But why was I so surprised and excited to see trees of all things?
Well, up until today I hadn’t realized the sparseness of foliage around San Lorenzo. There are trees, but very few; and the ones there are haven’t started to bloom yet—most likely because they aren’t watered often enough. So when I feasted my eyes upon the cornucopia of greenery along the boulevard, I was reintroduced to what I had been so accustomed to all my life.
I won’t say I ever took for granted the arboretum at Saint John’s University, and I know I was always aware of Stillwater’s proximity to wide open countryside, but spending twelve hours a day in a cement complex with no prominent display of greenery weighs on the psyche and makes one nostalgic for some shrubbery. Who knows, at the end of my time in San Lorenzo I might just ask for some herring and start yelling “Ni!”
Joking aside, yesterday I witnessed the manifest antithesis of blooming tree land. I didn’t notice it at the time, but it all became clear driving through the neighborhood today.
I was playing tennis with a student named Francisco after school yesterday and he hit the ball up on one of the roofs and it fell into the gutter. We found a janitor and got him to lend us a ladder to recover the ball. Francisco was eager to use the ladder that is normally prohibited to the kids, so I let him climb up. He reached the top and alerted me that the ball was a few feet out of his reach, but suggested that I grab a stick for him to use. I searched the ground and the surrounding area, but I couldn’t find any loose sticks.
“Andrew, just take one off that tree. Look, there’s a long one right up there.”
“No Francisco, I don’t want to break a branch off the tree.”
“Well, you could just take one from that bush–there are plenty of long ones.”
Once again, I didn’t want to take a living branch from the bush.
So I told him to come down and I would see if I could reach it with my longer arms. We moved the ladder over a bit and I climbed up. It was literally right under my nose. All we had to do was move the ladder over a bit and even Francisco could have reached it.
Combining my two recent encounters with trees in two very distinct settings, I realized how different my attitude toward nature is compared to Francisco. Whereas I was once teased for my alleged love affair with plants, Francisco didn’t even think twice about tearing a living branch from a tree—he would more readily chop off its limb than descend the ladder to move it over a couple feet. As crazy as I hope that sounds, that is his reality. And I’m now eager to change it.
It’s strange to think that this realization was borne out of a car ride through a rich suburb of Santiago, but in the end it was quite beneficial. Not only did it refresh my senses, but it also prompted me to think about some projects I could start in San Lorenzo related to tree planting and environmental awareness. You know what they say about keeping plants around the house for happiness and sanity!
¡Que estéis bien!
Andrew
P.S. I suppose you’re all wondering what I’m actually doing at San Lorenzo… I should have that up and ready to read in the near future—probably on Monday or at the latest Tuesday. Take care!
Many years ago my neighbor’s garage started on fire. They were planning on grilling inside the garage and the gas they used to start the fire combusted a bit more erratically than they had expected. Within minutes the whole garage was engulfed in flames. As I watched the twenty-foot tall flames lick the roof and nearby trees, the neighbors adjacent to the conflagrant garage sprayed the side of their house down with water to prevent the fire from spreading to their intact garage. Thankfully, the fire never made the leap.
Where was I going with that? Well, if Jose Smith, resident of aforementioned neighborhood, were to blow up his garage in a grilling accident like my innocent neighbors did that fateful afternoon, I doubt Señor Smith’s neighbors would be lucky enough to escape with an intact garage. Hence, give your kids some space to play, and God shall reward you with a garage free of charcoal (except charcoal that you may have purchased for a barbecue that is to take place outside of the garage).
But, the suffocated houses were only an afterthought. What I was really fixated on were the trees. Oh, the quantity and quality was breath…giving. And since we’re in spring, the trees are in full bloom. Spectacular. But why was I so surprised and excited to see trees of all things?
Well, up until today I hadn’t realized the sparseness of foliage around San Lorenzo. There are trees, but very few; and the ones there are haven’t started to bloom yet—most likely because they aren’t watered often enough. So when I feasted my eyes upon the cornucopia of greenery along the boulevard, I was reintroduced to what I had been so accustomed to all my life.
I won’t say I ever took for granted the arboretum at Saint John’s University, and I know I was always aware of Stillwater’s proximity to wide open countryside, but spending twelve hours a day in a cement complex with no prominent display of greenery weighs on the psyche and makes one nostalgic for some shrubbery. Who knows, at the end of my time in San Lorenzo I might just ask for some herring and start yelling “Ni!”
Joking aside, yesterday I witnessed the manifest antithesis of blooming tree land. I didn’t notice it at the time, but it all became clear driving through the neighborhood today.
I was playing tennis with a student named Francisco after school yesterday and he hit the ball up on one of the roofs and it fell into the gutter. We found a janitor and got him to lend us a ladder to recover the ball. Francisco was eager to use the ladder that is normally prohibited to the kids, so I let him climb up. He reached the top and alerted me that the ball was a few feet out of his reach, but suggested that I grab a stick for him to use. I searched the ground and the surrounding area, but I couldn’t find any loose sticks.
“Andrew, just take one off that tree. Look, there’s a long one right up there.”
“No Francisco, I don’t want to break a branch off the tree.”
“Well, you could just take one from that bush–there are plenty of long ones.”
Once again, I didn’t want to take a living branch from the bush.
So I told him to come down and I would see if I could reach it with my longer arms. We moved the ladder over a bit and I climbed up. It was literally right under my nose. All we had to do was move the ladder over a bit and even Francisco could have reached it.
Combining my two recent encounters with trees in two very distinct settings, I realized how different my attitude toward nature is compared to Francisco. Whereas I was once teased for my alleged love affair with plants, Francisco didn’t even think twice about tearing a living branch from a tree—he would more readily chop off its limb than descend the ladder to move it over a couple feet. As crazy as I hope that sounds, that is his reality. And I’m now eager to change it.
It’s strange to think that this realization was borne out of a car ride through a rich suburb of Santiago, but in the end it was quite beneficial. Not only did it refresh my senses, but it also prompted me to think about some projects I could start in San Lorenzo related to tree planting and environmental awareness. You know what they say about keeping plants around the house for happiness and sanity!
¡Que estéis bien!
Andrew
P.S. I suppose you’re all wondering what I’m actually doing at San Lorenzo… I should have that up and ready to read in the near future—probably on Monday or at the latest Tuesday. Take care!
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