August 7, 2009
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Back to school
The first day.
Walking in and wondering if anyone will notice.
Notice i took the time to look nice.
Notice that i don’t look exactly like everyone else.
I haven’t decided if i want them to notice or not. last year i introduced myself to each teacher and explained it was my first time studying in Portuguese. I didn’t know what to expect, and i wanted all the sympathy and leniency on grading that was possible. with some of the teachers it worked. they didn’t call on me to answer questions, and every once in awhile they would stop and ask if i understood…they would talk very slllllowwwwly when they asked. the first time i raised my hand and spoke in class, they all clapped. the teachers always liked to see my test, because i wrote the essays in English and then translated them to Portuguese.
it took me awhile to get used to things. really, i never did. in America, if you don’t care about the class, you tune out. you zone out. in Brasil, if you don’t care about the class, you talk and chatter and giggle. Since my major is Education–there is 32.3 women per man. lots of women. lots of giggling.
When we worked in groups, no one wanted to pick me–who wants the American with grammar skills of a 3rd grader? the semester was half over when Fabia called me over and said “You’re a part of my group now. Anytime you need a partner–you have one.” that made my life easier. no more “last kid picked for kickball” feeling. some of the girls sought me out. one asked me for money–Americans are rich, you know. one asked me to translate a song for her. who was my favorite singer? what did i think about the war in Iraq? For many of the girls, i became a pet–look at the lil puppy in the window, pat it on the head, and humor it. others simply ignored me. But even them, after sitting together in the same room every night for a semester–even they became something familiar, if not friendly.My classroom is a cement rectangle with those long florescent lights, hanging down and warped. four fans for when it is hot, iron bars for windows, doors open to keep air moving. a white board is in front, with a quote painted on from the director. i sit in a hard wooden chair that has a half-desk–like you fold out on an airplane. Last year, i found one for lefties (all the rest are on the right side) and would drag it to the front–three desks from the front–close enough to hear, but not to be noticed if i doodled. We don’t have any required books for classes–instead, there is a complex system of xerox copies, where half the class period is spent figuring out who is copying what and where to pay and how much it costs. I sat right behind the scandalous girl (there always is one) because she was interesting and had a cherry tattoo on her neck. she only lasted half the semester, dropping out with 1/3 of the class, making it a little less giggly.
And so i walk into the first class of the second semester. i am in a whole different class with different people. i didn’t realize i missed those giggly girls until i saw them on break…and wished for the familiar. but they are on the 3rd period (Brasil uses block studies) and i am tossed in with the 2nd–with a room twice the size and three times the people. our white board shoes the residue of past classes that can’t erase, and i hear the chatter rising from the back. i found my left-handed wooden desk with a sloping back and drug it up front–third row back (old habits are friendly).
I can pick out the blond scandalous girl and her group, who make a late entrance. one girl tells me she’s never had a friend from the “estates” and so i must become one. This time, i am not introducing myself to the teacher. i want to see if i can do it myself. i wonder if i will find a “Fabia” who will let me into her group. i wonder if this chattering group (with three men instead of one) will be magically turned into something familiar over this semester. i wonder if it will feel like home. The teacher says to divide into groups of ten–and someone is calling my name…
