Sometimes I Wish I Weren't an Anglophone

It feels blasphemous to even think this, let alone say it out loud. It's almost like a dirty secret, one that I'm ashamed to admit. Of all of the blessings I've had in my life (and there are many), one of them that has most deeply affected my path in life has been the fact that I speak English as my first language and that I come from a rich and powerful nation. My passport currently opens doors for me with no visa required in around 160 countries, and my native language is the lingua franca of basically the entire world.

And yet I sometimes wish I didn't speak English as my first language. 

I don't mean to sound like an ungrateful brat. I'm aware of how much speaking English has helped me thus far in life, and I do realize that I actually make a living just speaking my native language. (Of course, I know the grammar as well; that helps!) But there are moments when I wish I could trade in the status of "native speaker of English" and just speak it well as a second language instead.

Being a native English speaker, especially in Spain right now, means that I am a hot commodity. Spaniards are desperate to learn English, the one thing that they all seem to agree will protect them against the country's current staggering unemployment. Well, either that or it will allow them to move to some other country to work, whichever happens first. Professionals want to learn English to get a better job, and parents want their children to learn English so they will be employable someday too. And all of these people agree that there is no one better to learn from than a native speaker. After all, our pronunciation is perfect, right?

A few weeks ago, in the shared car on the way back from Galicia, we were all talking about our careers, and one of the university students in the back mentioned that he was trying to learn English. The driver threw out the idea that he should try to find a language exchange partner to improve. Unimpressed with the idea, he said "ya tengo un nativo," I already have a native.

Something about that sentence really rubbed me the wrong way, although I kept quiet about it in the moment. He has a native already? Not a friend who helps him with English, not a conversation partner, a native. As though all native English speakers were different models of the same device. What are we, like the latest bit of technology, a talking English machine? A walking interactive dictionary?

It's frustrating enough that just about every time we go on public transit, the people around us are really obviously eavesdropping to see if they can understand a little of what we're saying, as though we were a live-action roleplay for their English exam. But of course, I've learned the hard way that trying to make new friends here when you're a native English speaker can be a minefield as well. Whether it's online or in person, it's really annoying to be talking with someone in the language of the country I moved halfway around the world to be in, only to mention where I come from and have them palpably brighten.

"Oh, you're American!?"
"Yes."
"Wow, I've always wanted to travel to New York City! I'm trying to improve my English, you should help me! Let's get together again sometime!"

If they haven't already, cue them switching to (usually terrible) English on me and me plastering a fake smile on my face and saying "yeah, maybe..." while thinking to myself "NOT!"

Rereading that exchange, I know I sound like a real jerk for not wanting to help these poor people who just want to learn my native language. But is it so wrong of me to want people to be my friends because of who I am, and not what language I speak? Am I a jerk for being annoyed that I've had that same exact exchange, almost word for word, hundreds of times in my five years in Europe?

And most of all, is it a crime to not want to teach English for free when I know I could get paid to do so? Helping people with their English is my job; I do it all day every day with my preferred age group for good money. When I get off work, I just want to relax and think about other things besides explaining when to use the present perfect versus the simple past. I want to talk with people and just have fun. I really do not want to give free English lessons to adults! The way I see it, people asking me right off the bat to help them with their English is like if I were to meet a shopkeeper and immediately ask him if he could give me things for free from his store. No, probably not, right? So why should I have to feel bad about not wanting to help everybody with their English all the time?

 And the thing is, I've been on the other side of the whole 'trying desperately to learn a language' thing, and there have been lots of kind souls who have helped me. So I do often feel guilty for not wanting to return the favor with everyone I meet.  But doing so makes me feel used, like a tool rather than a human being with interests and feelings. I don't mind helping my friends occasionally with their English, but that's because our friendship is based on things other than my native language and their desperation to learn it.

The other annoying part about these people switching to English on me like this is that I feel like since I'm the one who moved halfway around the world to learn another language, I should be allowed the chance to practice that language when I'm not at work. I do often tell people this, and most people are gracious enough to take the hint that I would prefer to speak in their language with them, but some others are really persistent about always trying to practice their bad English on me, and that's when I start to get really annoyed.

There are, of course, ways to practice languages that are of mutual benefit to both parties, like language exchanges. That way, I would be helping the other person with their English, and they would be helping me with French or Spanish or even Galician. I've done a fair amount of these, and they used to be really helpful. In French or Galician, they still might be. But in Spanish, as conceited as this sounds, I feel I've moved past the point where I really need to have someone correcting me all the time. My Spanish is at a level of C1.4 according to the Common European Framework (one microstep away from C2, or totally bilingual, argh), which I know since I took the practice test put out by the Cervantes Institute just the other day. So, I really feel like I'm on a tier where I don't really need language exchanges, because the benefit to me is much smaller than the effort I would need to put out in helping others with their English. Maybe I just need to find partners whose English is at the same level as my Spanish, but those are fairly thin on the ground in Spain. Anyway, I'd rather just have regular conversations in Spanish with people here, without worrying about giving equal time to both languages. Does that make me selfish? Maybe. But like I said, I moved halfway around the world to speak Spanish, so that's what I want to do!

Funnily enough, this was almost never a problem in France. Maybe it's because they're so stereotypically snooty about speaking any language other than their own. Or perhaps it's because they're embarrassed that they have the worst English in Europe (apart from Russia, the Ukraine and Turkey, which...are not really Europe, not to me). Hardly anybody ever forced me to speak in English, although they made an awful lot of mean comments about my French at first. But at the same time, they love to take English words and franglais them because c'est cool. I don't know, France is bizarre. But at least I got to practice a helluva lot of French while I was there!

If I weren't a native English speaker, I like to imagine that I wouldn't have these problems. People wouldn't give me so much unwanted attention for my native language. I would probably be really happy to speak English, because it would be a chance for me to practice too. I could feel proud of my English, as something I'd worked hard on, rather than something I was basically born with. Alas, earwax that will never be the case. For better or for worse, English is and always will be my first language, and I can't escape the fact that the downsides come with the enormous advantages. I guess I'll just have to learn to concentrate more on the benefits of it, like the fact that when I go to Prague for two days, no one expects me to learn Czech, and I get to just speak my first language the whole time with no problems.

I do have to say, as well, that even as I was writing this I was feeling the obnoxiousness of my privilege. "Waaah everyone wants to learn my native language to improve their lives, and I just want to either be left alone or make a profit off of them and they won't let me!" Also, "Waaah people won't let me practice a second language that I'm only learning because I think it's fun, when in truth I have no real pressing need to learn any foreign language because I'm a native speaker of the world's lingua franca!" I know, poor poor me.

But I would love it if people would see me for who I am, instead of as an English machine. That would be pretty awesome. Just sayin'.

10 Times When Foreign Languages Felt Impossible

I think most of us who have ever tried it can attest that learning to speak a foreign language well is no easy task. Even just making mistakes in front of our peers in school is pretty embarrassing for most language learners, let alone us few brave (crazy?) souls who have moved to a foreign country and look foolish speaking another language every single day of our lives. 

So innocent, if only I'd known what was in store for me...

Of course, it gets easier with time and a great deal of practice, but unfortunately foreign language learning is a lifelong process. Even after years of practice, when you think you know what you're doing, little things can surprise you. You still make mistakes. Silly ones, yes. Things that you thought you should have down by now. Things that will forever give you away as a non-native speaker. 

 Even more annoyingly, there are certain moments when speaking a foreign language is SO MUCH HARDER than it is at others. It's these moments when you feel like everything you've learned has been a waste, when you're completely lost for words. The times you trip up seem to always be at the EXACT moment when you need to sound your best. 

What I've learned is that strong emotions and making sense in a foreign language do not mix. 

I've had a LOT of these uncomfortable instances, some worse than others. To give you an example of the types of moments that make my ability to speak a foreign language go right out the window, here is my list of the top 10 moments when speaking a foreign language felt utterly impossible.

At First:

Getxo

1. I'd just arrived in Spain for the first time, ready for 9 months of studying abroad in Bilbao. I was reasonably confident in my Spanish skills, having taken a few semesters of it before leaving. So the very first day in town, I'd been told by my study abroad program that I needed to make my way to my new apartment on my own and sign the paperwork with my new landlord. I was a little annoyed at not being given more help (even the address indicated on a map would have been nice!), but I thought I knew enough Spanish to figure it out. So I hailed a cab to take me to the little town of Getxo. Except the cabbie didn't know the address I'd told him, and couldn't find it on his GPS. He ended up dropping me near Getxo's main square, telling me to try calling someone to help me. Yes, great idea, if I had a phone OR the landlord's phone number! So, dragging my heavy suitcases behind me, I started walking until I found someone to ask about the street. One terribly annoying thing about Getxo at this time was that all the names for everything had recently been changed into Basque on the street signs, but none of the people in town actually used those names when referring to said places, they still used the old Spanish names. So, almost no one knew what street I wanted. But finally, one little old lady knew where I needed to go, and was happy to give me directions. One problem though. I had no idea how to say the words left or right. So...her directions made absolutely no sense to me. Pretending I'd understood (being too embarrassed to say I hadn't caught a single word), I went off in the direction she'd pointed, hoping for the best. After dragging my suitcases around what felt like half the town, and following several more pointing fingers, I did eventually make it there. And later that night, I looked up "a la izquierda" and "a la derecha" and committed them firmly to memory!

The double RR in Calle Gobelaurre didn't help my cause, I'm sure!

2. A few days later, my new roommates and I were trying to order a pizza over the phone. In general, speaking a foreign language on the phone is utter torture, although I didn't yet know this at the time. But I was about to learn how the absence of body language and hand signals makes a HUGE difference in comprehension. I started ordering the pizza, thinking everything was fine, but the girl on the other end had no idea what I was saying and was getting increasingly agitated. My Spanish was so bad that the worker at Telepizza thought I was a prank caller and hung up on me! 

3. I had lots of problems eating at first! Another day not long after that, I was starving and wanted a chicken kebab. However, I couldn't remember if the word chicken was masculine or feminine in Spanish, so I just took a chance and said one to the worker at the kebab shop. But of course, I picked the wrong one. Pollo means chicken, but change that last O to an A, and suddenly you have a slang word for penis. So yes, I asked for a roasted penis kebab, and the look on the man's face was priceless!

Bilbao

4. My second semester in Bilbao, after many situations like these and realizing that my Spanish needed some serious help, I decided to change from living in an apartment with other Americans to a homestay with a Spanish family. I imagined them taking me in like one of their own, teaching me about the Spanish language and their culture at the same time, like my own parents had done when we had exchange students when I was little. However, that was not to be. I was soon introduced to the world of people who host foreign exchange students mostly for the money said students pay them. I barely saw my host parents in the first few months I was living with them, and we rarely talked. 

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I wanted to try to rectify the situation and get closer with them, so I asked them if I could try to cook them some traditional American Thanksgiving foods so we could have a little celebration, and they seemed excited about the idea. I'd never cooked Thanksgiving dinner before, so I decided to give myself plenty of time and start in the morning. I was making my way pretty blindly, following directions my mom was giving me on Skype. Around 2pm I'd just taken a squash out of the oven, and my host mom came home, upset. "What are you still doing in the kitchen? My husband will be home any minute wanting his lunch, and you can't still be in here! He's going to be really angry! Finish this up, fast! What do you still have left to do?" 

Surprised, I tried to explain that I was going to pick the seeds out of the squash, then leave it to cool while I made the pie crust, then put that in the pie pan, then I needed to mix the rest of the ingredients together with the squash, and put them in the crust, then cook it all. O sea, not a quick task. I offered to take a break while her husband had his lunch and continue later. But she wasn't having any of that. I'm pretty certain than my explanation of what I had left to do had left something to be desired, since she picked up the bowl of squash, seeds and all, and dumped it into the pie pan. "Finished! Now move it!" Frustrated, I tried once again to explain just how many steps I had left to complete, that there couldn't be seeds in the squash. But now she was angry. "Your Spanish is awful. You don't make any sense. You're not improving at all, and no wonder, you're always on Skype with your American boyfriend and your parents," she yelled. "And what is this nonsense, 'cups, tablespoons?' This is Spain, and if you want to be here, you need to use the metric system!" She went on and on. 

Holding back tears, I continued trying to work and explain to her what I needed to do, but it soon became impossible. I'll never forget the helplessness I felt in that moment, when I just wanted to explain myself, defend myself against my host mom's attacks, and the words simply weren't there. Even if I HAD known the cooking vocabulary I needed, the strong emotions brought up by all the yelling made thinking about verb conjugations and the gender of nouns seriously impossible. All I could think about was not letting her see the tears in my eyes, and how the lump in my throat made it feel like I was choking with even the smallest attempts to talk. Eventually, I had to tell her I was going to stop for awhile. Then I went to my bedroom so I could cry about the whole situation on the phone to my mom. This remains, to date, the hardest time I've ever had speaking Spanish, and that awful feeling will probably never fade from memory completely. 

Yes, the pie did eventually get made, thank god, and I gave most of it to my friends instead of my awful host family!

At Work:

5. A few years later, I was getting off the bus from the airport in Vigo, ready to start working as an auxiliar de conversación. My new boss came to pick me up from the bus station and take me to A Cañiza, where I was going to be working. I'd seen on the internet that the place was remote, but as we headed off into the mountains, I began to realize just how far from everything it really was. He got me all checked into a hotel and told me he'd see me the next day, at the school, which was just next door. "Just walk in and ask for me with the secretary, she'll know where to find me," he said. Jet-lagged out of my mind, I agreed without thinking and made my way up to my room and collapsed into bed. 

A Cañiza

What felt like moments later, I heard a knocking on the door. Confused, I saw the cleaning lady poke her head in. "Son las 12, tienes que irte." It was already noon the next day! I quickly got dressed and checked out, leaving my things at the front desk, and headed over to the school. The secretary did indeed lead me to the director, who quickly introduced me to my new colleagues. So many new people! My head was spinning with all the names. I was quickly led off by the head of the English department, who wanted to know what types of lessons I had planned for the high school students I'd be working with. Huh?? I thought I was just an assistant?? When it became clear that I had never taught before and had no idea what I was doing, she led me back to the staff room, where people suddenly started asking me where I was going to live. "Uhhhh....I don't know," I said, completely overwhelmed. I had thought about it, of course, but I didn't really know what I should do, and I'd been hoping there would be people there to advise me. Soon enough, there was a group of teachers gathered around me, arguing about whether Ourense or Vigo was better, while I tried desperately to follow the conversation through my jetlagged fog, unsure whether I was actually going to get any say in where I'd be living or not. I couldn't figure out how to break into the conversation to give my opinion since they were speaking so fast (not that I was really sure what my opinion was anyway). Finally, it was decided that I would get a ride from one of the English teachers back to Vigo. So that was where I ended up living! 

As we drove 45 minutes back towards Vigo, I indexed my mind for topics to chat about. It had been years since I'd had to make small talk in Spanish, and I had forgotten a lot. I felt super rusty, in addition to still being so jetlagged. We covered the basics in about 10 minutes, where I came from and why I wanted to be in Spain, etc. And then? Wanting to make a good impression on my new coworker, not wanting to be known from the very beginning as the "Awkward American," and not able to remember enough vocabulary to talk about more complicated topics, I started rambling about the only Spanish words I could think of at the time--family. So I talked at length about my nephews and niece...for a full 30 minutes. 

Eventually, as we drove an hour and a half together per day several times a week over the next two years, my skills in making small talk in Spanish got better...a little. And my poor coworker learned a LOT of random things about my nephews and niece! 

One of the best views of Vigo

6. When I was working in A Cañiza, one of my coworkers was always trying to convince me to have lunch with everybody in the comedor. I did sometimes, when I was too lazy to pack myself a lunch, but most days I didn't feel like paying to eat school cafeteria food. However, I also had another reason not to eat with them, which was that it was SO AWKWARD. Most of the time at school, the teachers who didn't speak English would talk to me in Spanish, which was fine. I understood them well enough one-on-one, and my Spanish was improving enormously. However, at lunchtime, when talking to each other, many of them would revert back to their native galego, the beautiful cousin to both Spanish and Portuguese spoken in Galicia. I have no problem with galego, I think it's a very pretty language, but back then, especially at first, I couldn't understand a word they were saying. And this was exacerbated at lunchtime, when the cries of the children were mixed with forks clanking on plates, when there was a group of 15 Spaniards all excited to talk to one another and constantly interrupting in increasingly louder voices. I would sit there, trying with all my might to follow along for about the first 10 minutes, until I got too tired and gave up, staring off into space. This isn't the only time I've felt bewildered during a mealtime conversation surrounded by foreigners, but I've rarely felt as lost as I did when surrounded by people shouting and interrupting each other in galego.

Xa.

7. One morning earlier this school year in Alcalá, I woke up to a terrible text message from my mom. "Grandma fell. Not expected to live." Distraught, and knowing that they would be flying out to Arizona in the morning and I couldn't call until they arrived, I was distracted all morning at school. Finally, at lunch time it was late enough that I could go outside and try to call. Cursing Skype for not connecting me immediately when I felt like I was going to go crazy if I didn't hear something soon, I eventually got some more details via Whatsapp until I had to go back to eat some lunch before my next class. Unable to stop thinking about it all, unable to cover the distress on my face, the second I walked into the lunchroom everyone knew something was wrong. A group of teachers gathered around me as I sat down, wanting to know if I was all right. Although I appreciated their concern so much, trying to explain the situation in Spanish seemed impossible, when I needed technical medical vocabulary that I've never learned. The second the first words left my lips, tears started running down my face. A hug from someone helped more than she probably knew, but I was incredibly grateful when they let me stop talking and eat my green beans in silence, dabbing at my eyes as I chewed. It was so embarrassing to have cried like that in front of everyone, especially when Spanish culture is so much about showing a proper face to the world, but in that moment I was a sad emotional American, and I didn't care. But once again, I learned that speaking another language when you're crying feels almost impossible.

In Love:

8. I wish I could say this has only happened to me once, but it's a recurring incident. I'm single, so most of the years I've been in Europe I've been dating, or flirting with, or had a crush on different guys. Dating is hard enough in your own culture, but add different body language and a foreign tongue on top of that, and you have a guaranteed recipe for looking stupid. Something you have to know about Spaniards is that they touch each other WAY more than Americans do. Most of the time, this overly touchiness just makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable, but there have been several occasions where I got confused and thought that the fact that some guy kept touching me meant he was into me. So, I thought, I would try to flirt back. Except, oh my god is flirting about a million times harder in another language. You have no idea what the typical expressions for flirting are, you want desperately to sound smooth, except that with every word that leaves your mouth, you cringe, knowing you sound like Tarzan. "You boy. Me girl. We date?"And then, it turns out, he was just touching you because he's Spanish and that's what they do. Uffda! 

9. Last year in France, I actually did go out with a guy for awhile. Long enough for him to introduce me to first his grandparents and then his parents. His grandparents were adorable and hilarious, particularly the grandpa, who kept telling me funny stories about fighting in World War II and his American penpal who may or may not have been dead, since he hadn't heard from her in awhile. He immediately put me at ease with his humor and his incessant conversation, which didn't require me to talk very much. Meeting the Frenchie's parents, however, made me infinitely more nervous. Was I supposed to use vous with them or not? Would my French hold up to extended conversation? I was lucky, because I ended up using tu and they weren't offended, and they were very nice. However, sounding good in French with them wasn't easy, especially when they fed me tiny sea snails while we were doing so, which I was supposed to pull out of their shell with a safety pin, put on bread, and eat. Goodbye, any hopes of not sounding OR looking foolish! 

10. A couple of times here in Europe, I've gone out with a guy long enough that we felt ready to say the L word to each other. Except, in a foreign language, it's not the L word. And that's really hard. If expressing your emotions in general in another language is bizarre, because the act of using that other language turns off your emotions and makes you more rational, then trying to express this particular emotion is SUPER difficult. In my experience, having someone tell you te quiero or je t'aime just doesn't, can't, mean as much as if it were in your native language. To me, those words will never have the same impact as saying, in English, I love you. It is what it is, but that doesn't make speaking another language in this situation any easier!

In the end, this is the only solution to sounding like an idiot in a foreign language, whether the situation is happy or sad. Laugh it off, there's nothing else you can do about it!

Please, god, tell me I'm not the only one to have had these ridiculously hard moments speaking a foreign language. Am I???

On Negativity in the Classroom

Something that occasionally annoys me about some (usually older) Spaniards is that they complain all the time. I'm no saint in this area myself, but I do feel that it's a problem and it's something I'm working on. In English, we have a saying: "No one likes a Negative Nancy."

I'm actually not sure if there's an equivalent in Spanish, but I wouldn't be surprised if there weren't.

Spaniards have a habit of being very direct--it's almost embedded into their language, and most definitely into their culture. For example, it isn't seen as at all rude here to comment on someone's weight or appearance. Over the years, I've been told I'm looking fat, that I'm looking too thin, that I look tired, that I look really sick...all serious no-no's in English.

What do you MEAN, I look fat today??

...Now that we've established that sometimes Spaniards like to tell me I look like crap, where was I going with this...?

Ah, yes. So Spaniards tell it like it is. When I say "We're past the winter solstice, from here on out, the days are getting longer! Spring is coming!" they look at me darkly and say "The worst of the cold is yet to come, you'll see," all sinister-like, as though there were no point in looking forward to spring.

Um, OK, great, thanks, guys... That makes me feel so much better...

"The sun will come out tomorrow?" More like, you will never see the sun EVER AGAIN! BWAHAHAHA!

That sounds trite, but their defeatism really frustrates me when we're talking about more serious things than the weather. For example, the students at the schools I've worked at. Occasionally, when certain students or classes really misbehave, I will hear teachers make comments like "They're all going to end up in jail one day," as though that were a fact, and all we have to do is put up with them until they day they can be safely locked away.

Another gem I've heard, in reference to students from different backgrounds who are far behind their classmates and really struggling, is "That student can't learn. [He/She] is lazy, because [he/she] is from (such and such foreign country)." So that takes any responsibility away from the teacher in needing to help them. It's a lost cause, so why try?

Aside from being really shockingly racist, this upsets me because if the teacher is instilling in the kids the idea that they are bad and can do no better than they are right now, why would they try to improve?

Maybe I'm just a naïve young teacher, but I think we shouldn't be saying such negative things to or about young people, especially within their earshot. I really prefer to think that there is hope for everyone, and perhaps instead of just constantly complaining about how "impossible" some of our students are, we should instead recognize that they are the ones who need our help the most.

Yes, I've been at the end of my rope just like everyone else; I've had those frustrating days where I'm at my wits' end and feel like I will never get through to such and such kid or class. I've often felt like I really don't know what I'm doing. But I still want to, have to, think that there is hope for everyone. If not, why are we even teaching? Just to get a paycheck? That seems like truly the wrong reason to be molding young minds, if you ask me.

I'm not saying that all Spaniards are like this, and I'm certainly not saying that American teachers are necessarily better. I'm just saying that right now, today, this fatalistic mindset is really bugging me, and I want to tell every single Spanish teacher, from every school I've worked in, to take those minutes they usually spend moaning about how little José (for example) is impossible to deal with and instead use them trying to think of ways to give him extra attention.

He's not a lost cause until you make him believe he is.

The ABCs of Teaching Abroad

(Please note, this is very different from teaching the ABCs abroad, which I have explained before!)

I haven't blogged much in awhile, not because I'm not bursting with things to say (really, I am!), but because my life is so busy and full right now that I have TOO MANY things to blog about and not enough time to do it! So, here's a quickie with some cute anecdotes about small children, who make up a large part of my life right now. And who doesn't love small children? (Please note, if you do detest younglings, maybe you should forego the rest of this post...)

Without further ado, the ABCs of teaching abroad!

A is for Alisa, aka TEACHEEEER, both of which are my accepted names in Spanish schools. I'm also known as Alisiña in Galicia, and more recently, Alisita here in Madrid. Curiously, I was never Alisette in France, but I suppose this is because the French are more formal and all teachers are known as Madame or Monsieur.

B is for British English, which is occasionally the bane of my existence. No, I cannot put on a fake British accent for class. Yes, I still feel awkward about saying rubber instead of eraser. And yes, it makes me mad when the children get yelled at for saying ON the weekend instead of AT the weekend. Both are correct, people!

C is for Cafeteria Food, which I have a love/hate relationship with. Love that it's free, hate that it makes me fat, am ambivalent about the taste most of the time. Some days are great, and others...not! I guess that's a good metaphor for life (now I'm getting too philosophical about mashed potatoes, oops).

D is for Duck Duck Goose, which I just taught to my four-year-olds, who really loved it...until one of them tripped another one on purpose and had to go in time-out. After that incident, the game had to be sliiiiightly more controlled!

E is for Extracurricular English Classes, which I'm really struggling with. I have two hours a week alone with 12 four, five, and six-year-olds, and I'm not allowed to speak any Spanish with them, not even for punishment. So far, this has resulted in utter chaos. All of this is quite new to me, and if anyone out there has advice on teaching mixed ages and levels, I would greatly appreciate it!

F is for Fistfights, something I hope to never again witness in one of my classes. The moment when I realized two 20-year-old French boys who were taller than me were about to duke it out last year was one of the most terrifying of my life, and I wish to never ever repeat the experience.

G is for Guiris, aka the other auxiliares at my school. There are 6 of us, and I've found it's pretty nice not being totally on my own and having people to share my experiences with. Some of my fellow guiris have become my best friends here in Alcalá!

H is for Hugs, which I get a lot of from my little ones. This is one of my favorite things about working with small children, how affectionate they are! It's also something I love about Spain, that preschool teachers are allowed to hug and kiss their students.

I is for Ill, which I've been pretty much constantly since starting work this year. Playing with preschoolers half the day probably isn't helping the situation, but I'm trying to be vigilant about washing my hands afterwards and hopefully things will get better.

J is for Jungle Gym, which is my four-year-olds' favorite word. It is absolutely adorable to hear them scream "junga gym!" whenever I point to a picture of one.

K is for King of the Day, a system I'm going to implement in my extracurricular lessons. The general idea is that a different child will be given the responsibility of keeping the others' behavior in line each day (as well as a crown to wear, a que mola, ¿no?). We'll see if that works to keep the classroom from seeming like a total zoo!

L is for Love, which is how I feel about working with little ones this year!

M is for Madame Chicago, as I was called in France. The teenage boys who gave me this nickname were a little cheeky and sometimes irritated me, but I quite liked the name. It's cute, don't you think?

N is for No, which you would think would translate perfectly to Spanish, given that it's the exact same word in both languages. Somehow, this is not always the case in class, and I'm still puzzled as to why... (No, I'm not really. Students love to use the language barrier to their advantage!)

O is for Other teachers at my school, who seem nice, but who I've been struggling to connect with. I would like to make friends with some of the younger ones and hang out after school, but we're not quite to that point yet. Hopefully soon!

P is for Pockets, the name of the book we're using in my four-year-old classes this year. There is a song that goes along with this book that is CONSTANTLY in my head and I fear it may drive me mad. "Pockets, pockets, let's have fun..." Aghhhhhhhh!

Q is for Quiet, which I no longer know the meaning of. I'm learning fun classroom management strategies in my master's classes to try to make it happen though!

R is for Real, as in "Are those your real eyes?" This is a question I'll never forget from one of my Galician students. Had she genuinely never seen blue eyes before? (Note: I know for a fact she had, as Gallegos are Celtic and many of them are blue-eyed.) I was tempted to be snarky and say something like "No, I had my real ones surgically replaced." However, I generally try to contain my sarcasm with children and my actual response was a bit kinder.

S is for Sexy, which one of my fifth-graders accidentally confused with the word "funny" today in class, when describing his father. As unprofessional as it was, I was entirely unable to control my laugher. Tee hee hee.

T is for Tijers, or what my Spanglish-speaking four-year-olds often say instead of "scissors." This has caused the historical linguist in me to wonder if the words have the same root. Does anyone know?

U is for Uniforms, which my students this year have to wear. I miss getting fashion tips from girls fifteen years younger than me, however on the upside I've learned a new word, which is babi aka "art smock," which all primary students must wear over their shirt and pants. Ah, private schools...

V is for Vergüenza, one of the main barriers between Spaniards (and the French, you guys aren't off the hook here!) and speaking fluent English. The word means embarrassment, and it's something Spaniards (et les français) tend to feel whenever they have the impression that they may be seen as ridiculous. They fear making mistakes, because they think they look silly when they make them, and so many people never even bother to try. Luckily, at my school this year, English is emphasized so much from such an early age that the students have mostly gotten over the fear of ridiculousness, which I think is amazing in a culture where being seen as strange, unique, or different is definitely not a good thing.

W is for White Out, which Europeans are obsessed with. One time, I told a European student to just scribble it out when he made a mistake in pen, and he gave me the most horrified look and said "but that would be so MESSY!" Ahhh, the preoccupation with propriety here that drives me mad on occasion...

X is for eXtroverted, which teaching is teaching me to be...at least a little bit more. At the very least, I now know how to speak loudly and clearly to a full room of people, something which would have been difficult for shy little me four years ago.

Y is for Yelling, which happens a lot more in Spanish schools than American ones. Spaniards are louder than us in general, so I guess it makes sense, but I still flinch when anyone raises their voice, regardless of the fact that it's directed at the students and not at me.

Z is for Zoo, which is sometimes how a Spanish classroom feels. Students crawling on the floor? Check. Kicking each other? Yup. Throwing things? Definitely. ...How exactly is this different from being in a monkey cage?


As much as I like to joke around about my silly students, both past and present, in the end I really like my job and am very proud of each and every one of them. I'm so glad I accidentally fell into the profession of teaching abroad! Also, things like the note below make it all worth it. :-)

Reasons being an American in Europe is hard

This post has been a long time coming, several years in the making in fact. I suppose it's no surprise to anyone that life as an expat can be...challenging, in a word. The things below are some of the most difficult things I've really battled with here in Europe—not small things like there being no peanut butter, but differences in belief systems. This post is a bit of a change from my usual style, a bit more “heavy” as Michael J. Fox might say. But it also feels real, and I think it's a good change to focus sometimes on the more complicated parts of the life I've chosen. And I want to make it clear that I'm not complaining, I'm very aware that this life was my choice, that if I feel it's all too much I should just go home. I'm merely reflecting here on some issues that have come up for me.

And before I get into it, I also want to write a disclaimer: I'm making a lot of generalizations in this post, some of which I know may be offensive to some people. I apologize in advance for saying that “Europeans are like _____” when of course it's not true of everybody. I'm speaking generally from what I've seen in my few years of experience living in Spain and France, and traveling to and having friends from various other countries. But if you're offended, if you think I'm totally off-base, feel free to tell me about it! I don't mind having my ideas challenged, if that helps me grow as a person.

So without further ado, some things I've struggled with while living here in Europe.

The age gap.
By this I mean the discrepancy between how I act, think and feel as a 25-year-old compared with how your average 25-year-old European acts, thinks and feels. Because I've been living (far) away from my parents since I was 18 (that's 7 years, if you were counting), I'm quite independent by now, and used to taking care of myself, to not seeing my family that often, etc. Because university is (ridiculously) expensive in America, I finished as quickly as possible, when I was 22, and never looked back. I have no plans of doing a masters unless it's free or close to it, because I simply don't have $40,000+ in my back pocket. This means I've been working for a living for 2.5 years now, and I've had some time to reflect on my career and life direction. Because nearly all my friends back in the States are starting to have stable jobs, houses, cars, husbands and kids, I feel pressure to have these things too. I think my extended family and friends often wonder why I'm wasting so much time in finding a job, a man, and settling down. However, here, many many 25-year-olds are still in or just finishing university. They probably still live with or near to their parents. They may not really know how to cook, manage their paycheck, or run a household. If they don't know what to do with themselves for work (and many of them don't, having just finished studying), they can always go back and get a masters—it won't cost very much! Because, if at all, they've only just barely started in the working world, their lives are still exciting and unstable. They still want to go travel, see the world, have fun and not worry. I've been there, done that, and I'm ready for something a little more permanent. But when I look for a full-time job, or a proper boyfriend, or a place to live for more than a year at a time, people here wonder what my rush is. I'm “only 25,” after all. “So young,” they tell me. Yes, of course it's young...but I wish people understood that 25 in my culture doesn't mean the same thing it does here. That I have nagging worries about being left behind, about playing Peter Pan while everyone else back home grows up. I feel more mentally in-step with people 3-5 years older than me, but I get irritated with them when they call me a baby and tell me that I'm too young to have really experienced anything in the world. So there's a bit of a disconnect from my peers here.

The insularity. 

So many people in Europe spend their entire lives living within a few hours' radius of where they were born. That's the dream, to never have to be too far away from family. Because of this, their ties with their family and friends tend to be very strong. It's not uncommon, if they do live away from home, to go back often on the weekends. In this way, many young Europeans always have a safety blanket, no matter if they're living on their own or not. They can always go home for the weekend if they feel lonely. They always have friends just a few hours away to visit, people they've probably known their whole lives. Me, I barely talk with my friends at home because of the time difference, and I haven't lived in the same state as most of them for 7 years. I no longer feel close enough with most of them to call them up out of the blue when I feel lonely. And that happens a lot here (feeling lonely), where these friend groups that have been strengthening since infancy are more than a little difficult to break into.

The work ethic. 

Because the work ethic is so strong in the States, people often hear about what I do for work here, see the trips I take, and think I'm on some kind of extended vacation. I have recurring guilt about not having a “real” job, about working as much as I “should” be, about not earning enough money to put some away for a rainy day. I feel bad for adopting the ethic of working to live instead of vice versa, even though I truly believe it's a better way to live life. The cultural assumptions I grew up with tell me differently, and it often takes a conscious effort to relax instead of worrying about working harder, about being more efficient. But then, if relaxing takes effort, is it really relaxation? I don't know the answer to this question, and I feel a sense of conflict about it.

The stereotypes.

“What sorts of things do we eat in America?” I asked in all my first classes here. Without fault, their answers were “Hamburgers!” and “McDo!” “What do Americans like?” “Guns!” “What do we watch on TV?” “THE SIMPSONS!!!!!” Yes, it's nice that the kids here can relate to my culture. I'm glad that they have a reason to be interested in learning English. But at the same time, unlike an assistant teacher from a less-well-known country, there's less novelty in our culture and traditions. They already know all about Santa Claus and the Super Bowl just from the movies. Instead of teaching new, exciting things about my culture, I spend most of my time just trying to break stereotypes. And even when I do succeed in teaching something new about America, I feel guilt that I'm perpetuating its cultural dominance.

The English. 

The language, not the people. Because of said American cultural takeover, almost everyone in Europe speaks at least a little English, and many of them are eager to practice. This is wonderful when I'm looking for ways to earn money, or am in desperate need of friends. But when I want to really dig in and learn the language of the country I live in? Sometimes it's more difficult because I'm an English speaker. People will switch to English on me when they hear my awkward French, thinking that they're helping. But when that happens all the time, I never get a chance to get any better!

The assumptions about the crisis. 

So many people here here think that America is still some kind of “promised land,” where the job market is great and it's no problem to get hired straight out of university. I don't mean to underestimate the impact of the crisis in Europe, but it's had a definite affect in America too. No, unemployment for under-30s is no whopping 50% like in Spain. But in Spain, many under-30s are still in university and living with their parents, and they still have guaranteed health insurance. They can still draw unemployment from the government for more than a few months. In America, it's very rare to continue studying and living with your parents after the age of about 22—that's just not seen as “acceptable” in American culture. And good jobs are not just coming out of the woodwork, either. Many young people, if they are employed, work long hours without health insurance, with two weeks or less a year of vacation time, at a job that pays so little they can't afford to buy healthy food or live a good lifestyle. But then when this overwork makes them sick for too many days a year, their employer most likely can fire them without recourse. What I'm saying is, America is suffering too, and even if I do go back, I can't just expect to have a good job handed to me. America is no promised land of jobs, SUVs and flat-screen TVs. At least, not for many.

The visas.

This one sounds super obvious, but most Europeans don't realize just how hard it is to get a work visa here, as a non-EU citizen. Every time I worry out loud about trying to find a permanent job in order to stay, people tell me to just go out and look, that lots of places want native English teachers. Yes, they do, but they don't want them unless they already have work papers. And those are almost impossible to get, because a company wishing to sponsor a person for them needs to prove that said potential employee is so valuable to the company that no person of better quality can be found in the ENTIRE EU. Since that includes Great Britain, I'm more or less S-O-L as an English teacher, unless I wish to continue being an assistant forever. People from here don't understand this, and it gets frustrating having to constantly explain it.

The distance. 

Duh, again. But I don't think many Europeans think much about just how big the distance is between my home and where I live currently. They think they understand homesickness and culture shock because they did an Erasmus year away in another country. I'm not saying that anything they felt wasn't legitimate, but it's just not the same as being from almost 8,000 kilometers away. I can't fly home for the weekend when I really miss it; there's no Ryanair to Chicago. I can't call my family whenever I feel homesick, because half of the time I'm awake they're asleep and vice versa. I can't have people just send me care packages when I really miss or need certain items from home, because it costs more than $60 to send a tiny box. I can't even afford to send lots of postcards home, because overseas postage is so expensive!

As with all of these things, I'm not really complaining, I'm just saying...I wish people realized a little more what life is like right now for me!!

The need to share all this is (probably) brought on by recent personal difficulties and a feeling of homesickness; I miss my family, and life is difficult here sometimes. No matter how comfortable I feel in Europe, these are some of the things that will always remind me that I'm “from away” (as they say in Maine). I'm not European, and I never will be. Vestiges of my Americanness will always clash slightly with the way of life here, and I will always have to accept that. But some pills are more difficult to swallow than others.

Am I alone in feeling like a stranger in a strange land? Or do we all feel a little lost sometimes?

My First Impressions of France

I know you've all been dying to know exactly how things have been going here in my new life in France, and I haven't exactly been delivering the goods. But I'm sure many of you also know just how hard moving and getting settled in can be, especially when it's cut in half by two weeks of vacation (such a difficult life, I know).

Intra-Muros, the old town of St. Malo

So to make this easy on all of us, here's a list of some of the things that have really caught my eye or surprised or impressed me about France so far.

The timetable

 I only "worked" (I say that lightly because really I was mostly waiting around for the administration to decide on my schedule) for 3 weeks at school before I had a two week vacation. In fact, French high schools have a two week vacation for every seven weeks they're in school. They say it's because of the long hours that they're there (8-5, most days), but it still seems like a pretty lush system to me!

The spire of the old town's cathedral with the sunset

 Related to the whole "working so hard while they're in school" thing, French schools have Wednesday afternoons off. I repeat, on Wednesdays they're done with school at noon. Wow!

And one more thing on the theme of strange timetables...in France, everything is closed on Mondays. Banks, shops, the works. It's therefore slightly inconvenient that Monday is my day off--it's like Sunday, take two! They say that this is because shopkeepers feel they deserve a full two days to rest just like everyone else in the world. I agree, in theory, but I'm starting to notice a pattern here with the whole "we deserve lots of time off because..." thing! It's rather confusing, because I keep trying to go out and get things accomplished at the bank or the store at a time that I think they should be open...only to be foiled by weird opening hours. C'est la vie, I guess.

The Food

French food has the fame of being among the best in the world, right? So far, that's mostly been my observation. Unsurprisingly, I've been regularly eating my weight in brie and Orangina, but what has surprised me is the fact that I've actually gotten sick of eating bread and carbs. I never in my life thought I would say that, to be honest. But here I eat nothing but baguette sandwiches, crêpes, kouign aman (a Breton cake with a name in Breton, pronounced queen ahmahn), pain au chocolat, etc. etc. And I'm...weirdly tired of it. Woe is me, I know.

Mini kouign amans

The Language

I expected to have problems with the French language after having lived in Spain for 3 years, to be constantly mixing it with Spanish. And so far, my fears have absolutely come true. I keep saying things like "Oui, c'est limpe," which means...absolutely nothing in French, and then people stare at me like I'm insane. I'm trying to say "Yes, it's clean," except the word for clean in French is propre, which has nothing to do with the word in Spanish (limpio). Oops.

But I have absolutely noticed and been surprised about a few things about the way that real French people talk, which I never knew or studied about in my classes in the US. For example, they use the word quoi (what) as a placefiller, so many of their sentences sound something like "Blahblahblah quoi, blahblah quoi, blahblahblahblahblah quoi!"

I knew about them calling McDonalds McDo and university la fac (sounds like the f-word), but I now also know that they call Coca-Cola simply coca, which makes me think they're talking about cocaine...every single time.

And I do remember learning in high school that French people sometimes use on (one, the pronoun) instead of nous (we), in order to avoid having to remember more complicated verb conjugations. But I had no idea it was so widespread! I've barely heard the word nous since I've been here.

Low tide in a neighboring town (Dinard)

I've also been surprised by the amount of people I'm apparently allowed to use the informal "you" (tu) with. I'd always been taught that as a sign of respect in France, you used the formal "you" (vous) with most people, except your friends (and especially with your elders). So I expected to be vous-ing it up at work, particularly, where I'm by far the youngest teacher. But no, so far I guess we're playing by what I think of as "Spain rules," where everyone is tu except the elderly and people in restaurants and stores. I remain confused.

The People

The French have the fame of being arrogant, but so far I haven't noticed that at all. Everyone here has been nothing but friendly to me. But what has surprised me is how funny I find them and their little habits.

Galette, or a salty crêpe, is a typically Breton food

For example, people (women especially) sometimes make this weird noise when talking. It's a quick inhalation, almost like a gasp, sometimes accompanied by the word "oui," which I guess (like quoi) is some kind of placefiller, but to my foreign ears it sounds like a gasp of surprise or fear. So whenever they do it, I in turn am surprised and look around, expecting to see something weird or scary in our vicinity, only to realize that it's just the French being French!

Another little quirk here is that people appear to be obsessed with license plate numbers. The last two numbers of license plates in France identify which "department," or area (of the 96 in mainland France) the car is from, and so when people see bad drivers here, they immediately fixate on the number of their license plate, and thus where they come from. You hear a lot of "Putain! That guy's cutting me off! Oh, of course, he's a 22!" (22s are our neighbors here, in Côtes d'Armor). You also hear a lot of "My god there are a lot of out-of-towners here today! Look, a 94, a 75! So many Parisians!" Ille-et-Vilaine, the department where St. Malo is located, is #35...so of course no one ever has anything bad to say about that number!

A local license plate designation

I'm sure I'll continue to discover more strange quirks about life in France the longer I keep living here! Stay tuned...

Where in the World is Alisabroad?

I guess I've put this off long enough. I promised months and months ago that I'd announce where I'm going next year...and despite the fact that I'm leaving in 2 weeks, I haven't yet done it. I guess all the pressure came off when the news leaked out to everyone I know personally and so it just never happened.

So, without further ado....where in the world am I moving in 2 weeks?

La France! 

Paris, 2009

I'm sure you've heard of it...above Spain; they love cheese, wine and baguettes; they speak French there...

Ah, yes, that's the one!

Ever since I was 14 years old I've been obsessed with France and the French. I started learning French in high school and from that moment I was hooked on foreign languages. Haven't broken the habit yet. All throughout my high school and college years, I could be found having fondue parties, wearing berets and heading up the French club. It was my constant dream to study abroad in France, to finally really experience that culture firsthand.

Me at 18, showing off my French ceiling tile for the classroom in my high school

And then Spain happened. I got derailed. A glorious, life-changing derailment, to be sure, but nonetheless my original dream never got accomplished. 

Until now. 

In two weeks I'll be headed off to fulfill all my teenage Amélie/impressionist painter/turn-of-the-century writer/American expatriate in France dreams.

Except I won't be in Paris. And I'm totally fine with that, for reasons that I will explain someday in another post. 

Better yet, I will be teaching English in Brittany (Bretagne in French), the region of cider and Celts, where crêpes were invented by people who wore funny hats! And I won't have to feel homesick for Galicia, because it will still rain all. the. time. And I will still be on the ocean. And Celts are still Celts, be they in Spain, France, or the British Isles. 

A glimpse into my yummy, yummy future

So needless to say, I'm excited and a little nervous, and I hope my readers will be able to muster some excitement about my newest adventure too.

Now I have to say (instead of hasta luego), something different--à bientôt!

Multilingual Puns

¿Qué hace un pez? Nada.

Something the world needs to know about me: I'm a sucker for puns. I'm punny. Words with any sort of double meaning are fascinating to me, as a linguaphile. And if I can take that double meaning and make it funny? Sold.

Even when puns are "stupid" or "tired" I admire them for having that slight extra edge to them. Like the one above...it's one of the oldest, most-used puns in Spanish, and I love it anyway. What does a fish do? Nothing/He swims.

A second thing you all need to know is that I love my students. There's no denying it. And I love them even more when they make multilingual puns, quite possibly one of my favorite things in the universe.

I bet every ESL teacher in Spain has heard this one: How do you say nariz in English? No sé. Hahahaha. Nosé...nose. (No sé means I don't know...but it looks like the word nose!)

The other day we were doing a unit on the US states, and one of the kids went "Buff, te cansas de Kansas!" (You get tired of Kansas...but "cansas" and "Kansas" sound exactly the same in a Spanish accent) This one is extra funny because it's true. Poor Kansas. (Sorry Kansatians... Kansanians... Kansasers...oh lord. People from Kansas. According to Google the proper term is Kansans, but that sounds every bit as silly to me as my options, so I'm leaving them here.)

And finally, because my Spanish roommate was complaining that I've never talked about him on this blog, here is a pun he told me the other day. Not multilingual, but you can't always have everything.

Dijeron los piratas, "¡Abordamos el barco!" Y el barco les quedó muy mono.

(Translation: The pirates said "Board/decorate the ship! And the ship ended up looking really beautiful.)

Umbrella Etiquette, or Vigo Debajo de la Lluvia (Gives Me Too Much Time to Think)

Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day...

This is an extremely dangerous song to be singing in Galicia, where rain won't just come some other day, but rather EVERY other day. The forecast for this week looks like this:

More rain? What a surprise!

When you live in a place like Galicia, where on any given day it's a wonderful surprise when it DOESN'T rain, you start to learn a few things about rain itself. You begin to recognize cloud formations and to know what type of rain is coming, you get a sense of how long a given type of rain is probably going to last, you absolutely know approximately how long it will take your clothes to dry outside in the damp weather, and you learn a whole lot of rain-related vocabulary. "Sirimiri" means a light drizzle, "chubasquero" is raincoat, "niebla" is mist, "llover a cántaros" is to pour...I could go on and on.

It's kind of like the below scene in Forrest Gump. Sideways rain, rain that seems to come up from underneath...I've seen it all.

Anyway, I've also learned a whole bunch about something I'd never really even thought about before: the etiquette of using umbrellas. I almost never used umbrellas in the US. If it was raining, I'd just take the trouble to park my car slightly closer to wherever I was going and run inside. But here, I spend so much time walking around outside that being without an umbrella would be absurd. So now I know these unspoken rules:

1. When two umbrella-holders are approaching each other, the taller person (usually me) must lift their umbrella to let the shorter one's umbrella pass underneath.

2. When the above isn't possible, or you're both the same height, moving your umbrella out to the side is also possible, as long as you're not in a crowded place.

3. In couples, the boy carries the umbrella (partially because the girl is usually shorter, plus the whole chivalrous aspect to it). With friends sharing, it's whoever's taller.

4. If you forget your umbrella on a given day and it starts pouring, everyone you know will offer to lend you one.

5. Carrying your wet umbrella inside is bad manners. You absolutely must leave it in the umbrella stand by the door, despite the fact that this makes it 150% more likely that you will forget said umbrella when leaving.

And most importantly,
 6. If you carry around a pink child's umbrella, you WILL get made fun of by absolutely everyone you meet. Apparently no one but me sees the practicality of a smaller umbrella.

Getting sick of this...

So in order to not go crazy until the sunshine comes around again, I'll try to be "singin' in the rain, just singin' in the rain..."