I can’t stop talking about teaching.

It’s not because I can’t find something else to talk about, it’s just that it is all I am doing. I say hello to all of the students everyday and I saw their names. When they leave, I say all of their names again. ¡Buenos días Gabriel!” “¡Adiós, Gabriel!” I think it provides a closure on something about the class but I also think they just want to get the heck out of there. I have been confusing Angelina and Angela for two months now to the point where I just say “¡Adiós!” as they walk out and hope they don’t notice, though I know they do.. Except now, I finally got it!

Today a student said “FUCK YOU” out loud in front of God and everybody. I had to call two students out into the hallway. I am calling students out into the hallway all day long. Maybe if your titties weren’t so big a freshman boy said to another at the start of class. “Please step out into the hall with me” I say like a stern librarian. Sometimes I bring them out to say positive things, but I’m usually busy putting out fires to do that much.

Where is Guatemala now? The place where I used to stretch time over the trees while I counted down the days for service to end, even when I loved it. I counted down the days to return to air-conditioned grocery stores and to taking water for granted. Guatemala is exactly where it was before I arrived. Guatemala will always be a wonder all its own. What I meant to ask is “Where is the Me from Guatemala now?” which is a very different question than the way I said it first.

The me from Guatemala is just a very far-away person as I get swallowed whole by the biggest challenge yet: high school Spanish teacher. Turns out, teaching is not “explaining” or “inspiring” or even “fostering.” It’s a wild blend of a circus act with my heart at the center, and a hell of a lot of paperwork and red tape. No one pays you for caring, but without caring, you just won’t get far. You get paid exactly the same if you care or not, but what I said was you won’t get far.

This morning I stood boldly in front of second period (my first class of the day) and said we would be observing a day of remembrance. A week ago I got an email from the district about the history of orange shirt day, and I’d never heard of it before. I know things now. I lived in an indigenous community in Guatemala and I also live in Arizona now. It’s the “National Day for Truth and Reconciliation” and that has “school” written all over it.

In a nutshell, boarding schools were created in the US in the 1800s and part of their creation resulted in the removal of Native American children from their homes. This was to change them into “good, productive citizens.” They were forced to speak English, while some were killed. Bodies are still being found in boarding schools from the children whose lives were taken. A young student Phyllis Webstad’s shirt was taken and never returned.

In Spanish class, we’ve been learning numbers, colors and clothes. Orange Shirt Day is everything we’ve been learning to say in Spanish “una blusa anaranjada.” But this lesson was different, this was me standing in front of a group of freshman to ask them what they think about this part of history. I don’t teach history! I’m not a therapist! I just didn’t want to stay quiet. I don’t own an orange shirt either, so I wore my orangeish-red jumpsuit.

I asked: How long are you forced to speak a language you don’t want to speak? How many minutes a day? And they said: 40. I said: “Now imagine what it would be like to have to speak a language you didn’t want to all day long.” I told them “When I moved to Guatemala, I wanted to learn Spanish and still it was very hard.”

I did provide the caveat that students could leave the room any time, without any explanation, if they felt uncomfortable. Surprisingly, no one left. They are trying to use those bathroom passes for any reason, but not during this lesson. One student did ask me for a pass to the counselor once the lesson ended. I wrote them one without question.

Then the day ended with my heritage class who I cannot get to speak to each other. They speak Spanish, they understand it, but they don’t want to speak it in Spanish class. It’s complicated, much of it is out of my control, but ending my day with sweaty sixth period and the cold indifference of seventh is like getting whacked in the face with a cold fish after riding the dizzy teacups. I called a student out today, one of the millions who wears her mask all the way below her chin not to mess up her lipstick, and she was listening to music with her Airpod in while I was talking to her about her late essay.

I don’t know- am I doing any of this right? Every class period is its own special roller coaster. Then I spend all weekend explaining to my non-teacher friends how I have no idea how to catch kids up who miss half of school, or what to think about helping the students who are hungry, or have bad days, or have too much social anxiety to get to know anyone else in the class, or how to teach the kids who simply don’t get it. And how much of it is my fault or my responsibility to rectify? How many hours are there in the day?

I wrote this last week and I still feel it very strongly: I leave the school feeling like I need to heal from something. But here I am, doing it. Whatever it is. And it will get better. Whatever it is.

Bless it. Bless it all.