I gave my first charla to the jóvenes on Monday February 27, 2017. I think I’ve done 15 or so by now because you give the same one 6 times each but I’d have to check my paper planner.

On that first Monday I walked to the school with my prepared rotafolio. The walk is about an hour and I like listening to podcasts.

I wasn’t excited or scared, I just pretended it wasn’t happening.

Even though it wasn’t happening I found myself in an oddly-lit classroom of sky-blue walls facing a small army of 13 year-olds who speak two languages that are not mine, Spanish and K’iche’. When my friend told me to apply for Peace Corps, it was because I needed healthcare and didn’t want an office job. Stabs in the dark would be AT BEST the accurate description of what I was attempting. And with grand-sweeping blind gestures baselined by imperfect grammar and pauses when the words simply don’t come and unconventional lessons for this culture, I was conked on the head with deafening clarity, in live time, with the reality of teenagers. The days of long-term subbing and middle school play directing and sacrificing my youth for younger youth came back to me in screeches and halts. And while I feel like this job is worth it where I didn’t at the job before, all of that thankless work from yesteryear was nevertheless in a language I could speak. On my worst day there I was not giving instructions like a drunk, disoriented turtle trying to find its shell in a trash pile. (That’s my metaphor for teaching in Spanish. I wasn’t drunk). No I wasn’t, but I was taking a leap of faith that would have been easier done had I been under the influence. So instead I stopped thinking or feeling and just kept saying words. Eyes shut stabbing at Pin the Tail on the Donkey in the dark. How many metaphors can I tack on to this semi out of body out of language out of culture experience? I felt more like the donkey.

And after so many “Seños!” and “Seño, lapiz o lapicero?” and “Seño, que cuaderno/which notebook?” and blank stares and wirey tweaking out bodies in desks, it was over.

But then it started again. Every time I’m with a new group of jóvenes, it’s like I’ve never given this talk before. I hop back into the saddle of doubt and inexperience and I cling to my culturally rogue sense of humor while dispensing endless glares to the row of boys in the back who will NOT STOP TALKING over the directions I’m giving only to ask me to repeat them for a fourth time, to humming Taylor Swift songs for when I’ve truly run out of options. Each group of jóvenes is a new dynamic with the same intolerable level of body odor.

This became clear with The Human Knot. Not the body odor, but how I never know what to expect. I walked a group of primero kids (like 6th grade) out to the cancha. We are going to do a dinamica I tell them. It’s the human knot. You probably know it. You put your hands in the middle of a circle, clasp two other people’s hands who aren’t standing next to you and try to untangle yourselves without breaking clasp of the hands. I explain the instructions but if we attempted this as a group of 25 teenagers and one adult, it would never end and maybe they would revolt and squash me. So I tell the boys to try it in their own circle because I’m doing it with the señoritas. I not only anticipate BUT FULLY EXPECT this to come crashing down as the boys grab soccer balls or run off to the bathroom or start punching each other as I am literally in a knot with the other half of the class. So I stay the course and focus on the girls, we eventually unravel ourselves and they seem quietly amused. I take this as a win when I look to my left and the boys are not only trying it, they are in full focus cheering each other on to get out of the knot without letting go. I am agog. I’m not sure what my jaw did. It was like the skies parted.

So I approach the next charla at the other school with confidence. Actually, I just didn’t think about it period because these students are much more behaved than the previously mentioned school, and if human knot worked with those rapscallions then it will work with these kids. We divide into boys and girls, I ask the male teacher to join in with the boys, and we begin. The directions don’t stick with the boys or the girls and the boys start pushing each other over in a group of clasped hands with the poor teacher subjected to the weight of the circle. The gym echoes and the boys all talking at once overpowers me. The teacher who is helping me not only did not understand what I was trying to explain but he didn’t intervene. He just got thrashed around by the group and waited for things to become clear. While I tried to clarify things like a confused pirate, talking over the boys was impossible. I’ve said it once, I’ve said it four times: don’t grasp the hands of the people next to you. But I can tell when I’m standing in a burning building. Eventually I give up and we walk back to the classroom. I felt like a million bucks minus a million and one.

You aren’t supposed to give up in a classroom setting. If the activity fails, you try to tweak it to ensure that the kids succeed. You want them to learn the lesson. You want them to see that you aren’t going to let misunderstandings slide because this will sacrifice your lesson and, most importantly, your grip on the class. You have to stand firm, speak clearly and aim for bullseye. But that’s in an ideal world. And while Peace Corps is founded on lots of ideals, namely peace but also mobilizing the community and strengthening international understanding, I am not an ideal. And I have no ideal what I’m doing. Some days, the kids get it and other days it goes over like a first pancake.

So I will push off from the bland and unforgiving world of ideals and into a land of mystic doubt, myself as the confused pirate at the helm of the ship along with my sidekick the drunk, disoriented turtle trying to find its shell in a trash pile, shouting directives at the jóvenes with oars in hand. “Steer left, no I meant right, steer right! Now we are dock the boat using the coat. No I say rope. Yes, Juan José, puts on your life zest. Elaina, it is as rude to talk meanwhile I am talking. Let’s do even!” Really I don’t know what my Spanish sounds like to them and it’s better if I don’t think too much about it. Sadly, my culture is unforgiving when it comes to not speaking perfect English. I guess I’ve adopted this attitude for myself in speaking Spanish.

The Human Knot failed that day and why it worked with the terrors and sunk with the calm kids is beyond me. Nature’s way of reminding me that I cannot predict the tides? But I am still here. And some days I don’t know why, actually most every single day, because the jóvenes have a way of chopping me down to size just by being in my presence. I know that I am not going to save anyone or fix anybody or make anything right (how weird of a concept to think of “fixing” a person or a society? Who can do that and why should they?) but if I can try to do something different to help a teenager consider their future in different terms, or steer their boat in a new direction, maybe that’s worth it.

Maybe I make a great first pancake, Matey.