Monday, I began the teaching practicum portion of the SIT program, and the experience was not ideal. I requested to be placed in a municipal elementary school, to work with students who were just learning how to read and write, but was accidentally taken to the adjacent municipal high school, and placed in an English class, at the equivalent of the ninth grade level. The class was disorderly and unfocused; the students rude (they were told they could ask me questions in English and they did—“Can you dance sexy?” was my favorite, followed by “Can you go to parties?” and “What do you think of our teacher—is he beautiful or is he ugly?”); and the teacher inattentive and ineffectual.
Who is to blame for this? The students: for not being motivated, for not paying attention, for not aiming high? The teacher: for not giving his students enough attention, enough work; for not being a valuable resource for them? The education system: for failing students who can’t afford private school tuition by sticking them in graffiti-ridden buildings in drug-infested areas, giving them sub-par materials, and providing them with a lower-quality education? The government: for not changing the system when it had the chance?
The educational system in Chile is based on the same neoliberal model as our educational system in the United States, and there are strong similarities between the two. The strongest I’ve found is that, when it comes to K-12 education, the biggest factor in your success is how much you can pay for it.
There are three types of first/secondary schools in Chile, rather than the two we have in the US:
1. Municipal schools, which are public schools—free to all students, and enrollment is determined primarily by the students’ residence. However, there is a voucher system, where students can choose to attend schools out of district. Municipal schools receive 3,000 pesos (roughly $6 American) per student per day, so they are constantly fighting for student enrollment, and thus, better funding. Unfortunately, most municipal schools are poor quality, similar to the majority of US urban public schools located in low income areas. 47% of Chilean students attend municipal schools.
2. Partially subsidized schools, where the government and parents share the cost of tuition. Sometimes the cost is split 50/50, other times it is less even. Although we haven’t spent a lot of time talking about these types of schools, I am interested in learning more about them. As can be assumed, students in these schools score in between municipal and private school students on standardized tests. 46% of Chilean students attend these schools.
3. Private schools, where parents cover all tuition costs. The students in these schools come from higher socioeconomic levels, score higher on standardized tests, and have exceptionally higher university attendance rates than either the municipal or partially subsidized schools. Sound familiar? Only 7% of Chilean students attend private schools.
(statistics are taken from the most recent census in 2008)
Luckily, I was able to change my placement and go to the correct school on Wednesday. I observed in a first grade class where, instead of being whistled at, I was called Tia Sofia (literal translation: Aunt Sophie). Instead of sitting in a corner, I was able to actively help students throughout the lesson. And I got to spend literally three hours watching students learn how to read and write, which I think is my favorite activity of all time. All students in municipal schools here learn how to write in cursive in the first grade. My first-grade-self would be so jealous! I remember begging my parents to buy me one of those cursive practice workbooks because I couldn’t wait for the third grade, when my handwriting would suddenly become elegant and loopy…
But, what my first-grade-self wouldn’t understand, and what part of me wishes my twenty-year-old-self didn’t understand, is that these students—cute kids, who are proud of their work, and most of them truly excited to learn—will, one day, end up in the adjacent municipal high school, sitting in the same, dark, graffiti-covered classrooms as their older brothers and sisters.
Tia Andrea, the teacher of the first grade at Escuela Municipal Miguel de Cervantes, teaches two classes: the class I observed, and another first grade class at a private school nearby. The difference between the two classes, she said, is staggering. Although the class in the private school is almost double the size of the class in the municipal school (weird, I know!) the private school students consistently have something that the municipal school students rarely do: the benefit of strong parental support. The private school students come in accompanied by their parents, healthy lunches held in little hands, backpacks filled with notebooks and pencils. They pay attention in class, and are ahead on the material. The municipal school students walk to school alone through dangerous areas. They are more rowdy during class time. They fall behind quickly. One student, said Tia Andrea, owns only one pencil. Only one notebook.
Who is to blame for this? The students: for being born into poverty, and thus having fewer academic opportunities? The teachers: for doing their best, which, more times than not, isn’t enough? The parents: who may or may not be aware of their options for educating their children, who may or may not believe that the way they were educated is the only way possible?
In our academic seminars, we have been asked to propose our own solutions to end educational inequity. For me, this is like being asked to come up with a plan for achieving world peace or ending world hunger. Something ideal, something necessary, but something that doesn’t have a solution. Every time I have an idea that I think has validity, someone says something contradictory and important—so my ideas change, but the outcome is still imperfect. I guess the goal in fixing the education system is to work toward gaining something rather than actually gaining it, in hope that we eventually, somehow, get there.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A Long Week
I think my least favorite part of being a language learner is the miscommunications that are inevitable in almost every conversation. Luckily they're usually small, such as putting something back in the wrong place, or saying somethign grammatically incorrect which changes the meaning of the sentence--but later turns into a funny joke. However, when it's a combination of linguistic and cultural miscommunications, things tend to turn very stressful very quickly.
I had a great time with Mercedes, her daughter Caty, and her grandsons Nestor and Camilo last weekend in San Antonio. A really great time, in fact. But when Mercedes said we’d be returning to Santiago “early on Sunday, around ten,” I assumed that we’d be returning early, around ten—am. Because of this, I didn’t bring any of my homework with me, and when I realized my mistake on Sunday around noon, I began to get a bit stressed. Luckily I was able to call a friend, who gave me the homework assignments that I could do without my materials, and I was able to complete some of the work before late that evening—and luckily Mercedes understood my frustration and we left a bit earlier, and arrived back home early, around eight (pm.)
Regardless, San Antonio was fantastic. It’s a beautiful city in general. It is a coastal city; and generally poor—most of the people who live there are artisans or fishermen, although Caty is a psychologist. But color is everywhere—in the houses, in the vegetation, in the clothes the people wear. In the morning, I taught the boys how to make panqueques gringos (pancakes) which was a blast, and later I tried to teach them how to play Go Fish, but Nestor didn’t really get it and Camilo kept cheating (I think it’s a general truth that kids will try to cheat you when playing Go Fish. They always do…) Later, we went to a seaside market where literally hundreds of pelicans and sea lions perch and wait for tourists and fishermen to throw them food. It was an incredible sight:
This week has been very busy, but in a good way—full of interesting and fun things. Tuesday was Ana’s birthday, and we had multiple celebrations. In the middle of Spanish class, the two levels joined together to carrate (party) with a special lunch topped off with delicious chocolate cake. We sang Cumpleanos Feliz (Happy Birthday) about thirty times before getting it right, and then proceeded to sing and dance to other songs we’ve been learning in class. That night, went over to Ana’s house for empanadas and pisco sours. (There are three things every Chilean drinks: black tea, Coca-Cola, and pisco sours. I feel like I have been talking a lot about pisco sours and need to explain: they’re one part pisco, one part lemon or lime juice, and one part sugar. They’re really delicious.) Ana’s family was really sweet, and I’ve heard a lot about them, so I was excited to finally meet them. It was interesting, also, to see the different environments in which we’re living—Ana lives with her host mother, her mother’s boyfriend, and two younger siblings (aged four and two years) in a large house in Nunoa, a suburb of Santiago. Needless to say, this is a very different situation than mine—Mercedes and I live in a small apartment in the city, and life with two kids under the age of five is pretty much the exact opposite of a very calm, one-on-one environment with a sixty-eight-year-old.
On Wednesday, I went with Mercedes to a meeting of the Writers’ Society of Chile (she’s a member there) and was invited by the professor to participate in that day’s workshop. The topic: nonverbal storytelling (perfect for Spanish language learners!) and a lecture on Pablo Neruda (perfect because he's a Chilean writer I've actually read!) Everyone spoke really slowly, as many writers tend to, so I was able to understand pretty much everything that was going on, although I had problems expressing my own thoughts, as usual. It was incredible—it was only me and a bunch of published Chilean writers telling stories with our bodies, and then verbalizing them, and talking about what we saw in others’ work. I have a feeling that this will be one of the more memorable events of my stay in Santiago, and I hope to attend at least one more workshop before I leave--hopefully I'll be able to write in Spanish by then!
Wednesday night, Roberto invited all of us over to his house for dinner and, yes, pisco sours. We got there at 8:30, and dinner wasn’t served until after midnight—but it didn’t matter, because we actually got to meet and talk with Chileans our age. Roberto’s sons and nephews were there, and they introduced us to some of their friends, and we danced and chatted with them, and each other, and Roberto’s parents (who are completely adorable—they performed the cueca and a tango number for us.) No one left until 1:30 am. I was one of the first people to leave, and felt incredibly lame, but I almost fell asleep in the cab, and didn’t get home until about 2. Luckily, class on Thursday didn’t start until 11, so I was able to get some shut-eye…
Today began Patria (Independence Day) activities, and they’ll be continuing throughout the weekend, so I’ll post about that soon. I will say, for now, that I ate more food today than one ever should in twenty-four hours, and that I tried pork for the second time in my life (l’shana tova!)
I had a great time with Mercedes, her daughter Caty, and her grandsons Nestor and Camilo last weekend in San Antonio. A really great time, in fact. But when Mercedes said we’d be returning to Santiago “early on Sunday, around ten,” I assumed that we’d be returning early, around ten—am. Because of this, I didn’t bring any of my homework with me, and when I realized my mistake on Sunday around noon, I began to get a bit stressed. Luckily I was able to call a friend, who gave me the homework assignments that I could do without my materials, and I was able to complete some of the work before late that evening—and luckily Mercedes understood my frustration and we left a bit earlier, and arrived back home early, around eight (pm.)
Regardless, San Antonio was fantastic. It’s a beautiful city in general. It is a coastal city; and generally poor—most of the people who live there are artisans or fishermen, although Caty is a psychologist. But color is everywhere—in the houses, in the vegetation, in the clothes the people wear. In the morning, I taught the boys how to make panqueques gringos (pancakes) which was a blast, and later I tried to teach them how to play Go Fish, but Nestor didn’t really get it and Camilo kept cheating (I think it’s a general truth that kids will try to cheat you when playing Go Fish. They always do…) Later, we went to a seaside market where literally hundreds of pelicans and sea lions perch and wait for tourists and fishermen to throw them food. It was an incredible sight:
This week has been very busy, but in a good way—full of interesting and fun things. Tuesday was Ana’s birthday, and we had multiple celebrations. In the middle of Spanish class, the two levels joined together to carrate (party) with a special lunch topped off with delicious chocolate cake. We sang Cumpleanos Feliz (Happy Birthday) about thirty times before getting it right, and then proceeded to sing and dance to other songs we’ve been learning in class. That night, went over to Ana’s house for empanadas and pisco sours. (There are three things every Chilean drinks: black tea, Coca-Cola, and pisco sours. I feel like I have been talking a lot about pisco sours and need to explain: they’re one part pisco, one part lemon or lime juice, and one part sugar. They’re really delicious.) Ana’s family was really sweet, and I’ve heard a lot about them, so I was excited to finally meet them. It was interesting, also, to see the different environments in which we’re living—Ana lives with her host mother, her mother’s boyfriend, and two younger siblings (aged four and two years) in a large house in Nunoa, a suburb of Santiago. Needless to say, this is a very different situation than mine—Mercedes and I live in a small apartment in the city, and life with two kids under the age of five is pretty much the exact opposite of a very calm, one-on-one environment with a sixty-eight-year-old.
On Wednesday, I went with Mercedes to a meeting of the Writers’ Society of Chile (she’s a member there) and was invited by the professor to participate in that day’s workshop. The topic: nonverbal storytelling (perfect for Spanish language learners!) and a lecture on Pablo Neruda (perfect because he's a Chilean writer I've actually read!) Everyone spoke really slowly, as many writers tend to, so I was able to understand pretty much everything that was going on, although I had problems expressing my own thoughts, as usual. It was incredible—it was only me and a bunch of published Chilean writers telling stories with our bodies, and then verbalizing them, and talking about what we saw in others’ work. I have a feeling that this will be one of the more memorable events of my stay in Santiago, and I hope to attend at least one more workshop before I leave--hopefully I'll be able to write in Spanish by then!
Wednesday night, Roberto invited all of us over to his house for dinner and, yes, pisco sours. We got there at 8:30, and dinner wasn’t served until after midnight—but it didn’t matter, because we actually got to meet and talk with Chileans our age. Roberto’s sons and nephews were there, and they introduced us to some of their friends, and we danced and chatted with them, and each other, and Roberto’s parents (who are completely adorable—they performed the cueca and a tango number for us.) No one left until 1:30 am. I was one of the first people to leave, and felt incredibly lame, but I almost fell asleep in the cab, and didn’t get home until about 2. Luckily, class on Thursday didn’t start until 11, so I was able to get some shut-eye…
Today began Patria (Independence Day) activities, and they’ll be continuing throughout the weekend, so I’ll post about that soon. I will say, for now, that I ate more food today than one ever should in twenty-four hours, and that I tried pork for the second time in my life (l’shana tova!)
Sunday, September 13, 2009
1973, 2001
(Apologies--pictures aren't uploading to blogspot, so they are listed as links...I will try to fix this before my next entry!)
I came to Chile with a very limited knowledge of Chilean history--all gathered from two days in Spanish class last fall semester, where we briefly discussed Pinochet and the Chilean coup of 1973 (if you're not familiar with this event, as I really wasn't until about two weeks ago, I suggest reading the Wikipedia article--it's horrible, fascinating, and incredibly recent.) I remember learning that the coup--here called the golpe militar, took place on September 11th of that year, and thought it was strange that two history-changing events with so many parallels--most notably, thousands of civilian deaths--occurred on the same day, twenty-eight years apart.
I was never too effected by our September 11th. I was lucky enough not to know anyone who worked in or around the World Trade Center, and I lived far enough from the City not to see the smoke. My science test that was scheduled for that day was rescheduled indefinitely--I still don't know the difference between mitosis and meiosis--but other than that, and a canceled trip to London, my life remained pretty much the same.
But there's something about this September 11th, I'm not sure what, that's effecting me greatly. Maybe it's because the Chilean government did this to its own people. Maybe it's because September 11th, 1973 was only the beginning, and the human rights violations didn't end until March 11th, 1990. Maybe it's just because of the torture.
On Friday, which was the 36th anniversary of the golpe militar, our class visited the Cemetario General in Santiago, as well as La Villa Grimaldi, which was a site used to torture socialists and communists at the beginning of Pinochet's regime. Both were disturbing, and I have felt a bit on edge since. However, the cemetery was beautiful--there's something so ironic about thousands of unidentified bodies thrown underground, with a backdrop of the Andes Mountains.
I'm mostly disturbed because I'm thinking about this memorial which lists all the names of the Desaparecidos ("missing" persons who were kidnapped by the government and never found) and the Ejecutados Politicales (victims of political executions.) But it can't list all of the names of people whose lives were ruined, all of the families destroyed; it can't express all the pain felt by both those listed and those left behind. (Gonzalez Lorca Nestor Artemio, 37 15.10.73 is Ivan, Mercedes' husband. I had a hard time finding his name, because I didn't realize that Ivan was a nickname. I feel more peaceful now that I know that his name is, in fact, listed among the others.)
I spent this weekend with Mercedes, her daughter Caty, and her grandsons Nestor and Camilo (both six years old) in San Antonio, and will blog about that adventure soon. It was fun, beautiful, and full of miscommunications. I'll leave you with these pictures, which are more uplifting than the rest of this entry...and will try to post happier things tomorrow.
I came to Chile with a very limited knowledge of Chilean history--all gathered from two days in Spanish class last fall semester, where we briefly discussed Pinochet and the Chilean coup of 1973 (if you're not familiar with this event, as I really wasn't until about two weeks ago, I suggest reading the Wikipedia article--it's horrible, fascinating, and incredibly recent.) I remember learning that the coup--here called the golpe militar, took place on September 11th of that year, and thought it was strange that two history-changing events with so many parallels--most notably, thousands of civilian deaths--occurred on the same day, twenty-eight years apart.
I was never too effected by our September 11th. I was lucky enough not to know anyone who worked in or around the World Trade Center, and I lived far enough from the City not to see the smoke. My science test that was scheduled for that day was rescheduled indefinitely--I still don't know the difference between mitosis and meiosis--but other than that, and a canceled trip to London, my life remained pretty much the same.
But there's something about this September 11th, I'm not sure what, that's effecting me greatly. Maybe it's because the Chilean government did this to its own people. Maybe it's because September 11th, 1973 was only the beginning, and the human rights violations didn't end until March 11th, 1990. Maybe it's just because of the torture.
On Friday, which was the 36th anniversary of the golpe militar, our class visited the Cemetario General in Santiago, as well as La Villa Grimaldi, which was a site used to torture socialists and communists at the beginning of Pinochet's regime. Both were disturbing, and I have felt a bit on edge since. However, the cemetery was beautiful--there's something so ironic about thousands of unidentified bodies thrown underground, with a backdrop of the Andes Mountains.
I'm mostly disturbed because I'm thinking about this memorial which lists all the names of the Desaparecidos ("missing" persons who were kidnapped by the government and never found) and the Ejecutados Politicales (victims of political executions.) But it can't list all of the names of people whose lives were ruined, all of the families destroyed; it can't express all the pain felt by both those listed and those left behind. (Gonzalez Lorca Nestor Artemio, 37 15.10.73 is Ivan, Mercedes' husband. I had a hard time finding his name, because I didn't realize that Ivan was a nickname. I feel more peaceful now that I know that his name is, in fact, listed among the others.)
I spent this weekend with Mercedes, her daughter Caty, and her grandsons Nestor and Camilo (both six years old) in San Antonio, and will blog about that adventure soon. It was fun, beautiful, and full of miscommunications. I'll leave you with these pictures, which are more uplifting than the rest of this entry...and will try to post happier things tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The US in Chile
Roberto, our Academic Director, likes to say that Chile is a country of contradictions—a mix of extreme wealth and extreme poverty, climate ranging from tundra to the tropics.
One comparison that’s been apparent to me in the past few days has been one of great cultural pride contrasted with significant Americanization. I wasn’t really expecting Chile to be too Americanized—I figured it had its own history, its own culture, and had been warned that the general sentiment was pretty anti-American (although I later learned this applied more to the Bush Administration than to Americans in general—and people here tend to like Obama.) Besides, I figured, Chile is one of the wealthiest nations in Latin America, so it had no reason to idolize the US as a place of prosperity. So I was surprised to come here and find that I could only buy American brands of shampoo and toothpaste.
Santiago is scattered with McDonald’s, Burger King, and Starbucks franchises—although at McDonald’s, they serve avocado. TV shows from the States (such as the Suite Life of Zack and Cody, the Fairly OddParents, and That’s So Raven) are on television all the time. I took a cab to a neighborhood called Nunoa to meet some friends, and Radar by Britney Spears was playing on the radio. (Digression: the cab company was able to understand my location and where I needed to go! Success!)
Our class went to visit a colegio (primary school, first grade through eighth) on Friday for our first “educational excursion.” The school was located in La Victoria, a poverty-stricken area of Santiago with an amazing view of the Andes mountains. The school boasts academic excellence in a community ridden with drug abuse, alcoholism, and neglect.
The kids danced the cueca (a traditional Chilean dance) for us and then asked if we knew the Jonas Brothers. They showed us their math and reading workbooks and their Hannah Montana pencils. They shared drawings of Winnie-the-Pooh and his friend Igor (Eeyore.)
The biggest sense of Chilean pride I’ve seen thus far is that of support for La Roja, the Chilean futbol (soccer) team. Yesterday we played in a World Cup qualifier game, and everyone in the entire country (or, everyone in our program and their homestay families) watched us tie with Venezuela 2-2. This was a huge problem, as Chile is ranked #2 in Latin America, and Venezuela #6—and the country is currently in recovery…but we’re playing Brazil on Wednesday (ranked #1) which should be an exciting match.
But pride is also evident in smaller ways—for example, yesterday it rained excessively, and Mercedes and I cooked sopaipillas, which are little cakes made from squash dough and covered in honey and orange peel sauce. “It’s tradition to cook these when it rains,” she told me, “so when we go to the supermarket there probably won’t be a lot of squash left.” When we got there, there was some squash, but not a lot—so I guess it didn’t matter that we were surrounded by Hellman’s mayonnaise or Coca-Cola. People all over were making sopaipillas and sitting at home and watching the game.
(I have taken a lot of photos and posted them on Facebook—so if we’re not Facebook friends, you can check them out here.)
Thursday, September 3, 2009
New Things
I started out thinking it was only my mother, then I thought it was Jewish mothers, but now I’m beginning to realize that it’s just mothers—wherever you go, mothers always try to feed you.
This has been slightly problematic since I’ve been here. I don’t eat that much—or rather, I eat a lot, but I eat small things throughout the day and don’t usually sit down for big meals other than breakfast. But that doesn’t exactly fly here—where there’s culturally very little breakfast, a huge late lunch, and a big dinner late at night (10:00). And there’s very little snacking.
Mercedes packs me a lunch every day for school, and it is always delicious—but huge. Yesterday, I was literally given enough food for three meals. Mercedes made this incredible stew, and I ate as much as I could, and gave the rest to other people in the program who didn’t bring lunch or wanted to try it, so I wouldn’t have to throw anything away. It’s harder when I’m at home though—I always try to ask for small portions, but at the same time I really don’t want to be offensive. As soon as I finish, there is always pressure to eat more: Are you sure you don’t want something else? Eat something! You don’t eat enough; you’ll get too skinny. And it’s not just Mercedes—her niece came over the other day and kept handing me cookies. I would say no thanks, but she would literally ask every two minutes if I was hungry…so I just kept eating them. I guess it’s good that I walk 30 minutes to and from class every day…
Classes are moving along this week—it’s been getting a bit easier every day, but it’s still pretty difficult to understand what everyone is saying. We have three hours of Spanish class in the morning at Universidad Alberto Hurtado, and then we come back to CasaSIT (our school building) for our thematic seminars. Spanish class is going well; I’m learning a lot very quickly. The thematic seminars begin on Monday, but we’ve had introductory lessons about the history of education in Chile, and I felt completely lost. Luckily, a bunch of my classmates felt the same way and we went over everything after class—in English. I kind of felt like I was cheating, but I’d rather leave with a full understanding of the material.
Everyone in the program seems great so far. The other night we all went out to dinner after class, ordered random items off the menu, drank delicious Chilean wine, and got to know each other. Everyone is so interesting! Our academic directors are great as well, and they make it very easy for us to ask questions (we all think that they secretly speak English and are just very good liars!)
The other night, I did something that I’ve been warned against by my parents and friends and the program directors—I walked home from CasaSIT alone in the dark (I left around 9:30, after our dinner.) In my defense, I tried to call a taxi, but when I called they couldn’t understand what I was saying, or my location, so I gave up. I thought I’d be walking half of the trip with Jackie, one of my friends from the program, but it turns out we took different routes, and only walked together for about four blocks. I wish I could say the experience it was liberating and empowering, but I was pretty nervous the whole time. My nerves made me feel incredibly sexist more than anything else. I tried to walk where there were other women walking, and was always more on edge when a man was walking behind me than a woman or a group of men and women. I guess it makes sense, but it was just a bit disheartening to realize that I’ve given in to thinking this way. Anyway, I made it home just fine, although hopefully my Spanish will improve enough so that cab companies can understand my location…
On a more positive note, Mercedes and I have been working on two New York City jigsaw puzzles for the past week, and we finished them last night! Mercedes is awesome at puzzles. Pictures:
(Mercedes is on the far right, with her niece Sandra and her great niece, Marcela)
(Mercedes and the wonderful finished product!)
This has been slightly problematic since I’ve been here. I don’t eat that much—or rather, I eat a lot, but I eat small things throughout the day and don’t usually sit down for big meals other than breakfast. But that doesn’t exactly fly here—where there’s culturally very little breakfast, a huge late lunch, and a big dinner late at night (10:00). And there’s very little snacking.
Mercedes packs me a lunch every day for school, and it is always delicious—but huge. Yesterday, I was literally given enough food for three meals. Mercedes made this incredible stew, and I ate as much as I could, and gave the rest to other people in the program who didn’t bring lunch or wanted to try it, so I wouldn’t have to throw anything away. It’s harder when I’m at home though—I always try to ask for small portions, but at the same time I really don’t want to be offensive. As soon as I finish, there is always pressure to eat more: Are you sure you don’t want something else? Eat something! You don’t eat enough; you’ll get too skinny. And it’s not just Mercedes—her niece came over the other day and kept handing me cookies. I would say no thanks, but she would literally ask every two minutes if I was hungry…so I just kept eating them. I guess it’s good that I walk 30 minutes to and from class every day…
Classes are moving along this week—it’s been getting a bit easier every day, but it’s still pretty difficult to understand what everyone is saying. We have three hours of Spanish class in the morning at Universidad Alberto Hurtado, and then we come back to CasaSIT (our school building) for our thematic seminars. Spanish class is going well; I’m learning a lot very quickly. The thematic seminars begin on Monday, but we’ve had introductory lessons about the history of education in Chile, and I felt completely lost. Luckily, a bunch of my classmates felt the same way and we went over everything after class—in English. I kind of felt like I was cheating, but I’d rather leave with a full understanding of the material.
Everyone in the program seems great so far. The other night we all went out to dinner after class, ordered random items off the menu, drank delicious Chilean wine, and got to know each other. Everyone is so interesting! Our academic directors are great as well, and they make it very easy for us to ask questions (we all think that they secretly speak English and are just very good liars!)
The other night, I did something that I’ve been warned against by my parents and friends and the program directors—I walked home from CasaSIT alone in the dark (I left around 9:30, after our dinner.) In my defense, I tried to call a taxi, but when I called they couldn’t understand what I was saying, or my location, so I gave up. I thought I’d be walking half of the trip with Jackie, one of my friends from the program, but it turns out we took different routes, and only walked together for about four blocks. I wish I could say the experience it was liberating and empowering, but I was pretty nervous the whole time. My nerves made me feel incredibly sexist more than anything else. I tried to walk where there were other women walking, and was always more on edge when a man was walking behind me than a woman or a group of men and women. I guess it makes sense, but it was just a bit disheartening to realize that I’ve given in to thinking this way. Anyway, I made it home just fine, although hopefully my Spanish will improve enough so that cab companies can understand my location…
On a more positive note, Mercedes and I have been working on two New York City jigsaw puzzles for the past week, and we finished them last night! Mercedes is awesome at puzzles. Pictures:
(Mercedes is on the far right, with her niece Sandra and her great niece, Marcela)
(Mercedes and the wonderful finished product!)
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