Tonight, the lesson focuses on direction. Up. Down. Under. A soft knock on the classroom door interrupts the staccato of prepositions. My students watch as a young boy enters, an edgy fearfulness in his gaze. The escort hands me a slip of paper, the boy’s name written on it in black marker. “No English,” he says, pulling the door closed. “Bienvenido, Martín.” I welcome the boy in Spanish, which is against the rules, and point to an empty seat next to Flavio, an older Mexican. Flavio is legal; when a roofing contractor came looking for workers, stating “Legal only,” Flavio proudly took the man’s card. Flavio will be a familiar face for Martín next Wednesday. If Martín returns. I continue pantomiming directions, using the table as a prop. Direction words are only useful in relation to something else. North of the border. South of it. I climb under the table, looking foolish to make my point. “Under.” I rise and stand behind a chair. “Behind.” Martín smiles shyly, but does not repeat the words. Flavio, writing quickly in his frayed notebook, mouths the words. He never says them aloud, unless I call on him. Then he stammers, the veins in his tanned neck bulging against the collar of his cheap cotton shirt, his rough hands fidgeting. He fumbles, searching the pages for the correct response, while I wait. He has written down every word. The others do not write; they sit still and straight, staring at me, repeating the words. Can they write? My class is Latino, all men, save a Honduran grandmother. I urge them to return each week, although my success rate is poor. When they disappear, I wonder about deportation. During the day, I reverse, teaching Spanish to privileged teenagers. On my orders, they put away their cell phones and iPods as they enter the classroom, then chafe for the clock to tick away the hour. I am as bored as they are; they have drained the fun out of the language. After a particularly difficult lesson, one boy asked, “Why don’t they all just learn English?” A bell rings, ending class. Two hours gone. Flavio continues scribbling. No one moves, politely waiting for permission to leave. I close my workbook, and then, just as I am ready to let them go, Flavio speaks. “Profesora. ¿Una palabra más?” I raise an expectant eyebrow. He understands. A blush colors his face and he studies his notebook. Awkwardly, with brute effort, he says, “One word more?” “¡Claro!” I jump onto a chair. “On top.” In unison, with heavy accents, the class repeats. “On top.” |