Mexico’s rural school teachers have little and give lots
A culture of learning takes attitude more than resources. We were all learning in that little 1-room school, the teacher, the students and me.
Chacala’s primary school classroom did not look much like an elementary school room in Canada or the USA. No brightly coloured posters, no carpeted play area, no carefully controlled light and temperature. Only a rough tile floor, brick walls and barred windows along two sides.
When I first saw it, the classroom had one rusting bookshelf with a few mouldy books and papers sagging off its shelves. The teacher sat behind a three-quarters destroyed desk on a plastic lawn chair. The desks for the kids were so battered that some had seats, some had desktops, but not many had both. The kids preferred the floor anyway, sprawling all over it, writing in their books or working together in groups. Or roughhousing, mostly roughhousing. A 50-litre water jug sat on a rusting swivel stand in the corner by the door. The stand no longer swivelled and the water bottle was often empty.
A small shed behind the school held the toilet, which I never did find the courage to enter. Water and toilet paper, as well as the cleaning of the classroom, were parental responsibilities, responsibilities rarely fulfilled. Occasionally, an 8-year-old swished a rag mop around the filthy floor.
When the new teacher, Maria de Jesus (pronounced Hey-Zeus), arrived, she changed all that. I came in one day to find her teaching different forms of writing while sweeping the floor.
“How can you tell the difference between a story and an article?” Sweep. “What are the characteristics of instructions?” Scoop the dirt into the dustpan. “Who is the person in town you would most like to interview?” Drop the dust in the bin.
By the time I arrived, school had been in session a few months and Maria de Jesus had worked small miracles with many of the children. Take Hector, who was nominally in Grade 3. The poor boy had such serious learning disabilities that school had pretty much passed him by. In previous years, he’d been a madman, more or less tolerated by the other kids.
Somehow, and I can only credit Maria de Jesus, Hector had figured out the alphabet. Though he struggled for every syllable, he had begun to read. While he had a terrible time sounding things out, once he got a sentence, he could recall its main idea and place it verbally in other contexts. When I pointed to the sentence again, the words vanished. The letters fell back into an incomprehensible scramble and he was forced to go through the same arduous struggle once again.
I admired that struggle. If he can work that hard, I thought, I can too.
Maria de Jesus spoke a beautiful, clear, comprehensible Spanish when she taught. When she spoke to me, it was another story altogether, her Spanish so rapid-fire that I couldn’t make out a word. I desperately wanted to hear that perfect Spanish, so we struck a deal.
The week before, I’d had some success interesting the older kids in the theory of evolution. This had been helpful to Maria de Jesus, but it was bad for me. She practically locked a chain around my leg to keep me with her. While I enjoyed the teaching, it was hard work, and I was on holiday.
When I’d volunteered previously, I’d come with my friend Betty, who wasn’t yet back in Chacala. I missed her. Handling a bunch of rambunctious kids in language you don’t speak is much easier with two. When my strategies didn’t work, Betty’s did, and together we had infinitely more fun.
Maria de Jesus began each day with a lesson in Grade 6 during which the younger children worked on handouts or reading she’d previously assigned. During that first class of the day, the little ones seemed freshly resolved to sit quietly while the older students paid attention to Maria de Jesus’ clearly spoken Spanish. She normally made it about halfway through her lesson, say 15 minutes, before the interruptions began. The younger children’s silent reading became loudly vocal and the boys began flipping banned poker chips at one another.
Those 15 minutes were precious to me and they formed the basis of our deal: if I could listen to the Grade 6 lesson, I’d volunteer three mornings a week. For the rest of the morning, I’d take a group of kids off to a second classroom where we’d work on phonics, or fractions, or the history of Nayarit — whatever Maria de Jesus assigned.
A few weeks into this arrangement, I got an e-mail from Veronica, the first teacher I met when I’d arrived in Chacala three years before. She lived in Compostela, a town about an hour’s drive away. When she taught in Chacala, she made that drive every day.
Veronica and I corresponded in each other’s languages, which made for minimum comprehension. No doubt my Spanish was as idiosyncratic as her English, which gives me pause.
Hi! My fried I miss you too!!!!! So sorry for write now, but I forget the password and I can remember.
The last time I talk with Chuyita and said me than you are a very nice people and I told her, She is my friend Diane the best student and person.
My workplace is Capomo by is a nice place. I like only have 21 students, my throat is best.
Is difficult now the education but we need work more time with students. Chacala now only one teacher for that reason Chuyita works very hard.
Receive a hug forever her friend
Veronica
Who, I wondered, is Chuyita? I asked my friend Socorro.
“The teacher,” she said, stirring chicken birria.
“The teacher? But her name is Maria de Jesus.”
“Jesus,” Socorro answered with exaggerated patience. “Chuy for a man. Chuyita for a woman.”
Aha! Chuyita is Maria de Jesus.
Socorro flashed me a look that added, “As any fool would know.”
One week, Maria de Jesus focused on recycling. Her Grade 6 lesson involved making hand-made paper from old cotton and bark. After she explained the process, she assigned the project as homework over the weekend.
“Let’s see your paper,” she said on Monday, patting her desk. “Who’s done their homework?” 3 students out of 8 raised their hands.
Alexis brought a thick bluish mass to her desk. “I did it with Baldo and Rodrigo,” he said.
Ubaldo and Rodrigo looked surprised to hear it.
“The three of you?” asked Maria de Jesus skeptically. Alexis nodded solemnly. The others gave her a non-comital shrug.
Just then Cezár, Alexis’ younger brother and the imp of the class, walked in late.
“Did Ubaldo help with this?” Maria de Jesus demanded, now more interested in the paper than Cezár’s tardy arrival.
Cezár shook his head.
“Rodrigo?”
“Nope,” he said, sliding into his desk.
Maria de Jesus rounded on Alexis, giving him a stiff talking-to about the importance of honesty. She surprised me with her vehemence. Alexis took the scolding stoically. Ubaldo and Rodrigo looked relieved and also a bit confused to find Alexis taking the heat instead of them.
“You’re not helping your friends by covering for them,” Maria de Jesus insisted. Then she held up Alexis’ homework and explained why it was perfect.
This is the 9th story in the weekly publication A Remarkable Education: Lessons Learned in a Mexican Rural School. The next story describes my rather rough entry into the world of Mexican slang.
The previous story looks at my adventures teaching the theory of evolution in a mostly Catholic fishing village.
Starting in the winter of 2009, Diane Douglas volunteered three years in the two-room school in the fishing village of Chacala, north of Puerto Vallarta. Since 2012, she’s been working to improve online learning at el Colegio Patria, a remarkable rural school in the poor, agricultural town of Las Varas.
