I teach at a nice school in Central America. Not all schools here are nice like this one.
My friend Luis makes ends meet teaching Spanish to traveling surfers. Luis speaks English, has a Canadian girlfriend, has business cards, has his shit together …for down here. And about those business cards are something else. He spelled it “Spanish S-cool”, and the graphic is a neanderthal trailing dreads and a book on a leash across a map of the Earth.
The school I teach at is nicer, but I don’t have any business cards.
My school takes no small amount of pride in appearances, and they’ve revamped their logo (but it still resembles the world’s most popular brand of condom). They jet-set, and pride themselves on being abreast of all the latest, modern iThings. This is why, as a people, they balk at the reception they get from Americans when they go to summer camps and Model UN… they almost can’t even believe the depth of the ignorance of the Americans they meet at Lake Whatever since – almost universally – the kids I teach come back from these trips with tales of American kids asking them sincerely if they sleep in trees, or have electricity. The kids who are being asked, I should point out, have maids and drivers and tutors and no idea what it’s like to live without a smart phone or a complicated web of invisible safety nets. They are very well off (unless they are teacher’s kids) and attend this school on its promise to deliver them unto a good college, preferably in the States. But as we mold them into the shapes that get accepted into the best universities, certain cultural differences do stick out like morning wood.
Which is why you should know what the first day of school looks like at a nice school like this one.
At 7:45 am, 9th, 10th, and 11th grade students- the chumps in this scenario- need to be in their assigned home rooms. They all wear uniforms but somehow have injected new bits of personal flair from the summer. A bracelet here, a hair wrap there, a tattoo hidden. Their energy could power seven X-Boxes.
At 7:50, or however long it takes the teachers to try to take roll and and the air out of the room, the students are escorted to the gymnasium. They sit according to a detailed chart, which was crafted and sent out weeks prior. The same seven teachers who refuse to make lesson plans inevitably botch this, and tell their kids to sit wherever. This usually sets off one-sided animosity that lasts until one of the parties leaves the school years later. The kids, though, are still clumped with the closest friends they have in their study hall, and wait and vibrate slightly in the blue bleachers, waiting for this, the Senior Entrada.
Now we back up to the start of the seniors’ day, at a time drawn randomly across their all-night bender that stretched all the way into school and collapsed on top of a picnic table in the cafeteria . So, since they never really went to bed and might not ever really wake up, let’s put the International Date Line for the start of their day close to the time they were deposited at school.
Somewhere between 7:00 and 7:30. the seniors arrive. Fireworks and much honking have heralded this. Faculty housing is next to the parking lot, so I can swear to this. They have been at a parent-condoned lock-in, drinking since the previous night. They are undead. They are served breakfast. If they don’t arrive in time for breakfast, they can’t participate in the Entrada. That’s the rule, and that’s the name for this whole thing. “The Entrada.” The Entrance. No sneaking in without getting something in your stomach today, Jose. Predominantly, they have the same T-shirt on, some loudly colored sweat shop jetsam with their year screaming out of it. Some of the more adventurous are in costume. Thing 1. Tutus. Headbands and wigs. Inflatable pool toys and water wings. Goofy glasses. And gum. Gotta have gum. When one person produces gum, it is swarmed upon.
They sweat profusely over their breakfast. The administration lean in to greet them, inhale enough fumes to peel paint, pronounce them good to go.
They begin the march. Vuvuzelas honk, whistles blow and they parade past a captive middle school. These guys are still young enough to look up to them: they press noses against the inside of classroom windows to see the seniors on their way to the gym.
When they get there, there’s music queued up and they bust inside. They do victory laps in front of the entire student body and administration. Moms kneel down to film on their iPads. Some rogue seniors spin off to taunt the underclassmen a little before flocculating together in the middle of the basketball court. They jump around in a circle for a while. This is usually when the new teachers in the bleachers look at the old teachers with a “seriously?” look and get answered with a nod. A slow nod. Then they look back at the seniors. Cliques swirl woozily around the nucleus. Kids on the honor roll stick to the outside and bop around gamely, might whack a beach ball and jam their hand back into its pocket. A girl puts her arm around boy she’s known since kindergarten and never really talked to. The inside of the vibrating hive is rife with kids itching to light firecrackers and break things.
When it’s all said and done, it looks like some perverted piñata blew its guts out. Confetti, noisemakers, glittery hats and Kanye glasses dot the protective carpet the maintenance crew pulled over the basketball court. The seniors are made to stay back and pick up the confetti. The sound of sweat drying mingles with laughing and whining and becomes a soundtrack.
The rest of the audience shuffles out, bored, and the school year is officially up and running.
Dave Gentry 