words they say

Based on a True Story

“Good morning, children.”
— Gutmonin.
“Today, we are gonna talk about Hallowe’en.”
— Helluin!

Well it was clear from the very start that these children don’t want to talk. They want to shout. But I have a secret weapon: colouring pages. Hallowe’en-themed, as it were.

— Quiero una araña.
— Quiero un murciélago.
— Quiero una calabaza.
“No, no, no.”
— ¡Araña!
“Here’s the deal: you have to speak in English to me.”
— Quiero…
No quiero. This is a spider. This is a pumpkin. This is a bat. All right?”
— ¡Bat! ¡Bat!
— ¡Batman!
“Not Batman. A bat.”
— ¡Espayder!
“No ‘Espayder’. Spider. Spy-Der. Spider.”
— ¡Espayder!
“Spider.”
— Quiero spider.
No quiero. ‘Can I have…’”
Quen ay jav
“‘…a spider’.”
— ¡Espayder!

What did I get myself into? Can anybody hear the difference between ‘a spider’ and, well, ‘espayder’?

— Quiero bat.
— Quiero espayder.
— Quiero los todos.
— Quiero pis.
“Please go.”

The colouring pages are finally distributed.

— ¿Puedo colorear?
— ¿Puedo recortar?

Mind you, only the most polite ask this. The others have already taken hold of the crayons, felt-tip pens and scissors.

There is a pair of kids who never do what I ask. Instead of colouring, they cut things out, or glue the worksheets to the walls. One of the favourite activities is to cut out something (say, a bat) and stick it to the blank A4 paper sheet. Fifteen minutes later, the result is exactly the same as the original worksheet but a lot more crumpled and covered with glue and some unidentified dirt on both sides.

The others really like colouring and showing me their work.

— Mira, que bonito. (About their own pictures.)
— Mira, que feo. (About the neighbour’s work.)
— Mira, que botas muy chulas. (Points on her welly boots.)
— Tengo mocos.

My very first day in this class, one three-year old girl was looking at me intently for about twenty minutes. Then she said, very seriously:

— Eres guapo.

Later that month, we did some sort of Hallowe’en presentation, where I was supposed to be a vampire. I was dressed in black, had a (mostly white) face paint and a grey hair wig. Most of three- and four-year-olds were scared of me, which I judged to be a success. Not this girl though. She came close and asked me:

— ¿Quién eres?
“I am, er, a vampire, don’t you see?”
— Eres guapo.

Now and then, I show them the videos. Music videos and animations. And now they make requests.

— ¡Mana Mana!

I don’t know how much English they learned from that particular song, but everybody loves it. They crowd around my laptop.

— ¡No veo!
— ¡Que no veo!
— ¡No veo!
“Guys, can you please step one step back? Then everyone could see.”
— ¡No veo!
— Álvaro me ha empujau.

Until I started to work in school, I was convinced that the most popular given names in Spain are Juan and María. Nope. I don’t even have a single María. But there are lots of Álvaros, Brunos, Martinas and Saras.

— ¡Se ha acabau!
— ¡Otra!
— ¡Otra vez!

When I introduced them to Simon’s Cat, they ignored it. At first. Then, about a month later, a request arrived.

— ¡Un gato chino!
“You what?!”
— ¡Un gato chino!
“Do you mean Simon’s Cat?”
— ¡No, un gato chino!

By now, Simon’s Cat is one of their firm favourites.

— ¡Se acabó!
— Es muy corto.
— ¡Otra!
— ¡No veo!

There is one five-year old boy who is not interested in anything the others are doing.

— Estoy aburriendo.
— Estoy aburrido.
— Quiero algo divertido.
— Quiero algo volando.

I like it when they give me clues what to do next.

“Good morning, children.”
— Gutmonin!

I point at the blackboard where I did stick seven A4 paper sheets evolving towards a flying machine.

“Today, we are going to make a paper airplane.”

I find all twelve of them standing under number 7.

— ¡Quiero eso!
— ¡Quiero un avión de papel!
“No, no, no. We all are going to learn how to make a paper airplane. Everybody take a sheet of paper…”

And so it starts.

“…and fold it like this…”
— ¿Me ayudas?
— ¿Me lo doblas?
— ¿Me lo haces?

And this is just a half of the class. There is no way I am making 25 paper airplanes in one hour.

That was a stroke of genius, I admit it freely. Seven months later, only a handful of them learned this craft. But it provided me with another weapon.

— ¡Quiero un avión de papel!
“In English, please.”
— Es que no sé como decir.
“Ask Hugo, he knows.”

A minute later:

— ¡Plan! ¡Plan!
“What plan?”
— ¡Plane!
“Plane what?”
— ¡Quiero a plane!
No quiero. ‘Can you make…’”
— ¡A plane!
— ¡A plane!
— ¡A plane!

Now the teachers tell me: you know, your planes fly really far!

Yes, I know.

Apart from teaching in a classroom, I take turns to supervise them during the recess. Or before. Or after.

“Can you please put on your coats.”
— ¡Has dicho una palabrota!
“Did I?”
— ¡Has dicho ‘puta’!

Oh my. I have to be careful with these things.

To be fair, very few of them hesitate to use swearwords, especially in my class. In the beginning, they did not realise I know all this lexicon.

— Álvaro me ha empujau.
“Oh no, not him again.”
— ¿Puedes guardarlo? (Gives me a toy.)
“Claro que sí — oops, yes of course.”
— ¿Puedes atar mis cordones?
“Sure I can. And a magic word?”
— ¡Fuerte!

They do ask lots of questions, these kids. Mostly in Spanish.

— ¿Tienes novia?
— ¿Tienes bebés?
— ¿Por qué no hablas español?
— ¿Por qué llevas coleta?
— ¿Por qué andas en chanclas?
— ¿Cuántos minutos faltan? (Till the end of the class, that is.)
Can I go to the toilet please?

Wow.

By midday, they drain all my energy. But sometimes they ask or tell me something that makes it worth it.

— ¿Cómo sabes todas estas cosas?
“Because I was paying attention when in school.” (It’s a lie, I didn’t.)
— Toma, esto es para ti.
“It is beautiful, Daniela. Thank you.”
— Quiero ser tu ayudante.
“Do you really? Can you help me to tidy up then?”
— Can you make a plane for me? Please?

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