The Things They Say (Part 9) Mischief in the Playground

La señora Pérez is very agitated this morning, and young Rafa is looking cross. He’s got his arms folded tightly and a stiff pout squeezing all the colour out of his lips. She’s jabbering Spanish at great velocity and I haven’t understood a word. She tries to remonstrate with Rafa but he shrugs her off and stares out towards the orange trees. So she starts jabbering at me. I concentrate gamely but the sun is ridiculously hot, the sweat is pricking out on my temples and Sara is tugging at my sleeve and whining, ‘MeessaDeeeeMeeesssaaDeeeeeee.’ This is not a good way to start the day; angry parent, at least two angry children, surface temperature of Mercury reached before we even start, and me humiliated, again, by my pathetic command of a language which all the 6- and 7-year-olds in my class can use effortlessly.

La señora Pérez turns on her heel(s) and starts running, yes, running out of the playground. And suddenly I catch a word that she’s shouting. ‘¡Un rato!’ she shouts. ‘¡Un rato!’

A rat? She's seen a rat! Christ, it doesn’t surprise me. The smell from the sewers is now in peak season and easily masks the smell of all the children and teachers in a school where the only air-conditioning units are in the office areas and the SMT ‘lounge’. I noticed in the TES some time ago that SMT (senior management team) has been changed into SLT (senior leadership team) but we haven’t kept up with this ‘reform’. (It's not the only one.)

I shrug and smile at Rafa. But he intensifies his bloodless pout so I lead my group towards the class, scanning the playground for a mischief of rats as I go. Did you know that the collective noun for rats is a mischief? Well, it’s one of many actually. It’s also a colony, a horde, a pack, a plague and a swarm. Or so it says on the internet. I remember learning (some of) these nouns when I was at school. It seems to have gone out of fashion. Wonder if it’s worth bringing it back? Of course, they’d have to sort out the mess and decide on one name to learn. I mean, they couldn’t expect children to learn them all. But that would cause an almighty row, as all the pedants argued amongst themselves about which one was ‘correct’. Probably best to not bother. I’ll stick with ‘mischief’ myself. No particular reason.

No sign of any mischief in the corridor so I lead them into class and get on with the registration conversation. I’m halfway through when there’s a knock on my door and la señora Pérez bustles in without waiting for a reply. She’s breathing heavily, sweating, still muttering about the rat- and carrying a box.

Bloody hell! Rafa is suddenly all excited and pout less. He’s up off the floor, blood flooding through his lips and he's reaching for the box.

‘Woah, hold on!’ I blurt in less than fluent español, reaching out and getting hold of it without actually securing possession. Rafa has also managed to grab a corner although la señora Pérez still has a firm grip.

‘You can’t bring a-‘ I stop short of alerting the rest of the children to the fact that there’s a sharp-toothed rodent above their heads. What are they thinking? It’s not Rafa’s show and tell today, and even if it was, I’d have insisted that he bring it in a cage. La señora Pérez looks confused, Rafa is starting to pout again but I can’t let this go on. I try to give the box a good yank but only manage to twist it sideways. I feel the contents slither to one side. It’s heavy. A big one! Suddenly, la señora Pérez loses her grip. I take the opportunity to pull it out of Rafa’s small hand but I’m stretching out too far over the heads of the spellbound children on the floor. Rafa tries to strengthen his hold but only manages to grab the lid which comes off. I now have the box by one corner but the weight of it means I can’t get enough purchase to keep it from tipping-

‘No!’ I manage to blurt as the weak side of the box starts to tear and the contents tumble out, bouncing off Lídia’s head before landing at my feet...

‘Ooee!’ says Lídia, staring at a banana and the tell-tale shape of a bocadillo (sandwich) wrapped in silver foil.

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘I thought you said-'

Rafa starts to gather his bocadillo and (rapidly bruising) banana. ‘My marm, she olvida my esnack!’ he snarls to himself. (My mum forgot my snack.)

Note to self. The Spanish for ‘rat’ is rata. The Spanish for ‘mouse’ is ratón. I knew that last year. I'm sure I did!

And un rato? Well, that actually translates into English as... ‘a short while’.

Good idea not to mix them up.

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The Things They Say (Part 8) When?

'You can take your picture home tonight,' I tell Pepa, who's obviously very proud of her work.

She looks up at me, a crease of concern on her brow. 'Is tonight, today?' she asks...

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The Things They (try to) Say... (Part 7.) Manuel's Vulgar Clams.

There’s quite a crowd surrounding Manuel as he bustles into the classroom this morning. What’s he got today? As usual, all the excited babble is in Spanish. I ease myself into a position so I can see above the bobbing heads. It’s a jam jar full of water. There’s something lurking at the bottom.

‘What have you got?’ I ask in a sing-song, Blue Petery, early-in-the-day voice.

Manuel holds the jar aloft and shrugs. ‘I no no weet een eengleesh,’ he says, slightly crestfallen.

A nuclear weapon of noise explodes around him as everybody gives their view of what’s in Manuel’s treasure jar.

‘OK, OK,’ I say, in a slightly less Blue Petery tone. ‘Let me have a look.’ It’s some kind of mollusc but I’ve no clue whether they’re cockles or mussels. I’ve some doubt whether they’re alive-alive-oh, given that Manuel’s had them captive for most of the weekend. Half a dozen of them are lurking in the murk at the bottom of the jar, each about the size of a butterbean.

I scan my mob for someone who might just have an edge over the others in matters mariscos. It’s not promising. I can hear lots of muttered suggestions, all of them muttered with 101% certainty, all of them different. I have to admit I’m not a big seafood eater, or an eater of big seafood, so although I recognise many of the Spanish words, I couldn’t actually translate any of them into English.

‘You see ees lengua?’ Manuel points excitedly at a creamy-coloured tongue probing out from one that is still alive-alive-oh after all.

‘Very nice,’ I say. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘En la playa.’

‘In English, please.’ He must know this.

‘Da bitch!’ he says, proudly.

‘Yes, the beach. Were they in the sea?’

He looks confused. ‘Dey in da warder.’

‘In the sea.’ I emphasise ‘sea’ but Manuel ignores me.

‘My dad he coger dem but my mum she say you poot hems back but my dad he say ees OK I wanna traer thems to see you and my mum she gritar when all de warder it go on the silla in coche.’ I manage to turn that lot into news that there was a family row over whether he could bring them into school which reached a peak when Manuel spilled some of the water in the car...

‘Sounds like you had a lovely day out,’ I say, and notice (the aptly named) Mar smirking. She can have a level 4 at the end of the year.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ I announce, before Manuel has a chance to let us all know whether the row escalated later on when he probably emptied them all out onto the dining room carpet. ‘Miss Macarena knows a lot about these things so I’m just going to pop next door and ask her while you change your reading books.’

Everyone nods that Miss Macarena is a world expert on marine-life except Marta, who’s got her hand up and a worried look on her face. ‘What is “pop”?’ she asks with a seriousness that is not normal for a 7-year-old.

‘Ummm, it means “go”,’ I say, hoping fervently that she doesn’t ask why...

‘Is almeja,’ la señorita Macarena says with calm certainty. Maybe she is a world expert on marine-life after all. ‘Bu- I no nowit een English.’

‘No matter,’ I say, pudging my phone with my index finger. ‘I’ve got a translator on this... clam! OK, thanks.’

‘Kwam?’ la señorita Mac says, looking for confirmation. I show her the screen and say, ‘Claaam,’ as clearly (and as quickly) as I can. I can hear a bit of ‘noise’ from next door...

‘Right! I’ve got it,’ I bellow above the din as I stride back into my room. There’s no blood evident and no-one’s crying so I breeze on. ‘Come and sit down for the register and we can have a little talk about Manuel’s almejas, his clams!’

A dozen permutations of the word ‘clam’ ring out as the children settle down on the floor. Pablo and Paco are arguing about which of them said ‘almeja’ earlier on. I fire up my IWB and pop- sorry, put ‘almeja’ into wordreference.com. ‘Come and tell us about your clams!’ I beckon to Manuel who, as always, is thrilled to have a chance to chat to a willing audience.

I carefully steer him around the family row, which evidently did escalate when Manuel dropped one clam into his granny’s lap when they went for paella after their morning on the beach. With a little prompting he manages to use words like ‘bucket’ and ‘paddle’ to describe the collecting process and the children have loads of questions about how you cook them. Then I spot Marta with her hand up and a worried look on her face.

‘Yes, Marta,’ I say.

‘What ees, “Vah-hee-na”?’ she asks.

‘Vah-hee-na?’ I repeat.

She nods.

‘Is that English?’ I ask. ‘Or Spanish?’

‘Ees English,’ she says, quietly. ‘And “fanny”?’

I feel my lower jaw dislocating from its mountings and bouncing a couple of times on my chest. She’s said it so clearly and perfectly, even stressing the first syllable as you do. Whenever you say it. If ever you say it... Fan-ny.

‘Wha- I, er, ummm, where did you hear that,’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, like she’s asked me what ‘horse’ means, or ‘frog’.

‘I read it,’ she says.

‘Where?’ I venture.

She points. At my whiteboard. For some spiteful reason my brain sends a cold shiver down my neck as I turn and look at word reference’s translation of almeja into clam. It’s a noun feminine, I see immediately, although I could have guessed that from the ‘a’ on the end. Then I notice an extra translation underneath. This one is also a noun feminine, but crucially, it’s also colloquial. And vulgar.

Vagina.

Jesus Christ!

‘Vah-hee-na!’ Manuel rolls it around his vocal chords. And, as I’ve taught them to do, they all start saying it with varying intonations.

‘Ees vah-hee-na, or vah-gee-na?’ Pepa asks, and I regret bitterly having spent so much time showing them how an English ‘g’ makes different sounds in words such as ‘got’ and ‘giant’.

Steven, my one British kid, has his hand up and I know for a fact he wants to tell everyone that an English ‘i’ rarely makes the Spanish ‘eee’ sound! From the evil glint in his eye I have a nasty suspicion that he also wants to provide us with a definition. But before I get the chance to shush him I notice a second extra translation of almeja. It’s ‘offensive’ apparently, in the UK at least.

Fanny.

For some reason I can’t quite fathom, this seems to be one of the few English words that Spanish kids can pronounce perfectly.

‘Fanny,’ Manuel says inquisitively, as if he’s trying to remember it so he can tell his dad (who’s also learning English) a new word this afternoon when he gets home. ‘What ees fanny?’ I pray the head doesn’t wander in to collect the register which I haven’t even started. ‘Ees animal?’

Then, I take one more glance and see a third extra translation of the Spanish word almeja and I see my career flash before my eyes, screaming wildly. The heat-induced sweat dribbling down my back is suddenly engulfed by a tsunami of the shock and stress-induced variety. I slam the laptop lid shut and yank the VGA lead out with a force that could move a fully-laden Jumbo jet along the runway at Heathrow.

‘What ees-‘ Marta starts, but I cut her dead.

‘I’ve got a wonderful surprise!’ I blurt, unsure of what I’m going to say next, but certain that it has to grab their attention away from what they might just have read on my IWB. ‘Ummmmm. We’re going to........ ummm, go out side- and- yes, have an extra playtime!’ I say the last two words with huge enthusiasm, like I’ve got a swimming pool full of ice-cream ready for them to dive into. This seems to do the trick; there is a monstrous roar of junior delight and a slight diminishing in the flow of sweat squirting out of my pores.

As I lead them out, dancing and hugging each other, I feel a tug on my shirt. It’s Marta. She has a worried look on her face.

‘What ees...’ she begins.

‘Why don’t you bring a skipping rope?’ I offer. I know she loves skipping. ‘We could play that game with the months when you have to jump in on your birthday?’ I know they all love that one. Marta looks torn. The birthday months skipping game, or that third ‘extra’ translation that she wants explained...

‘Tell you what, I’ll skip first,’ I offer.

‘Oh yes, Meesta Dee, you skeep too-‘ a whole gang of them start bellowing. And Marta is caught up with childish delight for something completely insignificant, all her thoughts about learning new words are erased, and my career survives a brush with Manuel’s vulgar clams.

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Giant Playground Problem

So what is it this time? A fight? A runner? A stolen toy? No... Beetles!

Giant beetles, at that. Not something I can remember having to deal with in the UK during 25 years of patrolling. But here...

Manuel scampers towards me as I exit the building, donning my hat and sunglasses.

'Meester Dee, Meester Dee! Look thees!' 

It would be nice to think he's trying to say 'These,' but I know for a fact he's still saying, 'This', even though he has four beetles (giant beetles) scrambling over his palm.

'Very nice,' I say. 'Beetles.'

'Escarabajos,' he says. The children often do this. I give them the English, they give me the Spanish in return. They know I'm learning. I think it's good that they see that teacher doesn't know everything and can learn stuff from them.

I always like to chew over any new Spanish word I hear. Escarabajo? I know 'cara' means face and 'bajo' means down, so does escarabajo mean face-down? Neat. 
Neat, maybe. But wrong. I'm reliably informed that escarabajo comes from the latin, scarabaeus. Shame. 

Some kids once found a grasshopper in the playground. Quite a big one. I told them it was a grasshopper and they looked distinctly unimpressed.

'Saltamontes,' Marta told me proudly. 'Saltar', to jump, 'montes', mountains. Yes, bit more impressive than grasshopper, I have to agree.

I saw one once, in Guatamala, which looked big enough to jump a (medium-sized) mountain. Here it is...

Looking at it again, it's probably a locust. Or maybe a pterodactyl. Glad one of this size hasn't hopped into the playground. That might cause a bit of a stir, as it ate a couple of children before we teachers could fend it off with broom-handles and fire-extinguishers.

No, there's never a dull day in a Spanish playground.

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Zen Kyu Maestro eBook Final Cover Choice

OK, here it is, the revised cover. We changed the green chalkboard to traditional black, popped a stick of chalk under it for those of you (us) who didn't realise it was a chalkboard, added the 'TES' strapline and recaptioned the snaps. 

I think it looks great.

For a free download sample or to buy, click here. ¡Disfruta!

The Things They Say... (Part 6.) I peeled the dog this morning...

A classic 'zenky' this morning! I'm taking the register and ask 'María' if she has any news to tell me.
'Oh yestoday, I pelar my dog.'
I don't know the Spanish word 'pelar' so I look blank and scan the room for help. Some of the kids are looking as bemused as I feel. Raul is waving furiously. 'I noweet!' he screeches. (There might be a house-point in this. He'll kill for a house-point.)
'Raul,' I say.
'Ees like when you have platano (that's banana) and you quitar (take off) de piel (skin).' 

You see, I do have a bit of the old español.
'Peel?' I ask, a bit taken aback. María is already nodding like she's trying to shake her head off into her lap. '¡Eso es!' (that's it!) she says every time her face isn't butting her tummy.
'You peeled your dog?' I ask, with mouth gaping. I have to struggle to keep a straight face. My one English child is looking like she thinks she's joined some 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre' training school. Some of the Spanish kids are edging away from María, she might not get too many more sleepover invites by the looks of things.
A little 'snipping' motion from María's fingers finally suggests to me that the word she really wants is 'cut' (cortar). I suggest that she was cutting her dog's hair and the nodding fit intensifies frighteningly.
Everyone relaxes a fraction as I explain the difference between cutting a dog's hair and (theoretically) peeling one.
Never a dull moment!

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The Things They Say... (Part 5.) I'm visiting my Kangaroo...

Linda and I are enjoying a Saturday morning desayuno in our local parque. The sun is shining and we've decided to graduate from Marca to El País to beef-up our Spanish practice a bit. We've got cafés con leche, tostadas con mantequilla y mermelada and zumos de naranja. It's a mystery, and a shame, that within spitting distance of Valencia, orange marmalade is a highly unusual offering in any café. It's often strawberry (fresa), or, if you're lucky, as we are today, melocotón (peach). A perfect morning nonetheless.

And then...

'Meesa Deee, Meesa Deee...'

This can only mean one thing. Very few of the children in my class ever finish my name. They always seem to be so excited by something, that they give up half-way through. I turn to find Nico (pronounce that Nee-co, if you want the gap-toothed smile to continue) gasping for breath behind me.

'Well, good morning, Nico,'  I begin, as if it's Monday morning and he's sitting on the floor in front of my desk. 'And how are you today?'

'I fine, zen-kyu an-joo?' he replies automatically, as per the formula which I've sweated blood to get them all to say. But I can see from his flitting eyes and gaping mouth that the sight of his teacher, sitting in a café with a Spanish newspaper and a decent breakfast in front of himself, is something which he's never seen before in his life, and he's trying desperately to take it all in.

'So, what are you doing here on this lovely Saturday morning?' I open the conversation, knowing that Nico won't be capable of such a task, certainly not in English and maybe not even in Spanish, given the dazed look in his eyes now that they've stopped flitting all over my table. 

Nico looks at me like I've just addressed him in Urdu. 'Do you live near here?' I ask, as slowly as I can, as an alternative gambit to change my monologue into a conversation.

'Em, em, em,' he begins, not very certainly. 'No. I come wiz, I come wiz, I come wiz... wiz, wiz... my kangaroo.'

I try to decide whether I should display the shock, surprise and smile on my face all at the same time. I wonder if he's just said the first word that's come into his head because he can't think of the word 'mum' or 'dad'.

'Your kangaroo?' I manage to reply, wondering if there's a Spanish 'Candid Camera' team lurking nearby. What the Spaniards might probably call a cámara indiscreta. But no, Linda and I- and Nico... (and his kangaroo), seem quite alone. I scan the grassy area of our parque for any signs of hopping in the far bushes. Nothing. 

'So, where is your kangaroo now?' I ask. It wouldn't be unusual for small boys of Nico's age to be out alone in the parque at this time of day. It's surrounded by six-storey blocks of flats (pisos) and every child (for miles around, it seems) uses the parque as a garden.

'My kangaroo, he live there.' He points across the parque, at a nondescript block. I can't see any signs, 'Beware of the kangaroo!' stuck to the door. 

I wonder if Nico is trying to be funny. He's only seven, and seven year-olds have very underdeveloped senses of humour. I use a lot of humour in class, often to check if they understand what I'm saying (they usually don't), so maybe Nico is trying out a bit of his own. 

'So, does your kangaroo live alone?' I venture.

'¿Qué?' 

A deep breath. 'Your kangaroo?'

Nico nods.

'He live alone? Solo?'

Nico nods vehemently. 'Yes. He live sola.'

This is getting a bit bizarre. Most of the kids in my class still have no idea how to use 'he' and 'she' correctly, and Nico's use of sola (instead of my solo) suggests that his kangaroo is in fact female. I trust that he's less likely to make a mistake in Spanish. Why I feel the need to clarify beyond the risks of linguistic incompetence whether his kangaroo is male or female... I can't explain, but I do. I think it's something to do with being a primary teacher.

'Nico. Your kangaroo. Is man kangaroo? Or is lady kangaroo?' I know I'm not meant to speak like this, but there's no way my head will hear me here, and it's the best way I can think of shortening the 'conversation' a little.

'Lady kangaroo,' Nico replies definitively.

I congratulate myself on my Columbo levels of linguistic detective-work, and wonder if my coffee might be starting to get cold. Then Nico starts to jump up and down excitedly.
'Look you!' he commands. 'She is come, she is come!'
Linda and I both turn in our chairs. I don't think I've ever seen a kangaroo. Certainly not in Spain. And certainly not in a café outside our flat while having brekka on a Saturday morning. I'm wondering how many hops it'll take her to get to our table. 
At a guess, I'd say she was in her early twenties, wearing a blue T-shirt and faded jeans. And long black hair in a pony tail. 'Hola,' she says as she reaches our table, without hopping.
I won't relay the whole of our conversation as it was in what I'll generously (to myself) call 'Spanish' and would turn the brunt of the humour away from Nico and onto me. But we have a nice little chat and very surreptitiously discover that she isn't Nico's sister or aunty or cousin or anything. In the end we ask her directly. She tells us she's a 'kanguro'.
As they walk away, Nico waving furiously, like he's never expecting to see us again, I whip out my phone with its frequently thumbed English-Spanish dictionary. Spanish has a very regular phonic spelling system, if you hear a word, you can usually spell it. (Unlike English.)
I pop in 'kanguro'. Nothing. I try 'canguro'. And there it is. 'Canguro' in Spanish means 'kangaroo' in English.
Linda and I look at each other. Has Nico developed a sense of humour? I scroll down the 'canguro' entry, just in case it has an extra (slang) meaning which will erase the frowns from our brows. I see that it also means 'cagoule' which doesn't help. But then I scroll a little further. 'Canguo' also, rather cleverly, I think, has one final translation into English...

Baby-sitter. 

We turn back to our tepid coffees and the El País newspaper. But I know there's only one new Spanish word we'll remember from this morning's homework... 

If you like the blog why not read the eBook? Zen Kyu Maestro, An English Teacher's Spanish Adventure available from Amazon. 
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