I play a short conversation
every night in class as a listening exercise.
Unlike the stilted sloooow dialogues that accompany the textbook, these,
while very brief, represent a more realistic American speech, larded with
idioms and even a few expletives. We
learn “screw” and “ass” and “pissed off.”
We talk about what it’s ok to say with our friends but not to our boss
and have gone over a couple of expressions that I advise them as best not to use
at all.
The first of an endless
number of end of semester tests is Wednesday.
Students are diligent about showing up when I announce that there will
be a test. The consequence of absence is
having to take the test in the office and endure much more extensive proctoring
than their loosey-goosey teacher subjects them to. Usually attendance is light the night after a
test is administered. This week, I reach
my semester low with 23 students. I am hoping very much to finish the textbook,
but I know that with a small class, I’m going to need to reteach just about
everything, so I decelerate the pace for the evening.
We’re learning about
household objects. Vacuum. Mop.
Lawnmower. I tell them that a
waste basket is inside, and a trash can is outside. I tell them that “pail” is a synonym for “bucket.” Then, just for the heck of it, I teach them “kick
the bucket.” I was never sure of the
origin of the expression, and looking it up, I discover that there’s no clarity
as to the derivation, although there is recorded use as early as the 18th
Century. The theories are that it might be a reference to suicide by hanging or
the slaughter of pigs. Inexplicably,
although I am unable to provide the etymology, the students find the expression
beyond hilarious.
In that they’re so into it,
and it’s a tiny class, I jump to “bucket list.”
In order to demonstrate, I write a bit of my own on the board. Return to Oaxaca. Skydive.
Play with my grandchildren. We go
around. Rosa wants to go to Italy. Jaime wants to speak English fluently enough
to enroll in university and then go to law school. Blanca wants to attend her grandson’s high
school graduation. Diego wants to see a World
Cup Soccer match.
I have reduced my TV news
consumption a bit, reaching a point during this week where I just can’t take it
anymore. I scare myself though. What if everyone of sane voice is emotionally
taxed to the extent that the only alternative is to check out? Truly, what if our hope is beaten out of us
and we take up knitting or rock climbing, unable to further witness the erosion
of democracy?
But there is the bucket list. I have lived many more days than I will
live. I will not become an ostrich as my
children and grandchildren will continue to inhabit this planet long after my
ashes are scattered. The challenge is to
remain a good citizen without forgoing the small pleasures that enrich the, ever
diminishing, remaining days.
Larry, the kitten is a gangly
teenager. I wish that he’d stay a tiny kitty,
but he is still naughty, playful and affectionate and an enormous source of
pleasure. There are two tiny log cabin incense
burners that we bought in New Hampshire.
When I come home at night, each gets a cone of pinon incense from New
Mexico. The wisps of smoke wafting from the tiny chimneys enchant me. How lucky I am to have seen what I’ve seen and
been where I’ve been.
We knocked on doors and wrote
thousands of postcards and made a difference in the 2018 election. I have been less active since, but political
activity, which is so much more tonic than hand wringing news watching, is on
the agenda when the current semester is done.
In the meantime, I will partake of the little pleasures of watching
Larry torment the patient dog and dozing off as the burning pinion puffs
through a wee chimney. Indulging in
these little happy things is fortifying and reminds me why a better world is
worth fighting for.
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