Glad Tidings

I am not leaving my home today.  There are a couple of gifts to pack and this piece that I’m writing now followed by a season of British Baking Show.  My teaching schedule changed radically in August.  I teach three different classes on a split shift.  There is other change afoot at the school.  Our courses are accelerated. Now, more than ever, we can’t accomplish much beyond teaching to the test.  We administer at least eight tests during the course of the semester.  Classes are cancelled for staff meetings.  Every class takes a field trip to the library, intended to be accompanied with classroom activities that also require a chunk of time. 

I return to school January 14. There will be two additional weeks of class and then a new semester will begin.  I will have to make the call about promoting students to the second level or making them go back to “Hello my name is Jose.  I’m from Nicaragua.” After determining who will go and who will stay,  I start with a new giant class and a long time till the weeklong spring break.  I have batteries for the remote and groceries in the fridge.  Usually I feel shiftless when a day is binge TV’ed away but today I feel less profligate.  Both kids will be in Portland.  I have promised not to watch the news and to read at least one book.  There are a couple of casual social events. That’s about it.

Because the semester for my evening class ends after we return, I discourage them from having a Christmas party.  There was no door decoration contest which is actually a relief, having had such harrowing experiences with prior competitions. The school collects food at Thanksgiving and toys before Christmas for charities.  My students fill a giant table with offerings.

Elvira is tiny and meek.  Her eyes dart when I speak to her.  She is wearing a white graphic hoodie.  Unfortunately, one of the graphics is “Fuck my enemy.”  I pull her aside. 

“Your shirt has a bad word.”

 “What is it?” 

“I can’t say it.”

“What does it mean?”

“’Chingar’”.  But way worse.”

“It was a present.”

“Not a very good present.”

 I bring in card stock and some washi tape.  The objective is to write your own name and address legibly.  Copy another student’s address.  Correctly address an envelope, make a greeting card, write a message (non-religious) inside the card.

We are divided into groups and managers are appointed to provide assistance and leadership.  Each group is given a folder with cards, envelopes, practice writing forms, scissors, 2 rolls of washi tape accompanied by step-by-step instructions with photographs.  Blanca, whose Halloween extravaganza was unrecognized, is disappointed that there is no Christmas door to create.  Her friend Flora, who works as a housekeeper at a downtown hotel, has had family problems lately and has missed a number of classes while traveling back and forth from Baja.  Blanca is recovering from a bout of bronchitis.  They ignore the written instructions and lose themselves.  Both create elaborate illustrations.  Torn away long enough to draw a name from the hat and correctly address an envelope to another student, at the mailbox, I notice that both of the girls have neglected to affix a stamp.

Sota and Yuki are missionaries from Japan.  They belong to the Hon-Micchi sect, which has a branch on Wilshire Blvd.  Half a dozen boys from the mission attend classes at our school.  There is very little information available about Hon-Micchi, except that it’s a doomsday group.  Some teachers at the school have been invited for “lunch” which turned into a big proselytizing effort which is described as “creepy.”  The Japanese boys, sit among other single guys in their twenties and there are lots of high fives and bro hugs.  There is an arm-wrestling match between Sota and a particularly fit Guatemalan construction worker.   String bean Sota holds his own for an astonishingly long time.  “No more Fight Club!” I admonish them.  The guys pepper Sota and Yuki with questions, sometime resorting to phone translations.  “Girlfriends?   Beer?   Marijuana?” “Stop it!” I yell.  “They’re good boys.  Missonarios!”

Sota and Yuki are absent the night we go to the library.  It is their only absence, so I assume there’s been some prohibition.  They score off the charts in all but the speaking tests, where they have difficulty.  Yuki brings in picture books from Disney movies.  I teach him the word “mermaid.”   After our non-Christmas party, the students file out.  “What do you want from Santa?” I demand.  Yuki says something unintelligible.  Finally, I make out “concert” and then “Frozen.”  “So, you want to see the live show of Frozen?” “Yes.  Yes.  Live show.  Frozen.” His smile is wistful.  We both know that he’ll not be going.

A couple of students want Iphone11s from Santa.  Benito says he’d settle for a 10 but also wants a car and a house.  Lots of them say, “Time with my family together.” For some, their immigration status makes this just about as likely as a house or car.  “World peace” is a popular selection.  Stella always wins at the Kahoot game and scores very high on all of the district tests.  She is goth-y.  Black everything.  Leather.  Ripped jeans. Jet black hair, Kabuki foundation, calligraphed eyebrows and the kind of nose-ring that makes me think of cows.  I make her help me take roll and pass out tests.  She’s keeps cool for most of the semester.  “Do I make you nervous Stella?”  “Yes.” We roll our eyes in unison. “Stella, what do you want from Santa?”  “A warm house for every dog in the world.”

My Saturday class is dinky anyway, but on the Saturday before Christmas, there are only five students.  I bring brownies and the students bring tamales and macaroons and soda.  We do some easy, fun lessons and show them a couple of videos of Jim Carrey doing Fire Marshall Bill.

There is one Korean, two Mexicans and two Salvadorans.  They talk about food and kids and more about food.

The morning class is also sparse.  A couple of retired attorneys from Colombia, Martin and Margarita have enrolled in my class.  They have five children in the U.S. and are spending six months her, visiting a daughter and a new granddaughter.  They’ve been on every continent.  I bring brownies on the last day before the break and make coffee and tea.  Sarah brings some salad, and Maria brings fresh handmade tortillas and a rotisserie chicken. 83 year old Isabel, who’s lived in L.A. for 30 years and had never been downtown, wraps her food with a napkin to take home.    It is the last class I’ll teach in 2019.  We sit around a little elementary school table and scoop food into cardboard trays that are used for the kids’ breakfasts.  We talk about kids and food and more about food.

I am so indolent that a week of inertia has passed since this is written.  Only two more weeks of vacation now.  I attend two gatherings of folks I’ve known since the kids were in nursery school.  Many of my peers are retired.  Kids are married and most are relatively financially independent.  We reminisce about carpools and playdates.  Driving permits.  College applications.  The packing up and shipping off.  The house full of college friends and giant batches of French toast and the washer running constantly. And packing up and shipping back a few times.  But now it is unlikely that we will share a common residence again.  They visit.  I visit. 

Students text me Christmas greetings. Mostly in correct English.  Many with God’s blessings.  I think sometimes that it would be nice to be retired but for a while I’ll just pretend retire on school breaks.  Solicitude is sweetened by long bouts of satisfying publicness. There will be a wistfulness a day or two before my return to school and I know that soon I’ll be counting the days until spring break. But back in my classroom there’s that same companionable feeling as when the house was filled with kids and the washer and dryer spun 24/7.