Boiling Point Approaching

Ahem. GOOOOOD MORNING! Today we are going to talk about culture shock. Can you say culture shock? GREEAATTT JOB! Fuzzy font aside, what you see above is a replica of a snake I drew in kindergarten with a half-eaten RoseArt crayon/the cultural adjustment curve we discussed at length during orientation a few months ago. Who can tell me where I currently stand in relation to this curve? If you guessed anything other than the unforgiving and turbulent waters of that lowest dip, you have detention after class. Me every day:

How Did I End Up Here, Anyway?

Teaching abroad is an experience I’ve desired since graduating from college, but instead I succumbed to societal pressures of legitimizing my self-worth with an all-star strength profile on LinkedIn and establishing a foundation for my career. Throughout the years since, my professional disenchantment led me to reconsider teaching English. Anywhere seemed alluring enough. And by anywhere I meant places that are politically and economically stable, in close proximity to an international airport, near reputable hospitals and without rampant communicable diseases and/or viral infections spread via mosquitoes. So I guess what I actually meant was Candy Land, where the only real threat was my sister sucking on a candy cane until it became as sharp as a needle and repeatedly poking me with it as we waited in the car for our dad to buy milk at Winn-Dixie. Anyone else? No? Okay. After compulsively researching countries in South America, I decided I'd take my chances on an earthquake prone Chile. My curiosity originated in one of my anthropology classes titled, “Peoples of Latin America.” I remember this course distinctly, mostly because my professor called me Melanie despite my continuous efforts to gently correct him. I grew so accustomed to my new name that I began introducing myself as Melanie at parties. She was the wing woman/confidant/scapegoat I never knew I needed.

Chatter on campus: "Did you hear about that Melanie chick who, like, threw up in a blender last night at the Sig Ep party?"

Me: "OMG she's in my anthropology class! So embarrassing!

The story isn’t long: we watched The Motorcycle Diaries in class and I thought, “Hmm...Chile looks cool.” That probably wasn’t the takeaway my professor intended, but the seed was planted. Years later, I find myself sitting in a frigid classroom watching my pitiful attempt at classroom decorations slowly peel off the wall one by one, wishing I was anywhere but here. Where's Melanie when you need her? 

At this point in my adventure, I'm beginning to comprehend how treacherous expectations can be. And to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I expected. A cake walk? A giant party? Self-fulfillment? Satisfaction? An epiphany about who I want to be and what I want to do with the rest of my life? Probably a combination of some or all these. The reality is, I want to go home. I feel like I'm living the adult iteration of being stuck at a slumber party my parents won't pick me up from after accidentally pissing my pants at 3am. I hoped moving to an unfamiliar country to teach English would somehow make me happier, more fulfilled. I assumed I’d be living an intriguing life somewhere in Patagonia, my insatiable lust for adventure coalescing with the rugged and idyllic terrain of southern Chile.  Maybe I'd grow an unkempt beard and construct an eco-friendly tiny house with my bare, callused hands. After enduring the inhospitable elements of my first Chilean winter, I'd start a line of overpriced outdoor gear that would capture the attention of nature enthusiasts, the entirety of the Bay Area and frat boys alike. I believe myself to be a more adaptable person, but every day here feels a bit like this:

Regrettably, I've mutated into a narcissistic disgrace of a human, my spirit eviscerated by the slightest of inconveniences. If anything, this experience has brought to light how dependent I am on instant gratification and the indulgences I both feel entitled to and take for granted every day at home. 

As the cultural adjustment curve accurately predicted, everything except the pastries and cheap wine has become irritating to me. People walk too slowly. I can't watch Netflix because the WiFi signal is too weak. There's NO indoor heating. Or toilet paper in public restrooms. I constantly inhale big, black presumably carcinogenic clouds of diesel fumes walking to and from class. I've had a horrific cough for two months I'm convinced is the black lung. Living with two small children is nothing short of a nightmare. 

Are these big enough reasons to want to escape from this opportunity and never look back? I’ve clearly lost site of the reason I’m here, which is to teach English.

God damnit, I’m Staying

I am ill-equipped to teach English the way a trust fund baby is incapable of taking over the family's company after his or her father's untimely death. In college I wrote twenty-five page papers on subjects ranging from the racist undertones in the Lion King to communication techniques used by nonverbal autistic children. An oversimplification of my early adulthood involved writing thousands of tweets and Instagram posts for my clients. These past experiences didn't matter, though, because a college degree and one week of training were the only qualifications needed before catapulting into a mélange of braces, zits and raging hormones.

My teaching qualifications.

My first week at school consisted solely of classroom observations.  My daily mantra became, “I am a fraud. I cannot do this. Maybe the school has a Twitter handle I can run instead.” But, alas, I did do it. And I did it well. By the grace of a god I don't believe in, I was dealt the best behaved class of the deck on my first day. Feet dragging, they trickled in and sunk into their small wooden chairs. Some sleepy and unenthused to be there, others gushing with excitement and eager to start class. I shut the door, took a deep breathe, momentarily stared at the massive penis etched into my blackboard, turned around and began. "Welcome to English class!” I said with the artificial enthusiasm of a used car salesman and twenty-five pairs of skeptical eyeballs staring at me. I’m not an innately animated person, but if I don’t convulse on the floor, recreate a Picasso painting on the blackboard with my own blood and then light myself on fire, I’ll lose their attention.

I’m now almost two months into teaching and I still don't know what I'm doing, which leads me to the satisfying conclusion that my Catholic school teachers probably didn't either. I do, however, have a new appreciation for educators as a whole, and feel remorse for the antics I pulled as a recalcitrant middle schooler. Teaching is NOT easy, much less with a language barrier. To compensate, I find myself jumping around using aggressive arm movements, sweat beading down my temples and black whiteboard marker streaks across my face. 

Honestly, this isn't far off.

Most of my students are sweet and well-behaved. They genuinely want to learn English and willingly participate in all my silly games and activities. They're attentive and curious about the mundane aspects of my life. I reciprocate by asking about theirs. They’re ordinary teenagers with typical teenage problems: bullying, boy problems, girl problems, friend problems. They take selfies. They’re moody. They're addicted to their damn phones. They divulge their dreams to travel outside of Chile for university. Of course, there are those who clearly have no interest in being there, engrossed in their own prepubescent world. Some play cards in the middle of class. Others blatantly listen to music with their headphones lassoed around their ears. More times than I'd like to admit, I lose complete control of the class to side conversations that eventually erupt into an untamable group gossip session. Here's how I refocus them: 

Although I've yet to assimilate in Ovalle, I've found a purpose here. Few speak fluent English aside from the other volunteers in my program. Even the English teachers at public schools struggle with the language, making it difficult for students to properly learn. The presence of native speakers is an asset that would otherwise not exist were it not for the English Opens Doors program. If that's not an incentive to stay, I don't know what is. When students come to me, grateful to practice speaking English, it makes the tears, isolation, and longing for home more than worth it. At the end of the day, all I can do is consider acknowledging this experience as an opportunity and celebrate the beauty of life—misery included.