La Obra

There's something spectacular going on outside of my house, and this is what I see whenever I come home. Obra.
I remember learning that word in a Spanish lit class and spending a lot of time trying to figure out what it meant. The first time I saw it, it was written as "mano de obra" somewhat poetically, and it confused the hell out of me. In fact a direct translation still kind of eludes me at the moment, but it's something like: work or manual labor. In many cases, it just means work. Here, when they do construction jobs, they call them obras. In an effort to use more vocab than just common sense cognates that require little more than proper pronunciation (i.e. construccion), and to describe the situation I'm dealing with for teh next 15+ days, I'm attempting to put this word into daily use.

Unfortunately, it's not very beautiful or poetic, just kind of noisy, and it's managed to obstruct not only the normal path to my door, but also my normal morning shower routine. It's possibly tmi, but the water was cut off this morning...alas. When I went outside a few minutes ago to document the situation with my camera, the leader of the project walked over to make sure I wasn't taking pictures because there was a problem. No. No problem sir... I just want to remember the details. The water's back on now, so what more could I really ask for?

Turns out just about everything is a work in progress, including my job. I'm still deciding whether to be friend, teacher, disciplinarian... idk. Most days I make a few faces and laugh at or with them in between writing on the board and telling them to sit down or colorear.


This week, I went in every day, which is sooo not normal, because I'm only assigned to work 3 days a week. It's a good life, indeed. Anyhow, yesterday, the gym teacher came late, and I felt obliged to stay and hang out with Encarni's tercero class as they waited to have educacion fisica on the back patio. They get into a lot when they're left alone, so I stayed for a bit before heading upstairs to my usual class. I don't know if that helped or not...

Anyhow, I should send them these photos after I leave. In a year or two, when they've progressed a bit more, they'll laugh about what they must've been doing jumping around and shouting on the patio that day.

Que Rapido

People here have a tendency to put "que" in front of key words to place greater emphasis. During winter, it was often "que frio" and undoubtedly, once summer hits, it's bound to be "que calor". Often I hear, and have taken to saying it too, "que fuerte" especially when something is surprising, and not necessarily in reference to a hot beverage or a strong person. For example, the baby crying on the other side of my bedroom wall right now... that would be a case of "que fuerte", because it's pretty loud, the baby sounds highly agitated, and because it's been a long day, or maybe because i have no control over getting the infant to stop, it's also kind of annoying. Anyhow, the crying has stopped now... que bien.

So delving into the world of "que"... The last ten days have been a whirlwind of sisterly bonding and traveling, and at the end of (really) a nine-day journey, the one thing I have to say above everything else I'm feeling is "que rapido". In the last nine days, Nini, Tiffy, and Jay-jay have managed to cover three countries and use practically ever mode of thinkable transportation to get to them. I took the AVE and met their flight in Madrid on the 10th, then we took a train to Lisboa/Lisbon, Portugal; a bus to Sevilla; a rental car to Cordoba and Jerez de la Frontera, Cadiz; and a bus-ferry-train combination to arrive in Marrakech, Morocco. The mere fact of them being here was enough, but keeping the comedy flowing in the midst of the highlights and lowlights was also a plus. Whether we were looking for meals on empty stomachs, catching multiple connections on the metro, hailing taxis, bartering down from 450 to 80, roadtripping on Spanish autopistas, falling in public places, flirting for the student discount and extra regalos, capturing all the madness on three at-the-ready digital cameras, or just understanding hooow I've been living for the past seven months, I wouldn't have done it with anyone else.

And on that note, pictures are soon to come. My bad for the month long absence, I don't know how I've managed not to write for a month, but I'll have to do a big update, or fill in the blanks along the way with recaps and pictures of my smaller trips prior to the most recent one, like: Albufeira, Portugal and Matalascanas, Huelva - beach towns that my current shade of dahkness can attest to. I'll be back on the beach as soon as I can too, now that I know that rentals are feasible... :)

Well, on a final note, I did start on the note of the crying baby - which makes one behind my head, and another living across the inner courtyard. Super fuerte, I don't know if I can take it. I'm sure some of my oils from Morocco could calm them down, but I don't expect the 'rentals would be down for that. Anyhow, the babies are off and on in the crying. I'm hoping they'll calm down by the time I really decide to go to sleep, but as I emphasized before, the que fuerteness of the situation is the fact that it's out of my hands. Alas. I'll try to focus less on the intermittent screaming and more on how to upload all my pictures. Hasta ahora.

Semana Santa

I don't know what it is... but something about Semana Santa in Spain, no me cae muy bien. It just didn't sit that well with me. Despite my conodicos' way of telling me the festivities were really something to see (perhaps they meant a feast for the senses (including fear)...), the attire that accompanies the Semana Santa festivities was a flashback to The Birth of a Nation. I'm sorry Espana. To my fellow gente, I promise this is not a picture of the Ku Klux Klan. I wouldn't do that. But I feel I would be holding out if I didn't blog about an important Spanish tradition, which in spite of the clothing (which the KKK modeled after religious brotherhoods and not vice versa), did give me a chance to appreciate some more cultural differences, even if in the midst of the celebration, I had one too many conversations where people asked me to define American culture - as if contrasting it with Spain's, a country around the size of Texas, made any logical sense.

So, back to the religious fiesta. Semana Santa literally means Holy Week. And it's the week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday. It's religiously charged, so it's not so much that it's a new holiday to me, as much as it is a new celebration that I found out about only in Andalucia. It happens throughout Spain, but perhaps only here will you see a procession with Jesus and myriad virgins going by while onlookers watch with cubata in hand. In the north, apparently, the celebration is much quieter as well, maybe something like the contrast between Baptist and Episcopal church, although there's no gospel singing involved, as far as I know. The procession begins with the cofradias, religious brotherhoods walking ahead of the pasos. Each of the churches within a town has its own cofradia, and sometimes has more than one. Sometimes as they go, they're accompanied by singing. Depends on the hermandad. They usually have a cross, or more than one, and once they've passed the pasos of Jesus and the virgins appear behind them. In between these, are orchestras, children and or adults singing, and more hermandades. Each one has its own organization, but this is a general idea de como van andando por la calle.

I watched the processions, or pasos, in Huelva and in Bollullos, the main contrast being the number of pasos that went by in one evening - 5-7 in Huelva, versus 1 cada noche in Bollullos. They started in Huelva around 7pm, and in Bollullos a partir de las 9. The streets were pretty much dark by then so onlookers are assisted by streetlights and whatever light the pasos gave off, often by candlight, to see the paso itself. The pasos vary from lifesize depictions of Jesus' judgment with Judas and Pontias Pilate, to the cross, to Mary, and idk how many virgins. Every once in a while, when I saw the virgins, I was reminded yet again that I am not Catholic. But Espana is.

The biggest pasos hold the virgins (I would expect it to be JC...). These are almost always depicted with tears. These pasos are large, gold, filled with candles, and carried on the shoulders of I don't know how many men, who support the weight from underneath the paso. Looking closely, I could see their feet hidden by the long velvet curtain that drapes the bottom of the paso like a bed skirt. In retrospect, the whole event kind of is a feast for the senses, there's the incense burning that reminds you of being inside a Catholic church, people lining the streets and crowding to see the processions go by, and restaurants and bars staying open late to accomodate the crowds before, during, and after the pasos.

A lot of people asked, and keep asking me how I liked the whole celebration, and without getting into the KKK stories and the fact that I'm black, I just kind of shrug and say, "Si... nunca lo he visto antes, y es una costumbre muy distinta de Espana." What else can I say without offending people? I kind of did like the feast for the senses part, I'm just not sure I'm in agreement with the way they're celebrating. But it's not my culture to carry on. So... carry on.

Let the Rain Fall Down

For better or for worse, Bollullero youth have been exposed to very little diversity, and that which they have seen, many have learned to reject and furthermore disrespect. So when a 6th grader today laughed about reading the part of the black boy in the dialogue, I was a little surprised at myself for still getting caught off guard and being upset by the fact that he'd said it. Needless to say, kind of like the random wake-up call I got a few days ago, I jumped on him as soon as he finished reading. Last time this happened, I waited two weeks to confront the situation, by which time the students had a prepared response, the likes of which included, we are all equal... and Look, Obama's president of the USA!! He is, indeed. Thank goodness. But that doesn't make up for sixth grade ignorance, transmitted from parents undoubtedly, but transmitted nonetheless.

I told the class I didn't ever want to hear anyone say they didn't want to read the part of the black kid, or refer to "that" kid as some kind of a joke. My emotions might have stayed purely at anger if my co-teacher hadn't chimed in so that I could hear her voice starting to waiver. I kept thinking, why is SHE crying? But somehow, the tears rolling down her face made me feel like she was really defending me, and not just telling the kids to stop talking nonsense. When I asked her at the end of class why she was crying, she said it was because she'd put herself in my shoes. I thought maybe her dad was black or soemthing.... I mean. Anyhow. It was an emotional third period, after which I descended to the patio for recreo and subsequently fought off the memory of students saying shitty things. It was one of those rare moments when students get to see hoe teachers actually feel though. So I definitely don't regret that it went down, if anything, I'm thinking how much more progress would we have made if instead of pretending to be blind to our differences we had addressed them asi al principio...?

Al fin, some tears fell, I walked out on my class, my teacher cried, I made some more students cry, I played hopscotch with third graders, and wondered if they'd ever know this game is/was super popular with me and MY peers when I was their age in a different part of the world. In spite of everything, I keep wondering if I'm doing enough to show who I am. I am what you see, but what about all the history of an entire RACE that I carry with me just by the fact of being one of few representations of blackness in this itty-bitty world in a far corner of Spain? It kind of feels like an overwhelming task to undertake, just to get started thinking about where to start. Still, I'm brainstorming ways to sum up the history of black people in the US (or the world) from Christopher Columbus to Barack Obama. And I'm taking suggestions...

Making the Most of March Madness

In the spirit of March Madness, ahem, of traveling and enjoying the Andaluz that is, I have managed to leave the province on Huelva, not once but TWICE so far this month. Can I just say, amazing! The days don't always pass super quickly. Sometimes I even look back and think, wow that all happened today!?!? But those are the days I especially like, the days that seem to transform themselves from beginning to end, and leave me feeling like there's a story that needs to be told, or at least written down. Lately, I've been thinking I have to get up, out, and about, my tmie is winding down, and as always I want to make the most of every moment because how else do you make memories? Usually not by sitting on your culo waiting for towns, people, and cosas to happen to you. Anyhow, my latent inner need to be up and out of Huelva was facilitated by other people, so I really can't take all the credit, but I'm very glad, however it was made possible, that it happened. So, in the spirit of dual synopses... here goes:

Last weekend:
I went to Huelva City and spent the weekend bonding with my Huelva BFFs, La Rubia y La Morena. On Thursday night, I believe we had a nail painting party. Then on Friday, we caught a bus that brought us to a small, really bright, town on the border of Huelva and Portugal called Ayamonte. For a 50-minute bus ride, we got to see a little park, a cute little river through the town, lots of boats, la zona comercial, I got a pair of earrings as the girls know my weakness is shopping (!), and most exciting of all: took a 15-minute ferry ride to PORTUGAL! (So now I will say I've been there, even though it was only for one hour...) In the Portugal border town across the River: I liked what I saw, I know it was just on the other side of the water, but the architecture was different, lol! And for whatever reason it shocked me that people were seriously speaking Portuguese. I guess I did cross a border - without even needing a passport - but I am still surprised it was so different. A personal highlight was not getting stared at (score), and seeing maaaad towels lined up at the touristy booths along the Portugal port. When we at last made our way back to Huelva Fea, we ended up going out for a night on the town to some surprisingly new places, and although we caught a couple of awkward stares from the usual weird older man crowd, I saw an attractive Spaniard (a nine indeed, the first to reach that nivel de guapeton-ness).

That was Friday... on Saturday, we sat on the pier designed by the same man who did theEiffel Tower and took in the hottest rays I've felt since arriving in Septemeber. Later, we hitched a ride with a University of Huelva grad student and fan of the BFF's website, to Palos de la Frontera to see the Medieval Feria the town puts on to celebrate the return of Columbus after his first voyage to the "New World". I put that in quotations because we all know it wasn't really new.... but anyhow. Palos was the place he left from in 1492, and the place he returned to March 14th, 1493 after completing the first voyage. Little known Blakc History Factoid I picked up from my friend: despite Spain claiming all rights to the voyage, Columbus apparently did not collect all the water or all the seafaring men for is voyage in Palos de la Frontera alone; he stopped on the west coast of Africa, in Ghana, to pick up more agua, and more seamen because Ghanaians knew the shortest route to the New World. Not sure if that happened on the first journey, the second, third... or all, but it was definitely a detail our Huelva friend left out.

On Sunday, after waiting for a city bus to a park for an hour, we gave up and decided to go to Punta Umbria (my second time, since I went the week before to, but only to the commercial zone). There we got to lay out, peacefully, fully falling asleep for a couple of hours before going back to Huelva, where I caught the evening (and only bus on Sundays) back to [the sometimes very] buocolic Bollullos, unpack and prepare for writing lots of postcards, and getting my life together for my three-day work week and all the (um) stress in between...

So... that was last weekend.
Today:
Cadiz City - Originally I had planned to go to Cadiz on Friday, catch a bus to Sevilla, a train or bus to Cadiz, and somehow make a relatively tricky daytrip out of it. Much to my surprise, my roommate's parents are in town for a week or so, and wanted to go to Cadiz as well. So when I went out Thursday night, stayed out late, and then woke up at 2pm on Friday afternoon, it was actually the best thing that could have happened, because I met the parents Friday night and they offered to take me on their travels on Saturday to Cadiz.

Which, I might add, is a lovely beach city. not a beach town, but a small city. I liked. It took my mind off the fact that my roomie for life is getting married today and I'm nooot there... booo. So I'm not in Hawaii. But on the other side of the world, I chillaxed on the beach, climbed a steep wall along the beach as well as a winding sloped walk-up/ramp to the tower atop the Cathedral, walked through the Old Town/Casco Historico, had a kebab in the middle of a plaza facing the Cathedral, and picked up a pair of yellow flats. Priceless. On the way back to Bollullos, I got to see the sunset from the car, which happened in a matter of seconds, and reminded me of the how quickly the day comes to an end. No matter how long it took to get through it, they always end. No matter what happened along the way, the sun will go down and rise again. So in a lifelong effort to make the most of each day, I will continue the travels, plotting and planning the details, making the most of the moments, happy, sad, or in between, and filling my mind with positiveness to help me grow in the midst of a very emotional, spiritual, and sometimes physically taxing journey.

Here's to the spirit of my own personal March Madness!

En el Colegio

Probably at least half of the comedy of my life occurs in the colegio, mi querido CEIP Manuel Perez. When it's not the little kids saying crazy things, it's the adults doing everything from teaching to planning to gossiping to chatting in exxxxtra loud voices.

This morning, a Thursday, I walked into the third grade class, only to realize I was in the wrong place. I walked in, certain that the day was going to get off to a great start with eight and nine year olds, and subsequently realized my error, after they asked why I was there (moments after the 5-second-excitement of me walking in had faded). Sometimes you just have to make like a payaso and exaggerate your way out of a situation. I do that a lot.

So then I ended up across the hall with the 6th graders, only the head teacher is attending to an inspector who came to visit today so I was fending for myself. Luckily the maestro who's class it actually was, stayed, otherwise I'm sure I would have had to stop them from talking at least twice as many times as I did. Alas. The best part of the class was the portion I fubbed in to fill the remaining fifteen minutes. For the last couple of weeks I've gone over pronunciation with them. They've been learning how to describe people, i.e. short, curly, brown hair, eyes, height, etc. Only, they pronounce eyes like, I mean, I don't even know how to spell what they're saying, but I guess it would look something like this: ï-jez. So, to spare my ears, and whoever elses they may encounter once they get over their fear of speaking, I have my own phonetic chart for them - eyes for example should be pronounced like ¨ais¨, which makes less sense for English speakers than for Spanish speakers. Needless to say, I ended the class by talking about myself and making them read some of the problem words as I described myself, where I'm from, what I love to do. Best part was adding in that I have two cats named Max and Tyrone; Tyrone was momentarily pronounced: Tee-rone-ay, but we corrected that as well...

Right now, I usually have a planning period, but not much got done. The teachers' printer is out of ink, and what we really needed to do was print an exam for the third graders. We're waiting for another printer to get freed up, but the inspector is throwing things off a bit. Anyhow, I'm off to the patio now. Esta muy soleado, y quero salir!!! Y quizas jugar con los ninos, aunque more likely I'll just sit or stand and watch for the next veinte minutos antes de subir a las ultimas clases. Gracias por una semana en que trabajo solo tres dias. Obvio que este sea la vida.

Ripley's Believe It Or Not

Believe it or not, time is winding down for my tour de Espana. Just as the ignorance was beginning to mount. Amidst it, I plan to make a real attempt to see the things I haven't yet in an effort to have some additional travel tales for my future. Having spent a lot of time with little kids and their moms, I may have finally learned to treasure my singledom, if only due to their very real yet subtle hints that life changes, so appreciate it at every spectrum. I don't have a whole lot of compromising to do on a daily basis, besides a little with my roommates, so for the most part, I'm a one woman show, which also has its perks and pitfalls.

As far as the picture go, I am trying!! Literally, right now, to post one at a time in an older blog post. One down, like twenty to go.

I finally made it to Punta Umbria, a beach town in Huelva, but I was cameraless, so I'll have to go back fully loaded and with double A batteries in town to better document the experience.

I've been watching Spanish TV a little more. The nightlife has died down a bit, so my efforts to surround myself with Spanish audio have resulted in me sitting in front of the TV before bedtime wondering why there are so many American movies showing in Spain. I guess the fact that we ltierally have a movie-making city in the U.S. is kind of a novelty.

Anyhow, nothing super exciting. I could talk about the stare downs and the damndest things that little kids say, but I've said it all before! I will say, however, that one of my alumnas, who had been really sick - ok, that's an understatement, she had an ailment that required a low dose of chemo therapy - is doing much better, she's gotten a clean bill of health, and I've been able to watch this 6 year old be extremely strong. Considering she's going to school completely calvo some days, others with a paneulo, and occasionally dealing with the -ish that younguns say when they can't make sense of something, I have yet to see a tear roll down her face. When I found out, originally, how sick she'd been, I figured if she came through she might be a little bit different, but the truth is she was strong all along. You have to figure that if she came this far, there's obviously something she's here to live for, and it for damn sure is not the taunting. So, I might not have suspected it from the start, but she might end up teaching me a bit about manning up to the ignorance I have to deal with as well. Get 'em Tati.