Dear third graders,
I landed in San Salvador on Friday afternoon. I
was one of approximately five gringos on the plane. Exiting the airport, I was
met by a thick crowd of folks waving signs and calling names. I was struck by
how many in the crowd must have been waiting to see loved ones who might no
longer recognize them. I was looking for Jennifer’s mother, Guillermina, her
brother-in-law, Irvin, and her five-year-old cousin, Leticia, (Jennifer was at
work) but I quickly realized that I’d have better luck standing still and
letting them spot me.
As we embarked on the 50-kilometer drive from
the airport to the city, I marveled at the lush countryside we passed along the
way: towering palms, enormous tropical plants, and the mountains and valleys
carved into the land by the collision of the three tectonic plates the country
sits on. After forty-five minutes or so, I started to recognize some familiar sights:
the wildly curving roads, massive billboards (almost all advertising fast food),
and repurposed, colorfully decorated school buses now operating as public
transportation that now remind me of San Salvador.
We arrived at Jennifer’s house, where they
showed me to my room (Jennifer graciously agreed to share with her cousin so I
could stay in her cousin’s room) and around the house. Literally, around
the house—for those who aren’t
familiar, most homes here are built around a central area that’s open to
the
air—and with the smaller rooms and bathrooms encircling the open space,
kitchen,
and common areas. The smaller rooms have open windows facing into the
center of
the home, and the center area often has many plants and a drain in the
center
for wash and rain water. Like American suburbs, the streets here are
fairly quiet, though when you pass by you often hear dogs barking and
music playing from behind the massive steel doors that protect homes
from intruders. From what I can tell, folks don't spend much time
talking to neighbors, because even the porches and gardens are enclosed
behind the doors.
In the evening, I met Jennifer’s father, Carlos.
He’s an English teacher at a public high school, where he works both shifts:
7:30-12:00, and 12:30-6:00. Jennifer’s mother teaches math to middle school
students, and works a more typical schedule: just the morning shift. Schools in
San Salvador are so crowded that students (and most teachers) attend in two
shifts. In addition to working both shifts at school, Carlos teaches a
mostly-virtual English course to overage students working on their diploma,
which meets from 8:00-10:00 PM.
We talked about why
American kids leave home
after high school, and why Salvadorian kids often stay. Later, Jennifer
shared
why she stays: so she can live with her parents as a fellow adult, and
know
them as people in ways she couldn’t when she felt like she was their
charge. As she and her family all live in the same city, there's no
reason to move out and sacrifice her growing friendship with her
parents. Jennifer says her independence is in her spirit, not in her
housing arrangement!
On Saturday, Jennifer invited me to a writing
group she’s been attending weekly since September. The group is hosted by the
Spanish Embassy and taught by a well-known Salvadorian fiction writer. This
week, we met at a park called Salvador del Mundo (a large statue of Jesus on
top of the world is the middle of the park). The author prompted us to observe
the visitors to the park, and write down our impressions. The park was a busy
place on Saturday: a large Christian group had set up a stage, sound system,
and about two hundred chairs for some kind of performance, and a radio station
arrived to cover the story. Groups of children and young adults prepared to
dance and sing on the stage.
We wrote for about half an hour. I wrote pieces
of poems, bits of observations, things that startled or surprised me—like the
fact that the radio station’s vans were decorated with Israeli flags. At four,
we regrouped and drove to the Spanish Embassy, which rents a building that it
uses for a café and artist studios. We purchased coffee and assembled in a
small library located within the Embassy. The author began by inviting folks to
discuss their observations. Various participants shared, and then the author explained
the literary techniques she wanted the participants to focus on in their next
pieces of writing, and identified some well-known authors who use these
techniques well. This discussion took almost ninety minutes, with the author
talking for most of an hour. It struck me that I didn’t hear any of the
participants actually read what they
wrote. If they had, the author could have used the participants as examples
when she explained the techniques. Jennifer told me that for her, while the
workshop “is no Bread Loaf,” it’s a chance to stay connected to a community of
writers in San Salvador. She apologized to me, as if sitting and listening to a
teacher talk wasn’t also a familiar experience for me. Unfortunately, I told
her, most of my educational experiences were just like this one, which is why
Bread Loaf has also changed so much of how I think about my role in the
classroom.
On Sunday, we drove to the beach, which is
about an hour from Jennifer’s house. On our way out of the city, we passed a
luxury mall, enormous gated communities, and coffee plantations built into the
hills outside of the city. Our first stop was at a pier where freshly caught
seafood is sold daily. I tried my first minuta, which is the Salvadorian
version of a snow cone. I opted for a traditional flavor—limon, which literally
means that they squeeze fresh lime on the ice, and finish it with hot sauce. Would you like to try a drink like this?
After some time strolling on the pier,
we headed to another, ritzier beach—Playa Tunco. The beach is named for the
giant rock just a hundred meters or so from the coast that’s shaped like piglet
lying on its back. A little ways up the road, Playa Tunco is like another
world. Jennifer compared the beach to an upscale, outdoor mall—recently
renovated restaurants boast international, “healthy” menus, and foreign
tourists carrying surfboards dot the sands. The street vendors who sold us our
minuta at the first beach are nowhere to be found—only signs at each restaurant
that say “Propiedad Privada—No Se Permite Vendedores” (Private Property: No
Vendors Permitted). The waves here are formidable, making Playa Tunco an
international surfing destination. We tried our hand at some amateur body
surfing—Jennifer, with more practice than I, was much more adept at riding the
waves. I mostly crashed and burned and ended up with sand and saltwater stuck
to every imaginable part of my body!
Today, Jennifer couldn’t take me to work
because she didn’t yet have permission for me to attend the classes she’s
teaching at the jail. A day to myself was a blessing, though—I’ve been
recovering from a mild flu, and sleeping in and working at home was just what I
needed. This afternoon, I went for a walk with Guillermina and Leticia to a
local park, where we ran (and walked) laps around the track and explored the
playground. The park, like many in San Salvador, abuts a gorge and a wide view
of lush forest. At one point, Leticia and another little girl joined me for
some impromptu yoga! This evening, Jennifer and I went out to the center of her
neighborhood for pupusas—and I learned about the indubitable superiority of
pupusas de maiz over pupusas de arroz. Pupusas are sort of like quesadillas, only with thicker tortillas that cover the filling completely. The area was lively, though Jennifer
commented that she had never been out in this area so late—it was 7 PM—both
because she’s usually working or at school and because most areas are more
dangerous after dark. With the sun setting before six most of the year, folks
tend to stay home in the evenings.
Hasta luego,
Ms. Radding
