Murmel Murmel Murmel

One of my favorite books growing up was Robert Munsch's "Murmel Murmel Murmel" - a story of a girl named Robin who finds a hole in yer backyard. Robin yells down the hole louder and louder "ANYBODY DOWN THERE???" to the same response of "murmel, murmel, murmel" coming out of the hole. She finally decides to stick her hand down there to discover what's making the noise and pulls out a baby. The rest of the story, Robin tries to find someone who can care for the baby, who the whole time talks to Robin with its incomprehensible gibberish of "murmel, murmel, murmel."

While the murmling of a baby is perfectly cute, it's cute because babies grow out of it starting at 10-12 months (though if your baby is not there yet, not worries). Well, at 271 months of age, I seem to have not grown out of it.

I have always had a mumbling problem. In elementary school, my teachers would send notes to my parents and write comment after comment on my report cards saying some variation of "Naomi needs to speak with confidence," "Naomi needs to enunciate her words," or "We cannot hear Naomi when she speaks and I need to constantly ask her to speak up."

Over the years, I thought I had improved. When I presented in high school and college, my teachers and professors no longer had to ask me to speak up. Among friends, people rarely asked me to repeat what I said.

I was wrong.

Being in Mexico has highlighted the extreme lack of improvement in my murmeling. Before Mexico, my friends of one, two, or three years had faked me into believing that they understood me at all times. Instead, I have figured out that my friends had mastered the motions of "fake understanding" over the course of our relationship. If they couldn't decipher what I was saying, they would just look at my face, read its emotion, and give me an appropriate response ranging from laughing to sighing without understanding what I actually said.

In Mexico, I began to meet all new people - people who hadn't developed response strategies. The first month I noticed that my co-workers and friends had to repeatedly ask me what I had just said. At first I blamed it on their hard hearing or my lack of sleep. After a couple months, I realized I am the problem.

I don't believe that living in a Spanish-speaking environment has helped me any. My English has gone down the drain because I don't speak it quite as much as I used to. Now my mumbling has taken a turn for the worse.

I think that 271 months of age is the perfect time to achieve the next level of language development. I'm just gonna ask for your assistance. And for all you who have dealt with years of my incomprehensible giberish, I have a couple of words for you:

aljho sdfh kjdyf gkjhf

I knew you'd understand.

Following a Few Steps Behind

Once a week, I assist in the elementary school English classes. The kids have many "barricades" that block them from participating in the lesson. The excuses include, but are not limited to:

1. I don't have my English notebook.
2. My pencil isn't sharpened.
3. I'm not working today.
4. Yesica is kicking my chair.

Thankfully, many of these "problems" have an easy solution which I help them to quickly find get back on track. Just three weeks ago, however, I encountered problems with not such an easy or quick solution. In two of my classes we received new students. I noticed them right as I walked in, because among a sea of 8-11 year-olds their 13- and 14-year old bodies literally stuck out. The barriers these two children face are far harder to work out than the ones of my 9-year-old 3rd graders.

Last week, in my 4th grade class, the teacher presented a English lesson on telling time. As the teacher recited various times, such a 5:15, 6:30, and 2:23, the kids copied them down to later draw the time on individual miniature clocks. When I looked across the classroom for confused faces, I saw 14-year-old Maria staring at her paper. When I approached her, I saw with the help of a friend she had successfully deciphered the recited times but was stuck at that. I gently explained the activity in Spanish to her, thinking she hadn't understood the instructions the teacher had given in English and then I walked away. When I returned a few minutes later, she had made no progress. It was then that I realized she had never learned how to tell time. The little hand, big hand, and five minute intervals for Maria made no more sense in Spanish than they did in English. I changed the English lesson into a telling-time lesson in Spanish. I spent the last ten minutes of class teaching Maria the parts of the clock, its 12 points, and its silly little hands.

This past Thursday, in my 3rd grade class, I took a seat next to Ivan, the 13-year-old new arrival who I had made a point to help each English class. He has been picking up English quickly. During this week's lesson on fruits, he smiled proudly when he successfully could give me manzana (apple), sandia (watermelon), and uvas (grapes) in English. Often though, Ivan falls behind when copying sentences on the board. Why? He painfully labors over writing every letter. When the rest of the class has already copied the day's date and has moved onto the lesson, Ivan is just finishing writing the "s" of "Today's date is:" Before Ivan entered NPH, writing skills were not something he used often.

When I see Ivan and Maria struggle I don't know whether to be angry at their pasts which denied them an education or to rejoice in their daily triumphs at NPH where they now have the chance at a promising future.

At least I do know that my definition, and hopefully my 8-year-old student definitions, of "problems" has slightly changed in meaning.

The Roller Coaster

One month anniversary of no posts.

The reason for my prolonged absence is not that I was too busy to write or that a month has passed with no thought has crossing my mind. Instead, in this roller coaster of being a volunteer, the reason for my absence has been due to a seemingly, semi-permanent low. In late-February/early-March, after a couple weeks of frustrations with my kids, discovering more details about the past of some of the children, and a lot of negative energy on my part, the downhill of the roller coaster ride came to a halt in a valley where my cart refused to go back up the hill.

I spent March and the beginning of April dealing with a variety of (mostly negative) emotions. While I had the occasional touching pass-through-an-obstacle-with-a-disadvantaged-child-moment as I have experienced since coming to NPH, my attitude about being here turned worse for the wear. With my masters program on the horizon, I became impatient to go home where look for housing and register for classes in the same time zone and with a working cell phone. With visits from home and chats with old friends, I wanted to return to the familiarity and ease of American culture. With water shortages, cockroaches, and declining security in Mexico, I wanted the safety of my home.

I became distanced from my work. In one way, that was easier. The less time I spent with the kids, the less time their heartaches preoccupied my mind. The less time I spent talking with my girls, the bond I created with them became weaker making it easier for me to leave in July. I fooled myself into believing that I had learned all there was to learn about being a volunteer at NPH, and all that was left for me to do was tie up some strings and go home.

I don't know when it hit me, or when the clouds started to clear away, but finally, after a month-and-a-half of stormy weather, I have started to commit myself with as much of my heart as my mind.

Here's to the last two-and-a-half months.