We don't pull hair!

Here's a quick rundown of my first day at School (a special school for children with disabilities). Please keep in mind that I am completely terrifed, because my years of spanish class and practice before I left have proved useless, and I appear as an idiot gringa everywhere I go. I figured I would get to class and be more of a problem than a help.

It turns out that my fears are for naught, because I have been placed in "bad class" (according to the directora). They are pre-teens who cannot speak, let alone engage me in potentialy humilating conversation. They can understand most things however, so I am filling my vocabulary with such gems as "Put that down" "Pick that up please" and "When you pull my hair it hurts me. Let go."

The morning went surprisingly well, which I will partially give myself credit for, as I do in fact have experience with the population. Of course, all good things must come to a screeching halt: One boy through a fit, and had to be taken out by the tia (teacher), leaving me with four (stir-crazy and freezing) others, who have succumb to the domino effect of having one kid be dragged kicking and screaming from the class to god knows where, and subsequently kicking a screaming themselves.

There was climbing, jumping, hair pulling and throwing of blocks. Oh, and they all laughed heartily at my attempts to tell them to sit down, which came out half English/half Spanish (Sit-ta-tay!). I found out today that the boy had a stomach ache, and I once again appreciated how challenging autism is. I complain that I can't explain to the cashier at Ribiero that I want to use my credit card, while this poor boy can't tell me that his stomach hurts. Communication is underrated.

Things obviously settled, and I made it through the morning, only to be placed at noon in the six year olds class full of little know-it-alls who call me rubia (blondie) and ask me why I can't understand them when they speak. They don't understand the meaning of enunciate. But god, are they the cutest little things. Even when they are telling me that I am beautiful, but "a little fat."

Exhausted, I return home to find the office (which is in my house) brimming with ideas about how we are going to get thousands upon thousands of dollars in donations in the next six months. The director thinks it would be more productive to brainstorm while cleaning the office, so he's in a suit vacuuming while I'm pushing things around that don't necessarily have a place in the office. Piles of homeless blank cd's and sketches of the new website. Then we have to sit and organize all of our thoughts (we have a LOT) and my day comes to an end around 9pm. Will it always be like this? I doubt it, but I've never had a better 13 hour day.