Eyes are important in Chile. Their color, their size, their shape. When you toast, you must look everyone in the eye or else....well, its a horrible fate. I'm told many other cultures share the tradition. The eyes have it.
My kids don't usually look me in the eye. They are everywhere at once, coloring while looking out the window, closing their eyes all together while eating their colacion. They can't concentrate, and when I look them in the eyes for too long, it makes them nervous. A part of me wants to find out if I can understand what's going on in their little heads...what are they trying to tell me, or anyone for that matter? But they move, constantly. Their eyes, their bodies, their thoughts.
We aren't supposed to have favorites in our instituions, but everyone does. Initially, my favorites out of my small class of seven at School were the ones who couldn't speak and didn't try to punch me. As I got to know them, my favorite became a little boy who hated me, brought knives to school and gave me the finger whenever his tia wasn't looking. But in the past few days, there is one girl who really gets to me. Not because I favor her, but because I find myself trying so hard to understand her. She's Ojos.
We made up this game at School. In fairness, calling it a game is sort of a stretch. But I suppose if on the playground running is a game, this could qualify. What I may lack in game-making-creativity, I make up for in enthusiasm. For whatever reason, I have somehow created something that allows me to communicate with a girl whose disability I cannot understand and who is afraid of bread.
She's adorable...a Chilean beauty, with brown hair and brown eyes. She's tiny, but tough. In a class of mostly boys, she can really hold her own and I admire her for that. At the same time, she makes me unbelievable sad. She is twelve and she can't color inside the lines. She can't write her own name. She likes to say the word manzana.
But the things that she does know, she loves to share. She knows eyes, or ojos, so once, when I covered my eyes (out of exhaustion/frustration) she screamed "Ojos!" and covered hers as well. I started to do it more often...to calm her if she freaks out for whatever reason (if there is bread near her, for example). She starts to whine and - in a flash- my hands go to my eyes.
Then one day: "Ojos!" she screams. We laugh and the others join in.
They're all playing what they believe is a game. But what's next? Surely Tia Lauren must have a plan for the next part.
In that moment, I came to the realization that my kids and I are the same. We are struggling to express ourselves. They can see that I have all of these ideas of what to do and no way to say them. I see their 5 faces staring at me as I search my mind for the right word for nose. I look at them and - they will likely never find their words.
Finally, I remember. "Nariz!" I say. Hands to noses. My kids know the parts of the face. Who knew?
It all comes back to me now. "Boca!" I say, and they tap tap tap their little mouths. "Cabeza! Pelo!" I've now completely exhausted my knowledge of facial features in Spanish. (I've since learned ear/oreja and cheek/mejilla)
But the beautiful, tiny girl with all of the problems and giggles says "Manos, tia, manos." She shakes her hands like a dance. The others follow suit (minus one, who is hopping on one foot singing reggaeton and is worthy of another post altogether) and the game has ended. I have no idea what just happened. Is it over? Was that it? Was that even fun?
They beauty of the game is that everyone can play. If there is a lull in our schoolwork work, its time for Ojos. The kids are proud of what they know, and want to show me. But even better, it forces us, for a few minutes a day, to look at each other. When the kids say "Ojos!" their little hands cover their eyes. After a few seconds they realize that they can't see what I'm going to do next. So they peek through their fingers, each one, and look at me directly. 10 seconds. Right in the eyes.
My kids don't usually look me in the eye. They are everywhere at once, coloring while looking out the window, closing their eyes all together while eating their colacion. They can't concentrate, and when I look them in the eyes for too long, it makes them nervous. A part of me wants to find out if I can understand what's going on in their little heads...what are they trying to tell me, or anyone for that matter? But they move, constantly. Their eyes, their bodies, their thoughts.
We aren't supposed to have favorites in our instituions, but everyone does. Initially, my favorites out of my small class of seven at School were the ones who couldn't speak and didn't try to punch me. As I got to know them, my favorite became a little boy who hated me, brought knives to school and gave me the finger whenever his tia wasn't looking. But in the past few days, there is one girl who really gets to me. Not because I favor her, but because I find myself trying so hard to understand her. She's Ojos.We made up this game at School. In fairness, calling it a game is sort of a stretch. But I suppose if on the playground running is a game, this could qualify. What I may lack in game-making-creativity, I make up for in enthusiasm. For whatever reason, I have somehow created something that allows me to communicate with a girl whose disability I cannot understand and who is afraid of bread.
She's adorable...a Chilean beauty, with brown hair and brown eyes. She's tiny, but tough. In a class of mostly boys, she can really hold her own and I admire her for that. At the same time, she makes me unbelievable sad. She is twelve and she can't color inside the lines. She can't write her own name. She likes to say the word manzana.
But the things that she does know, she loves to share. She knows eyes, or ojos, so once, when I covered my eyes (out of exhaustion/frustration) she screamed "Ojos!" and covered hers as well. I started to do it more often...to calm her if she freaks out for whatever reason (if there is bread near her, for example). She starts to whine and - in a flash- my hands go to my eyes.
Then one day: "Ojos!" she screams. We laugh and the others join in.
They're all playing what they believe is a game. But what's next? Surely Tia Lauren must have a plan for the next part.
In that moment, I came to the realization that my kids and I are the same. We are struggling to express ourselves. They can see that I have all of these ideas of what to do and no way to say them. I see their 5 faces staring at me as I search my mind for the right word for nose. I look at them and - they will likely never find their words.
Finally, I remember. "Nariz!" I say. Hands to noses. My kids know the parts of the face. Who knew?
It all comes back to me now. "Boca!" I say, and they tap tap tap their little mouths. "Cabeza! Pelo!" I've now completely exhausted my knowledge of facial features in Spanish. (I've since learned ear/oreja and cheek/mejilla)
But the beautiful, tiny girl with all of the problems and giggles says "Manos, tia, manos." She shakes her hands like a dance. The others follow suit (minus one, who is hopping on one foot singing reggaeton and is worthy of another post altogether) and the game has ended. I have no idea what just happened. Is it over? Was that it? Was that even fun?
They beauty of the game is that everyone can play. If there is a lull in our schoolwork work, its time for Ojos. The kids are proud of what they know, and want to show me. But even better, it forces us, for a few minutes a day, to look at each other. When the kids say "Ojos!" their little hands cover their eyes. After a few seconds they realize that they can't see what I'm going to do next. So they peek through their fingers, each one, and look at me directly. 10 seconds. Right in the eyes.
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