I’m actually sitting in class right now while the students take a practice exam. The midterm is tomorrow. Like any liberal teacher, I play nice, calming music while we do such things. For the past few classes I played some Paco de Lucia, but he’s had a pretty good run so far, so now I’m playing some Boards of Canada. There’s a student, Mauricio, a sharp little whippier-snapper who finished his practice exam far sooner than I had planned. He’s arrogant, too (as some clever bastards can be). “I’m done.” He announced in a tone like royalty, handing me his completed exam without making any eye contact whatsoever. Bastard. While I looked over his practice exam that took me a couple hours to make and him a few moments to complete, he listened to some NOFX I copied over to his ipod the previous week (he played it loud enough on his phones for me to recognize). Though I shouldn’t bear some competitive spirit when teaching, I took a little pride in finding a few incorrect answers. I, however, handed it back to him in a quite gentlemanly fashion. I had to give this guy something to do while everybody else finished their practice exams, I thought. So while he corrected his wrong answers I quickly whipped up some questions off the cuff: 1) What is the population of Buenos Aires? 2) What is the Socratic Method? 3) How many bones are there in the human body? 4) To which family does the duckbilled platypus belong? And 5) What is the name of Aristotle’s moral philosophy? I then plopped my laptop in front of him with Encarta opened. He found 1, 2, and 4 (his answer to 2 though was wrong – not his fault, but Encarta’s).

In a different class I said “shit” by mistake today and everybody laughed. What is it about profanity that they love? There have been times where I’m out ‘n’ about talking with non-students and they too want to know all the English profanity. In a fit of prudence I tell them about “damn” and “bastard.” They might get some “ass” if they’re lucky. I wonder if I tell them “schizer(sp)” they’d believe me – hell, maybe I should make up some random sounds while I’m at it.

While we were chillin’ at home today, some folks came by and knocked on the door. They asked, “you teach English?” Antonio, who answered the door, said that we do, but this isn’t the school. “That’s alright, we want personal lessons – where are you all from?” Tony said that there’s an American, a Canadian, and himself, Mexican. “May we speak to the Canadian?” I’m not bitter because the student is a 13 year old boy; more trouble than it’s worth, really. If, on the other hand, Carolyn, the Canadian, manages to land the gig at the rate she intends to table (100 pesos an hour), then I may be a bit jealous (the school pays us 45/hr).

I’m supposed to have a private class in a month with two students – the Ruski couple I mentioned in a previous post. I have yet to name my price, though I’m thinkin’ a G per month for three 2 hour sessions per week.

I’ve finished the Borges anthology I purchased months and months ago. There are some folk around these parts who have heard his name but don’t care much for him because he’s an Argentine. They hate their soccer team as well as gouchos, which apparently does not refer to the same kind of person as “vacerro(sp).”