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Chile Ministry, by Megan McLean

I'd been living at home for almost eight months when I started to get the itch to pack up and travel again. In March, I packed up my bags and headed to Chile to participate in an English-teaching program run through the Ministry of Education in Chile. Although I imagined it would be different than my prior experiences living abroad because I would be living in a small town and working with high school students, I tried to leave my expectations behind and embrace the challenges and adventures that came along. But still, I had no idea what I was in for.

My first month is Chile was pretty exciting. We had a month-long orientation in Santiago. There were about 60 volunteers in the group, all sent to different parts of Chile, and we were all packed together in a hostel. It was like reliving the college experience. But finally, we all parted ways to head to our respective sites. I was placed in Los Angeles, about six hours south of Santiago, with four other volunteers. The first few weeks were incredibly rough. It was difficult to adjust to living with a family since I hadn't lived with my own for a few years. And my new family was very different from the one at home. I felt smothered by all of their attention and annoyed by their over-protection. I had to give up my independence and learn to live by their rules.

My high school proved to be even more challenging. In Chile, they have recently adopted a system called the Jornada Escolar Completa. The idea behind the program is to keep kids off the streets, so school runs all day from 8am until 5pm. Perhaps this system has helped to keep children off the street, but it has left the teachers and students burnt out and unmotivated. My high school was one of the roughest and poorest. The conditions of the school were pretty bad; it was cold, dirty and run-down. As I made my way down the hallway, the boys whistled and hissed at me. Although I had tried to leave any expectations behind, it was now apparent that I had kept some. Like many high school students, these kids weren't interested in learning anything, especially not English. Even I was struggling to understand why they should. These students weren't going to study at a university. These students were going to become maids and janitors. Why should they learn English?

I spent my winter vacation in Buenos Aires, loving the big city, enjoying my freedom and independence, and dreading my return to Los Ángeles. On the six hour bus ride back to Los Ángeles, a new feeling took over. I realized that I was looking forward to returning, that I had missed my family and all of the people that I had gotten to know over the past few months. Although my family certainly could be quite overbearing and Los Ángeles wasn't exactly the most exciting city, it was comfortable. It had become home. I even missed some of my students and felt re-energized and motivated to get back into the classroom. When one of my students said to me "Miss Megan, I never liked any of my English classes until yours," I realized that it didn't matter if my students learned English.  Exposing them to a different culture and different teaching methods is important in itself and probably more valuable to these students than learning English.

I now embraced and actually came to appreciate what had once made me feel inconvenienced and uncomfortable. I learned that I couldn't blame every bump in the road on cultural differences because many of the difficulties I encountered were actually due to my own inflexibility and intolerance. Once I came to accept where I was, instead of trying to make it how I thought it should be, everything became much simpler and I started to appreciate and enjoy the experience I was having.

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Brayan, by Nelle Sacknoff

Last weekend an earnest moment with one of my students made me ponder the question, “What am I doing down here?”

The school year in the United States has come to a close; so has our first semester here in Chile as WorldTeach volunteers. I feel it is appropriate to think pensively about transitions.  My mom helped us bring in the New Year and all our resolutions with, “Something always positive emerges from transitions.”  Recently, I was also gently nudged by the honesty of an eight-year-old, who reminded me of an additional important lesson: positive lessons often emerge from discomfort and uncertainty.

At the end of the year, we are faced with the uncertainty of what the next school year will bring.  We are also forced by nature to somehow move forward.   We can do that while bringing all our lessons learned with us or not.

In my ESL classroom, there are times when my students are hanging by the tips of their fingers to grasp what I am saying.  Similarly, there are times when I am barely hanging on to maintain my lesson in full immersion English as well.  I have to resist the temptation to switch into their native language when the lesson gets difficult.  I have to resist the easier way out. 

When my students are totally confused, they could just sit there; and sometimes they do.

However they have to survive in my class and find a way to understand me; eventually, somehow they do.  It is after that moment of discomfort that they learn.  It is after that period of uncertainty that they either decide to shut off and be totally lost or to figure out a way to understand.  And when they do figure it out for themselves, they then teach each other and help others understand.  They also forget that they may have been extremely frustrated with me moments before.

Outside my ESL classroom for WorldTeach, I have started volunteering in a village on the weekends where the shaky housing begins and the road ends.  I started my friendship with eight-year-old, Brayan, one sunny May morning.  I brought him Robinson Crusoe in Spanish for the Second Grade reader. I tried to show him an exciting story I had brought for us to share; but Brayan showed me that he still had not learned how to read.  His energetic, bright personality took his eyes and concentration everywhere but to the actual words of the storybook.  He tapped his fingers and fidgeted.  Embarrassment would not let his eyes meet mine.  Quite frankly, I don’t think Bryan was too fond of me and my encouragement that first day. Who was I to make him read out loud, one on one, while focusing on all these crazy sounds?  Who was I to make him feel so vulnerable and uncomfortable? 

After a difficult lesson, I decided to give Brayan some space and match him up with someone else to work with him.  A month later, I was thrilled to hear about all the progress he was making.  After class ended last weekend, I found Brayan on a bench outside the one-room wooden schoolhouse.  I decided to check in with him and approached him anxiously, not sure how he would react to me.

I gently asked Brayan to say the alphabet with me, sounds and all.  Discomfort and protest gleamed from his face.  However minutes later, I could not believe my ears when I heard him, one letter and sound at a time, show me how he had finally learned phonetics. Halfway through the alphabet he looked up exasperated, swinging his feet, and told me in Spanish, “Ay, Teacher this is boring.”  I replied, “Oh but Brayan, this is so much fun and I am just so excited about everything you’ve learned!” So Brayan slowly continued, one letter after the next.  Just before we got to the end, he paused again.  It was as if he was making sure I was still with him or maybe he was uncertain he could finish the alphabet all by himself.  He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and told me again, “Ay, Teacher, this is still boring.” I just looked at him and smiled.  After a long silence I replied, “But Brayan, Sweetie, class is over for the day and you’re still here.”

I am not sure Brayan got my point.  However he did finish his presentation of the alphabet, its sounds, and his own phonetic associative words.  Brayan got through his own moment of uncertainty.  As “bored” and uncomfortable as he might have been, he survived.  I was just an attentive spectator. That day with Brayan puts a huge smile on my face.  It reminds me of all the other daily victories and transitions children make or with the simple nudge of a teacher or any other patient mentor.

From high up on the hills of Valparaiso, where the infrastructure ends and families are disjointed, Brayan gives us all a good point to remember.  Life and change does bring us discomfort, moods of uncertainty occur, and we sometimes challenge our own motivations.  In the classroom and in life, miscommunication breakdowns are inevitable.  No teacher, student, nor challenge is perfect. 

Though the answer to my earlier question sometimes gets blurred, Brayan reminded me I am still here, for them and for me.  Into my next transition, I will be sure to take that lesson with me.

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Things that I should have known, but didn’t really stop to think about before I came here:  

-I can’t pronounce my students’ names

-I have a hard time pronouncing my family’s names.  They have a hard time saying my name. 

-I live in a big house by standards here.  It is by far the smallest house with the most people I have ever lived in. 

-This is an URBAN program.  It is not like living in a hut in the jungle somewhere. There aren’t bugs and snakes and rains beyond end.   But, it is its own jungle of sorts.  The big city with the buses, colectivos, people, taxis, metros, stores, etc., is a different kind of jungle that you must learn to navigate your way through. 

-I was very worried before I came because I didn’t speak Spanish, and I had this fear of being stuck on a bus somewhere and people pointing me in the wrong direction when I was just trying to get home.  But that has never happened.  Everyone has been so helpful and so nice and so caring towards me, that it has been incredible. 

How I was initiated into my family…

With my family and friends in the states, I have always had relationships with many jokes and much laughter.  We always try and fool one another.  I thought I would lose these practical jokes when I came to Chile.  Last weekend my host family and I celebrated my birthday together.  It had been about two months since I arrived at my host family, and they invited some friends over for a dinner and cake.  Well, I really felt right at home when my 14-year-old host brother tried to push my head straight into the cake while I was blowing out the candles.  Luckily I only got frosting on my nose.  Later, we went on to have a squirt gun fight and a tickling fight with everyone.  After that weekend, I have felt really at home with my family.  I have learned that even though I can’t communicate very well with them (my Spanish isn’t so good), laughter is a common language for everyone. 

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A letter to her Field Director, Josh Pilz

From: "Tori Scott"
To: "worldteachchile"
Subject: yahoo!

Josh!

I just had the best class ever.  All my students participated, most showed up, we learned and laughed all at the same time.  I loved it!  They were still a little rowdy but I would much rather that than a group of bumps on a log.  They have fun personalities, which makes teaching more fun when they behave like adults and listen to what I say.

The lesson topic was very technical—sentence grammar.  When you start throwing around words like subject, noun, verb, adverb and have them identify that in a sentence it can get kind of touchy.  But they all understood and could actually apply it to a sentence....Pigs are flying, hell has actually frozen over....I can’t believe it.  I am sure I have a perma-grin right now.  I can’t stop smiling!

Then after my class I had a review session (mind you, it was on my own time, not required) for the midterm that is tomorrow.  I told my students about it and posted it on their schools intranet.  1 student showed up.....1 out of my 90.  But I have learned to deal with that and realize that this can be normal.  I have learned not to have expectations.  It all worked out great because Christian, the student who came, was one of the lowest performing students in the class and really needs to do well on this midterm or he might fail the course.  Anyways, we had over an hour on one-on-one tutoring.  We went over a practice midterm and reviewed all the units.  It went so well and I could tell he was excited to finally be understanding.  In class he is always one step behind which gets frustrating for him and for me.  Now I think he is catching up!

I know I complain a lot about my students but sometimes having nights like these really makes it worth it.  I know it sounds so Hallmark, “After-school-special”-ish of me to say but I loved it! It definitely confirms for me that teaching is something that I want to do for a career.  This makes me excited because this trip here was with the intention of discovering exactly that:  Is teaching for me or not...do I want to be doing this 20 years from now?  And right now the answer is YES. 

Just wanted to share with you my awesome night.  I knew you would understand my excitement.  Thanks for all you support. 

Ok, off to the micro I go.  It is past 10 and I am starving.  Need food in my tummy, even if it is going to be bread.  I’ve never eaten so much bread in my life!

Buenas Noches,
Tori

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The fact that I came to Chile with 4 months of Spanish training has provided countless opportunities for me to learn, and countless opportunities for me to get myself into trouble.

During my first three weeks here in Chile I had an orientation with 17 other volunteers.  We spent two hours a day in Spanish classes.  My teacher’s name was Luis Kong, a really wonderful person who I am still in contact with.  I had five other volunteers in my class, the beginner class.  We had quite the experience with Luis Kong.  Sometimes we loved him (like when we were able to practice speaking in class, which didn’t happen often), and sometimes we were a little upset with him (like when we spent four class periods on the alphabet and counting).  But, he was such a nice and funny man, that my entire class always came away saying, “We love Luis Kong”.  These words sort of became one of our favorite sayings during our orientation.  So, with this favorite saying in mind, I wrote this article for our Newsletter. 

I look back to my first day at my home stay, and realize my four months of Spanish class before I came to Chile and my three weeks with Luis Kong were slightly insufficient for me to understand anything that was going on at my house.  I was never quite sure what was going to happen in the next five minutes.  For example, the first day I was at my house, all of a sudden my family was saying “Vamos, vamos, Kelly,” and they were pointing to the car.  Everyone was getting into the car, and it seemed as though they really wanted me to get in, so I climbed aboard.  The whole car ride I was wondering if we were headed to a slaughterhouse or something.  Luckily, we were just going to the local Lider (a Wal-Mart type of store).  They talked a lot at me those first few days, and I think I heard them say “casa” one time, and I also think I heard them say “pizza” a couple of times.  Other than those few words, I was lost.  Oh dear.  So, here are some the reasons why I still love Luis Kong, even though it is clear I am not able to speak or understand Spanish.

Reason Number One:

My relationship with my 14-year-old brother.  I need you to do some pretending.  Ok, imagine you are 14 years old.  You have tons of friends at your school, you have a reputation to uphold, and you need to make sure your hair and clothes are just right.  Your major concerns are what you are going to do that Friday night, and if your crush is going to be there.  Suddenly, beginning on your fourteenth birthday, you have a martian type thing living in your house.  Keep imagining.  The martian doesn’t speak English.  In fact he doesn’t speak much at all. He is sort of mute.  He looks at you and smiles.  He laughs when you do something funny, but he still doesn’t say much.  The martian comes home after work, and your mom tells you that you have to sit with him while he eats dinner.  You talk to the martian, but he only responds with “yes” or “no”.  Get it?????  I am the martian.  I am not sure what my brother thinks of me, but he is super-nice, and he must think I am super-crazy.  Hopefully soon I won’t be a weird mute martian, I will just be a weird martian that talks like a two year old. 

Reason Number Two:

I got to make up my own kind of Poker.   In the first two days of my home stay, I now realize I told my family that I knew how to play poker.  Oops. I watched some friends play poker once.  I think this is insufficient experience to teach others how to play.  But, last Saturday night, you will be happy to know that a new type of poker arose in Santiago. 2-Card-Cambio (I named it myself). I created this type of poker as I was teaching it to my 14 and 7-year-old brothers. I think my version has something to do with poker.  It involves chips and cards at least.  I am sure by the time I leave Chile, this type of poker will have swept the nation and you will be able to watch the major 2-Card-Cambio tournaments on Spanish-ESPN.

Reason Number Three:

I get to make up conversations in my mind.  In my house we have a nana (a baby-sitter/house-cleaner) that comes everyday to help my 2-year-old brother hacer pipi (this is how they say I have to go to the bathroom, which literally translated means to make pee) and do other things that 2 year olds do.  A couple of minutes into our relationship, it was clear that I understood Felica less than I understand anyone else.  I had no clue what she was saying to me during our first conversation.  I had a distinct strategy worked out in my mind before we ate lunch together for the first time so that I didn’t get into a conversation that I couldn’t handle.  I was going to make sure to dominate the conversation.  I knew I had to talk first, otherwise I knew she would ramble off many sentences that sounded like a long string of gibberish.  So, I figured I would ask her questions.  For example, how many kids do you have?  Where do you live?  How old are your kids?  Had you sat in our first five lunches together, you would know that we talked about the exact same things every time.  Oops.  Finally, by the sixth lunch, I figured I needed to think of another question to ask her.  As I was thinking, she got the first words in.  Darn.  Needless to say, I didn’t understand what she was saying to me.  We had a couple of weird interactions, where I responded with a polite “si”, or else I replied with “doy clases a las cuatro” (I have classes at four), or simply I would reply to her long string of gibberish with, “como te fue el fin de semana?” (how was your weekend?)  Later, I reflected upon our sixth lunch together and tried to figure out what we were talking about.  I realized that the conversation could have gone something like this…. Felica:  Kelly, your hair is on fire.  Me:  I have classes at 4:00.  Felica:  You are bleeding out of your cheek.  Me:  Ok. How was your weekend?

Reason Number Four:

I jumped a fence with large spikes at the top.  A few weeks ago I had a true South American experience.  I drove with my family in our Toyota Corolla through the suburbs past HomeCenter (a store similar to Home Depot), past the five star cinema, and past a Chinese food restaurant, where we reached our South American destination……the Florida Center Shopping Mall.  There you will find many Chilean things that you won’t find anywhere else.  For example, in the food court there is a combined Taco Bell & Pizza Hut.  This is where we chose to dine.  As we were enjoying our personal pan pizzas, french fries, and cokes, my family started talking to me and asking me about what time I had gotten home the night before.  Well, the night before I had been dancing with many of the other volunteers, and so I told my family that I had gotten home around 5am.  They told me they hadn’t heard me, and then started talking much more quickly, and I had no idea what they were saying.  My host mom suddenly stopped talking and everybody looked at me.  Well, in my mind I thought my host mom had taken a pause and was going to continue telling her story.  I gave her an affirmative “si” as if to say “yeah, continue”.  When I said si, everyone, even my seven-year-old brother who had been playing with his Happy Meal Toy, started laughing.  Slowly, they explained to me that they were wondering how they didn’t hear me the night before, because the gate to our house is pretty loud.  Besides being loud, the gate also has four-inch spikes on top that would surely impale anyone’s skin that came close to the spikes.   When everyone stopped and looked at me, my mom had asked me as a joke, “Kelly, did you jump over the gate last night when you got home?  Is that why you were so quiet?”  I had replied with a confident “yes”. 

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Six months ago -- when I was wearing a business suit and worrying about training meetings and sending faxes -- I could have never pictured me "here".  Here is a dusty road, me clad in my running shorts and a t-shirt, trotting up los cerros with six young girls and two mangy dogs in tow.

Almost every weekend I make excursions like this one.  It began a few months ago, when-to my utter surprise-a young girl beckoned me from the street outside my home-stay in Antofagasta, Chile.  When I went outside to greet the beckoner - "la" Nicole - I was naively surprised to discover my daily runs in the hills behind my home had not gone unnoticed in my little community.  And this little girl wanted to accompany. So we set a date:  Saturday at 10am.

That first Saturday I didn't know what to expect, I simply appeared outside my house at 10am sharp and waited. To be perfectly candid, I was not even sure I wanted Nicole and her friends to show up.  This entire situation was stretching further and further outside my comfort zone.  Trying to adjust to living with a Chilean family and teaching in a Chilean public high school had just about pushed me to the edge; and here was this group of excited, energetic girls who wanted to intrude on the one constant of my life-my daily runs.      

But eventually Nicole arrived with a few shy, but obviously enthusiastic girls.  As we prepared to run a woman emerged from the house directly next to mine and asked: "Ashley, vas a correr?"  I had never spoken to or even seen this particular woman before, so I was surprised she knew my name and my plans for the day.  All I knew about her was that she liked to listen to extremely loud rock music and owned a trope of angry-looking dogs.  I must have given her a curious look as I contemplated if she was planning on accompanying us as well, because she shot me a queer glance as I replied "Sí." She then loudly called "Carolina, La Gringuita va a correr."  Carolina, her 10 year old daughter, appeared, ready to run.

It seemed as though all these random people were appearing from every brightly colored house on the block and sending their little girls out to run with me.  It was not surprising, but regardless, slightly unsettling to recognize how many unfamiliar people knew me and my activities. 

As I looked over my group of runners, I could not help but laugh.  They were all strangers to me; dressed up, ready to run with their odd gringa neighbor.  Despite my initial shock, I had remembered to mention to Nicole to wear running shoes -- and indeed them all wore sporty shoes -- but I neglected to be more specific about attire.  One does not run in little skirts and fancy hair. 

Once we started I realized just how closely I had been observed on my daily jaunts.  They knew exactly where I went each day, and even insisted on taking the correct route when I attempted to divert onto a less strenuous course.  However, when I refer to this outing as a "run" I'm taking great liberties.  The youngest and most vocal member of this group is "La" Fanny, and she goes to great lengths to keep the running to a minimum.  Whenever actual running occurs, La Fanny grabs the back of my shorts and lets out an irresistible "no más!"  So we walk and talk instead.

The group changes just a little every Saturday; sometimes we even allow boys-and street dogs regardless of gender-to tag along.  But since I was firm after the first day, no skirts have appeared; instead they wear athletic clothing and tote water (even if it is in old Coca-Cola bottles) per my instructions.

I quickly learned to cherish these "runs." They provide an opportunity for me to interact with these girls in which I'm not embarrassed about my still evolving Spanish stills.  In fact, my funny Spanish is an important element.  The girls tell simple jokes and laugh-not at the punch line-but at my complete failure to recognize it.  So we "run" in the blazing Antofagasta sun and make uncomplicated conversation and laugh, mostly at my willing expense.

I've never spent much time with young girls this age; it was never something I sought out.  I didn't know how to have a conversation with them, or what would interest them.  But because they were joining me in my activity, I felt at ease.  Coming into this WorldTeach experience, I wanted to find away to share a part of myself with those Chileans who welcomed me into their community.  With these runs, I stumbled upon the part of me that I can best share with the girls. Running has been so important and positive in my life that it felt exhilarating to it share it: to imagine it might affect them.

I cannot honestly say I fell into the situation through no conscious intention of my own, because I did make very specific decisions to extend outside of my comfort zone (for instance, joining WorldTeach).  However, I do feel overwhelmingly lucky my community reached out to me in such a special way and invited themselves into my favorite hobby.  It's now comical to me that I would have been surprised my neighbors knew my routines and activities.  With my fair skin, blue eyes and light hair, I would not stand out more if I were from Mars.  Of course these neighbors will be curious about the habits of a foreigner like me-not unlike my own curiosity and eagerness to absorb their culture.     

Six months ago I could never have pictured this exact scene, but I knew the potential was out there.  I merely opened myself up to the experience: that openness allowed this scene to take shape.

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Issues of Prejudice and Discrimination, by Rebekah Larsen

"If I lived in the United States, would people discriminate against me because I am brown?"  This is the question that has left me silent, responseless.  My host sister, Valentina, has asked me various times.  The first time, I answered quickly, without thinking, "No!"  The thought of people discriminating against my host sister seemed ridiculous, barbaric, and pointless.  But a second later (literally), I felt a pang of guilt; I had lied.  Or had I?  I realized I could not answer the question.  Of course, I know that discrimination against Latinos exists in the United States.  I consider myself to be fairly knowledgeable on the subject, in fact.  But it was the way Vale asked the question that made it so difficult to respond.  She personalized it; she was not talking about "Latinos", she was talking about herself.  All I could think of was how I wanted to protect her. 

I wanted to protect Vale from the truth, but I also felt that my own simple response to the question could not possibly encompass the complexity of the issue.    I think that every Latino in the United States would have a different response to that question.  I also realized that my hesitancy to respond to her question was also because I not only wanted to protect Vale, I wanted to protect the United States. It seems to be in our nature as humans to feel that although we may criticize someone in our family, for example, the minute that someone else does we feel defensive.  No matter how angry I might feel towards my government, I have realized that it still hurts to hear harsh criticism of the United States coming from Chileans.  And though Vale's question did not express anti-Americanism, the answer to her question might.

Chileans' view of America is, of course, based mostly on the media.  American movies and television shows are popular here, and it has become the medium through which Chileans gain insight into American society.  I have always been aware of the lack of empowering roles that Latinos play in American media, but here that awareness has taken on a new form for me: embarrassment.  A Chilean friend of mine pointed out one day that Latinos always seem to play the role of the criminal or the maid in many American movies.  I agreed.  But the gravity of just how embarrassing this is to me did not hit me until I was watching Will and Grace with my host family the other day.  Perhaps they did not notice it- perhaps I am too sensitive- but all I could think about was how obviously stereotypical the role of the housekeeper is.  And of course, she is the only Latina in the show. 

I have been asked many times by various Chileans if there really is so much prejudice in the United States against black people.  That is another tough question for me.  It is frustrating because at the same time that Chileans see prejudice against black people in the U.S., I believe that many Chileans fail to see the color prejudice and discrimination that is so prevalent within their own society. 

My students were telling me their nicknames the other day and it was very insightful. The nicknames all have to do with their appearance. For example, if a student has Asian facial features, he/she is called "Chino" (which means "Chinese"). If their skin is darker, they are called "Negro" (black). If a student is overweight, he/she is "gorda/o" (fat), and if he/she is slim, he/she is "flaca/o" (skinny). One of my students is called "Mono" (monkey) because he apparently looks like one. These nicknames do not seem to phase the students; it's as if they accept their identity as black, chinese, skinny, fat, (or monkey), with open arms.

At least from outward appearances, it seems that it is not damaging to the children. The problem arises, I believe, when a term such as "negro" is used in order to convey the sentiment that someone is unattractive, or it is used as an insult. This is very common here. It is also common to hear someone who has obviously been deemed unattractive referred to as "chinita" (chinese). I have also noticed that the students who are seen as the most attractive by other students are the ones that have blue eyes, for example, or lighter skin or hair.

The other day during "tecito", my host sister Vale expressed her surprise at seeing a famous American celebrity's wife, who is a dark skinned woman.  She seemed so disappointed and could not understand why someone so famous could marry someone "fea" (ugly).  I told her that I thought the woman was beautiful and she did not believe me.  My host mother responded by saying that the United States is "not only blondes and white people, there are also 'feos' "(referring to dark skinned people with dark hair).  At times, I have no idea what to say, or how to begin to respond to statements like that. 

Prejudice towards Bolivians and Peruvians is shockingly overt here in Chile as well.  I have to admit that I have been continually disappointed by Chileans' attitudes towards Bolivia and Bolivians, and Peru and Peruvians.  In fact, to be honest, I am so tired of hearing about how much "the Bolivians and Peruvians hate us, but we don't hate them at all". It seems that many Chileans don't want to accept any responsibility in their tenuous relationship with these countries.  The state of relations between Chile and these countries is very sad, and I only wish that a greater level of compassion existed. As a teacher here in Chile, I try to share my experiences with my students (including my experience traveling in Bolivia) in the hopes that I might help them see outside their "box". This is not to say that I think Chileans are the only ones who need to reexamine their history and their prejudices. It is important for all people to do so, including Peruvians, Bolivians, and, of course, Americans. When I told my students that I was going to Bolivia for vacation, they were really surprised and many of them couldn't disguise their disgust. This disgust for Bolivia seems ingrained in the Chilean people since childhood. Even the owner of the school spoke to me (before I left for Bolivia) all about how the problem with Bolivia is "the people".  In many ways, Chile/Bolivian relations have struck me as being very similar to Mexican-U.S. relations.

Living in Chile has presented new perspectives on life in the United States.  It has also made me realize how color prejudice seems universal.  I have come to believe that people are simply people, everywhere.  Rising above what one has been conditioned to believe is difficult for anyone, particularly if outside perspectives are never present.  I hope that my presence in my school has helped to challenge my students to examine their prejudices and beliefs.  I recently asked my students to tell me what their thoughts on North Americans are, and they said that North Americans think they are the best, and they look down on the rest of the world.  I asked them, "Do you think that I am like that?" and they responded "NO!".  I then asked, "Well, then what about your thoughts on Bolivians?  Could they possibly be wrong as well...?"  They hesitated, "Well, maybe..."  I had to smile.  It's a start!

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Chilenismos, by Lisa Knox

I thought I came to Chile without expectations, but I quickly came to see that I had at least one: Chile would be different. Different food, different customs, and a different way of life. The last thing I expected was to find a world not unlike the one I had left behind: teenagers cruising the mall, Wal-Mart style superstores, and spinning and pilates at the gym. It was certainly not the Latin America I remembered from my previous travels. Here you could drink the water and even trust the police! It was all too familiar.

But if you look beneath its surface, you'll find that Chile is a unique place. It is a country that exists outside the "developed" and "developing" worlds. It's a country where the buses generally run on time, but sometimes don´t run at all because of strikes. Where teenagers pass the time with Playstation games and text messaging, but also orchestrate nationwide protests and school closings. Here, sugar isn´t considered empty calories, but a valuable source of "energy". And I still can´t quite get my head around the fact that an agnostic, left-leaning single mother can be president, but I can´t walk down the street without getting catcalls and whistles.

So, in the end, my expectation was right after all: Chile is a place like no other. It is an incongrous and at times frustrating mix of Latin American, North American, and European influences and norms, with a healthy dose of chilenismos all its own. It may not be a hut in Namibia, but it´s an experience all the same.

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I don't believe I will ever fully become accustomed to the feeling that overcomes me when I walk into my Chilean high school. Although my dark hair and features help me blend, everyone knows I am the profesora de Inglés. In this environment I am the gringo from North America and a cultural spectacle.

Each morning when I arrive to teach class I peer through a peephole in a tall iron and wood gate to let the inspector know of my presence. One would think that someone in this position, essentially the school guard, would have a gruff demeanor. But this elderly woman welcomes me with the usual dose of Chilean warmth. Daily, she slides the gate open and greets me with a big smile. We exchange salutations and the kind woman patiently bears with me as I practice my Spanish.

Like all schools here, this one seems closed off from the outside. However, once inside the expected commotion and excitement of any high school is exposed. The school is painted bright blue and yellow, the courtyard is sprinkled with trees, and there are several large outbuildings that house the cafeteria and library. From the patio a few of the 1,300 students call out, "Hello Miss." They pronounce miss like mees then laugh at the sound of their own voices speaking a funny foreign language.

I wade through masses of teenagers and try to make my way to the sala de profesores, the teacher's lounge. On my way there, I find myself beside one of my students and I attempt to engage her in conversation. "How are you?" I ask. The young woman looks at me with panicked eyes then turns to a friend for support. "Are you 'good'?" I try to solicit a response. All I hear are giggles and the conversation comes to an end.

I am a volunteer English teacher in a public school in Antofagasta, Chile. I'm here with 14 other US volunteers (including my husband), working in a program that is a partnership between WorldTeach, a nonprofit organization based in the United States, and the Chilean Ministry of Education. This pilot program brings native English speakers into Chilean classrooms that might not otherwise have them and is just one piece of the Ministry's larger project Inglés Abré Puertas, or English Opens Doors.

The title of this program makes me think about the doors that have opened for me through this volunteer experience and immersion in my new community. Although I am donating ten months of my life to help average kids in a developing country learn my native tongue, I feel like I am getting far more than I am giving.

I am continually impressed by the abundance of the Chilean warmth and hospitality we've received. Upon our arrival people have consistently gone out of their way to welcome us to their country. Since my husband and I live on our own we lack the traditional host family experience most WorldTeach volunteers receive. However, several individuals and families have stepped forward to assume the role. One Chilean English teacher literally took us by the hands and helped us navigate the maze of looking for an apartment in a foreign city. Others pooled their belongings to give us dishes, blankets and a refrigerator for our small home. And one Chilean family routinely invites us over for the ritual of Sunday lunch, an event that lasts a minimum of four hours.

Certainly one of the benefits of living here is that I get to practice my Spanish. The woman at the supermarket teaches me the correct way to ask for cheese slices -- laminados de gauda. Another Chilean, who has become a close friend, politely corrects my Spanish during a card game of Hearts.

Chile's national identity is intertwined with its geographical position in the world. During my initial months here I've heard countless people acknowledge the fact that the nation is isolated, sandwiched between the astounding heights of the Andes Mountain range and the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. In the country's north lies the Atacama Desert, the driest desert in the world, and to the south is the severe ice of Antarctica.

With a new democracy and a stable economy, Chile is now at an interesting crossroad. The general optimism about the progress the country has made in the last decade and the opportunities that lie ahead is omnipresent. The country that was once so isolated has become less so due to the Internet, influx of North American and European pop culture, and free trade agreements.

So what I am doing here? What purpose does a gringo girl have in the classroom of Chilean students who are already exposed to rock stars like Eminem and American sitcoms such as Friends? Of course there are obvious benefits to my students learning English and helping their country progress in the world market. But I feel I am here for additional reasons.

I am helping my students open doors to new job opportunities. My students will likely not have the luxury to use their foreign language skills for pleasure while traveling abroad. But they will have a head start working in tourism, a growing Chilean industry, or in business as the forces of globalization continue to change the dynamics of our world.

Learning a foreign language also opens minds and unleashes unforeseen ambitions. For the same reason I want to gain fluency in Spanish, these students who learn English will obtain a key to enter and explore new worlds. They will have the skills to research more information on the Internet, freeing themselves from dependence on computer translators. They will be able to have discussions with English speakers from many different countries and share cultural perspectives. And they will have the knowledge to read English literature and understand the lyrics to the raps they chant in the school hallways.

As for me, I am the authentic material that helps these fourteen year-olds see that language can lead to new paths. I am a live specimen from the United States. Although I come from the country of Hollywood movies and New York nightlife, my interactions with these students helps create an understanding beyond pop culture and media images. In my classroom, I strive to steward a exchange that will open their minds and wet appetites for greater linguistic exploration.

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The City

The great thing about Concepción is that it’s a city with touches of the campo shining through. There are horse drawn carts pulling wood down the street so that their clip-clopping hooves compete with the woosh and screech of the speed demon micros. As the hub of the south, there are people here from a hundred different little towns who travel in every day or every week to work or study. And the best part is that the city is surrounded by lush, green tree-covered cerros.

My favorite thing to do here is walk. I walk past the University and hike uphill for ten minutes to reach the “ritzy” part of town, Alto Concepción. There, with the gorgeous view of the city and the river and the ocean beyond, I sit at the end of a sidewalk amongst the red roofed houses and read or write or just think.

One of the first times I was there, I looked up from my book to the startling realization that I was in the middle of a herd of goats. There were a couple males with their pointy round horns and a couple of vacantly staring females. I gathered my things quickly after eyeing the piercing horns and wracked my brain for facts about goats -- were they easily startled? Did they often charge? Would they kick for no reason? (answers that unfortunately my biology major had not supplied me with). I paused in my panic as I noticed an elderly woman emerge from behind the goats, leaning on her cane. I thought calmly, “Oh, nevermind, they’re her goats.”

The old woman walked by me and paused. We exchanged a friendly hello. Then she asked me, the red-headed gringa sitting and reading (not a Chilean pastime I assure you) at the end of a sidewalk in Alto Concepción: “Are these your goats?”

Feeling more proud than I do when I get asked directions in the center, I almost burst out laughing at the notion as I assured her they were not my goats. And, after exchanging a few more words, she walked on and I returned to my book.

Later, I would learn that the old woman had lived with her family in Alto Concepcion for her whole life and that she walked up and around the cerro everyday at 5 pm. I would see the kids of the goatherd grow. I would fill notebooks with my thoughts on Chile. But, that day, all I knew was that I was content to be mistaken for a Chilean goat herder at the top of Concepción.

The Students

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Duoc students are a riot. They are a handful. They will lie to your face and walk all over you if you let them. But, they are also just kids our age studying and trying to figure out who they are and what they want to do. They are funny. And if they like you, they will work hard for you, or at least respect you. There are funny moments everyday in Duoc and they come from the students from whom you would least expect it. When we were learning clothing vocabulary quiet Oscar, who sits in the front, asked me about underwear. “Underwear?” I asked. “Yes, like different kinds,” He replied with a perfectly straight face. I wasn’t about to be the immature one, so I, with an equally straight face, taught my students the words for “boxers” and “briefs” and moved that class right along.

Or when we were learning personal descriptions and my jolly student, Pedro, said that someone was “fat,” but what I heard was “f*-ed.” My eyes widened in shock, not sure why Pedro would be swearing up a storm in English. My other students, seeing my confusion and horror, tried to help Pedro out by repeating the word to get me to understand what it was…unfortunately I still didn’t understand so I turned bright red assuming that I had a classroom full of students chanting the f-word. Then, one of my students finally realized what I thought and said, “No, Gretchen, FAT- like…” and made a motion of having a big stomach. I relaxed and burst out laughing.

Or when we were playing a grammar game where the students had to run to the board and slap the correct form of the word in a square I had drawn. Tall, quiet, gangly Felipe was so caught up in game that he tripped sprinting up to the board and full on body-slammed into the board as his paper with the word “play” fluttered up over his head and down to the ground. After we ascertained that Felipe was hurt, only bright red and laughing, we had to stop class and all laugh together for a long time before we could resume the game.

The Family

I love my host family, I really do. However, sometimes they do things that on a bad day make me angry and on a good day make me shake my head and wonder what I am doing living with complete strangers in a different country. One day at lunch, out of nowhere, my host dad asked me “Gretchen, why do people in the US always turn on all their lights during the day?” I looked up, confused, at the light in the dining room (which was on) and responded “I didn’t turn on this light.” He and my host mom both laughed and then explained -- “No, we turned it on because we know that in the United States you always have the lights on.” I continued to look at them confused so they went further to say that “You know, in all the movies, even when people leave the house, they turn on all the lights.” I tried to explain that things in the movies aren’t always a good representation of US culture. Then they said they had also noticed that I always turned on my light in my room and that their volunteer last year had as well. I assured them I didn’t realize that I did this and assumed the subject was dropped. However, my host parents persevered and asked again why people in the US always turn on their lights. I tried to explain that it differs from person to person, but that I like things to be light and, even in my own home, I was always the one who turned on the lights. I explained that I turned on the light when I needed more light, which I thought was logical. To this my host mom replied that I shouldn’t get angry, they were only wondering. I sat there stupefied, wondering how to explain that I wasn’t angry…I was just confused as to why they were asking me to explain why they turned the lights on because they thought that I turned all the lights on. At a lost, I reverted to smiling, eating some more of my bean soup, and commenting on how “super rico” it was.

The Culture

My family took me to a Mate Criollo the other weekend, basically like a big tea party -- but with Mate (an herbal tea). The function was to raise money for a foundation that helps the families of desaparecidos (disappeared people). We were invited because my host brother is a psychologist who teaches classes to people tortured under the dictatorship to help them relearn how to live in society.

When we got there, I looked around and was instantly reminded of church dinners -- everyone was squished together around big banquet tables, laughing and chatting, singing along to the guitar player and eating and drinking. But, it was different too, we were eating sopapillas and drinking mate with metal bombillos (straws) instead of chomping spaghetti and downing coffee. At a second glance, I realized something else was different too…some of the women serving had pictures pinned to their aprons -- black and white pictures of men, a couple of women, young and old and middle aged. I asked Goyo, my host brother and he told me that they were pictures of friends or of relatives that had disappeared during the dictatorship. I was suddenly aware of how the memory of Allende and Pinochet and everything that occurred during that time is so fresh, so recent.

As I was thinking about this, the head of the foundation started handing out prizes. My host dad, ever the jokester, hid a prize under his jacket and we all laughed as the woman turned around searching for it. She joined in the laughter as he pulled it out. The history of Pinochet is all around us, but what’s real now are the people and the happiness they have created despite everything. Which, I suppose, is what is always real.

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