Sunday afternoon, I return to the Hudson River for immersion—but not in the water.
Today I’m attending a Hispanic Heritage Month music festival in upstate New York to get fired up for my new job this fall—as a Spanish teacher.
I am both anxious and excited about the job.
I have never taught Spanish before. I am not a native speaker. I have no Hispanic heritage. In my nightmare, I come across like the incompetent gringo Spanish teacher who gets schooled by fluent students—and Karol G—in the Saturday Night Live skit “Spanish Class.”
On the other hand, teaching Spanish feels like the culmination of 20 years of teaching, a lifelong love for languages, and the deep desire for challenges, from swimming across the Hudson River to conquering a deep aversion to dogs. Lately, I have started to dream in Spanish—and twice even dreamed about teaching in Spanish.
Now, at the park in Peekskill, sunlight sparkles on the river—and the music is cranking. Booming Bass. Deafening drums. Singing on the cusp of screaming. On stage, six men in matching crimson suits. Below, a crowd of maybe 100 people dances. Between the stage and the river hangs a display of Latin American flags, including three countries I have visited: Argentina, Mexico, and Colombia, where I spent last week alone—without family or friends—and for seven days spoke solely in Spanish. The trip was both vacation and intense preparation for my new job. Today, I wear a black baseball hat embroidered with subtle black script that says: Medellín.
The music is loud, so Jess and I peruse the festival perimeter, an array of tents staffed by local shops, civic groups, and, perhaps predictably, politicians.
A woman passes me a flyer for a Colombian clothing boutique.
Sí, gracias.
A man campaigning for Rep. Mike Lawler (R-NY) offers an American flag on a stick.
¡Qué va! Ni en un millón de años!
At picnic tables on the pavilion, vendors sell homemade food from aluminum foil trays, including shredded meats, kebabs, and empanadas. The scene reminds me of Sunset Park, Brooklyn, where we lived until a fire destroyed our home.
“Buenas tardes.” I greet a middle-aged man with a mustache in a black Supreme hat. “What kind of empanadas do you have?”
“Queso y carne.”
I order one cheese and one meat and explain why: “Mi esposa es vegetariana.”
At the next table, we order tamarind juice and a platter to share: pork and potatoes, rice and corn on the cob with giant kernels, and salad slathered with spicy dressing.
I hand the vendor a $20 bill.
“Treinta.” he says, frowning. “Twenty for the meal. Five for each of the drinks.”
I hand him another ten dollars. Are these gringo prices? Or just American prices?
After a week in Medellín, where coffee costs 50 cents, a smoothie is $2, and a full breakfast is $3, I’m still reeling from sticker shock.
We watch an Ecuadorian band, Colombian dancers in long black skirts with red, yellow, and blue stripes, and Swanky Tiger, a band that plays power pop songs in English and Spanish, then does a distorted punky cover of “La Bamba.” The Mexican folk song was first recorded in 1938, popularized in 1958 by Ritchie Valens, and re-popularized by Los Lobos for the 1987 movie La Bamba. As kid, I saw the film in theaters and owned the soundtrack. Next month, Los Lobos will perform here in Peekskill on their 50th anniversary tour.
Later, leaving the festival, we spot a massive bronze statue of a diver doing a handstand. The placard reads: The Golden Mean, 2012. Carole A. Feuerman.
“Using the riverfront edge as its diving board, this monumental sculpture activates the urban environment and its inhabitants through a site-specific installation....It is a metaphor for the strength and resilience of the human spirit, for achieving the impossible, and for the strength to survive.”
Inspired, I tuck in my shirt and attempt a handstand to mirror the monument. The first try, my shoulders buckle to bear my weight, and my legs barely pass parallel to the ground. Take two is more stable, still flailing. On the third try, I square my shoulders, tighten my legs and stay aloft for several seconds. Not perfect, but not bad.
Sunday evening. A woman appears on the laptop screen for a video call. Brown hair. Brown glasses. Brown dog in her lap. She’s a former student, now a Spanish teacher with a doctoral degree. Years ago, I taught her about literature and writing and loaned her books. Now the roles are reversed: she’s teaching me how she teaches Spanish.
I share the job parameters: a three-month stint as a substitute for a Spanish teacher on leave. It’s the same length as the college writing courses I’ve taught for a decade. Or a 12-week training program to swim across the Hudson River.
Specifically, I’ll be teaching Spanish III, a graduation requirement, basically the bridge from beginner to intermediate. By semester’s end, students will have completed two projects: one about Latin music and another on human rights in Spanish speaking countries. Along the way they’ll master the past verb tenses in the indicative and start the subjunctive—the bane of many Spanish students’ existence.
She shares: practical advice for designing engaging activities; mnemonic devices to help students grasp tricky concepts; and strategies to maximize classroom energy and enthusiasm. Apparently, effective teaching is the same in any language.
She also tells me not to worry about not being a native Spanish speaker. Neither is she. In fact, she openly shares her story with her students. Many students believe they “can’t” learn Spanish because of their heritage. She rejects such self-limiting beliefs and shares her own experience of leaning Spanish as a process that took time, effort, and repeated failure.
Essentially, she tells her students: If I learned Spanish, you can learn it, too.
Her story is reassuring, heartening, and universal.
To speak Spanish, swim across a river, or learn anything, there’s really only one way:
Practice.
So many times while reading this I said, "ah!" The SNL skit is too funny and too perfect. I love Los Lobos and had to immediately try to find a concert I could attend, but the Ft Lauderdale cruise is sold out.... The noun form "practitioner" is a word that holds meaning in a good way for me. I wish I had your facility with languages, Keith. English is quite challenging enough!