“Why am I here?” is a profound question that most people contemplate at some point in their lives. For me, the meaning of this inquiry has changed quite a bit in the last five weeks. At first, with resentment I asked, “Why am I here?” Why was I placed at this school in Iztapalapa that lacks resources and lacks hope for its own students? Just months ago I was in a community that is rich in funding, resources, culture, parental support and superior teachers. Now, anytime I tell someone where I teach I face the reaction, “Whoa, that’s not a very good place. Not too safe. There are a lot of problems around there.” Often as I battle for the students’ attention and ask them to throw the trash in the waste basket, rather than on the floor, I wonder why I have to deal with this. I have been told of a number of excellent public schools and outstanding private ones; out of all the schools in Mexico, why did I end up at this one?
I just about reached my boiling point today as I noticed Juan, sitting in the last desk of six deep, drawing a swastika on his hand. Immediately I became flustered and then nauseous and swiftly regained my focus, as teachers are forced to in the worst of situations. For a minute I was able to deflect the other 26 students’ attention, and hastily scribbled a note for Juan to take to the principal, it said, “Juan needs to wash his hand but first he should discuss what he drew on his hand.”
Juan returned to the classroom with his hand washed but the principal hadn’t been available at that moment. After class I went to discuss the situation with the principal – I don’t know what I expected but I was told that the student probably didn’t know what the swastika meant and the students draw it because they see it and just copy it. I have a hard time guarding my feelings when confronted with a situation about which I feel passionately. I sternly said, “I’m here to learn from all of you, about your systems, not to change them, but this is going to change. If students are drawing these symbols without knowing their significance then they need to learn what they mean.” I continued, “I am Jewish, but even if I weren’t I would feel just as strongly about what I witnessed.” The principal went off on his own tangent then, confirming that I practice Judaism and telling me all about his studies of Christianity and how he always speaks highly of Jews. In conclusion, I was told that I could use my “Servicio” to teach the students about the Holocaust, including the meaning of the swastika.
Subsequently, it’s possible that I am here to not only teach the students English and about the United States but also to open their minds to people, cultures and historical events that they probably have never before contemplated. I’m sure this will be quite an interesting experience, teaching Mexican students, who have most likely never met a Jewish person before, about the Holocaust. Some say, “Everything happens for a reason.” Maybe it took this disturbing and uncomfortable situation to create a unique teaching opportunity. That seems like the right attitude to take, but only time will tell.
