Señora Logan

“Hola, Log-ah!” the class repeated in unison, their adorable five year-old faces illuminating with wide, toothless grins. Today, Sloaner accompanied me across town to the primary school where I attempt to teach los niños English once a week. We scurried through hand-linked toddlers at recess to find my classroom.

Today, we learned English numbers and classroom vocabulary.

“What means ‘twelve’ in Spanish?” The professor asked, leaning back in his wobbly desk chair. Last week, he told me that he wanted to be a soccer coach. Amidst Spain’s alarmingly high unemployment rate, however, a college grad accepts any job that they’re offered. Hence, Prof. Juan settled for a first grade teacher. I think he still wears gym shorts and tennis shoes to work as a statement of peaceful protest.

“Yo sé! Yo sé! Yo sé!” Marta, Nacho, and Ana squealed, hands shooting into the air.

Juan called on Salvador to answer his question. Soft whispers buzzed throughout the classroom as the students excitedly murmured the answer. Salvador stared blankly at his teacher until a smirk spread across his face.

“Eleven mean veintiocho!” He confidently proclaimed.


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