"Teacher, can I go take a piss?"

Well, sure, because you asked so nicely.

In the beginning of elementary school I was totally weird and had no friends. The only thing that has changed since then is now I have some friends. My lack of friends and weirdness was due primarily to the fact that I dragged my blankey with me everywhere I went. Also, I was pretty sure that I was a cat and I spoke zero Spanish. I was the minority chica blanca in a class full of kids who just moved to the US from many other countries. The language spoken most in class between the students was Spanish. At the time, I had no intention of joining MS-13 for Tots. Thinking back, I regret that decision.

I couldn't have been happier when I found out that I was placed as a teaching assistant in the first and second grade classes of a public school in the center of Madrid. This is mainly because I remember how freaking scary school was at that age. I would have been so relieved to see someone who made it out alive and wasn't a thousand years old and/or incredibly bitter about life.

Back in the day (and even now in Spain) the teachers made you write your name over and over again in cursive until you got it right. They wouldn’t let you go to recess until you did it correctly even after trying to explain to them that you are physically incapable of writing the r properly and you should probably be given special treatment because of your condition.

When you went to the nurse for a headache, broken arm, sore throat or death, the class knew that you would always come back with ice.

The kids could be really scary, too. They were even scarier when you couldn't understand a word they were saying. And for some reason they just really didn't like the only cracker in the class (yours truly). It also didn’t help that these kids were apparently the “shock troops” of the childhood obesity epidemic, and I was just a 45-pound girl with a really bony butt (my amigos loved to point that out).

So you can see how I would have died of happiness to be in a class with an assistant teacher who was as weird as me at my age and could somehow relate when I told her that to be a cat the most important thing to do was lick the water out of the sidewalk cracks after a good rainstorm. Because that’s what cats do. And what patient mothers put up with (thanks, mom).

Here’s what I’ve learned from being a teacher’s assistant so far

First and second grade is still scary, even at 22 years of age.

I'm smiling out of fear

There is a girl in my first grade class named Susanna who just moved here with her family from Brooklyn, NY. Susanna is a shy, skinny girl with dark hair and Bambi-like eyes. She reminds me so much of me when I was her age except she’s way cooler as a first grader. Basically the only similarities between us at age six were our shyness and lack of Spanish knowledge. Adrian, an adorable boy with spiky, gelled up hair took an immediate liking to Suzanna and I’m pretty sure he’s in love (poor kid). The thing is, every time I see Adrian take Suzanna in a huge bear hug or play with her hair or give her love notes I get this horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t figure out why I had this feeling until out of nowhere it hit me. I was convinced that Suzanna’s dad would discover Adrian’s admiration towards his daughter and find him and kill him. I know this may sound extreme but you’ve probably never had my dad as your father.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad is the sweetest, kindest guy you’ll meet. Right now. At this moment. When I was six to 18 he was a little overprotective. I was convinced that he would do anything to make sure Karlyn and I were safe, even if it meant murdering the boy who stared at us too long or stole our pokemon cards. At 22, I’ve finally come to accept that he might not kill the first boy that holds our hands or breaks our hearts. Maybe. Jury’s still out.

Six year olds throw up with the same dignity as freshman in college

As in, with no dignity at all. But they do bounce back a lot faster. I saw a kid throw up for three minutes straight (swear to god) and then go back to playing with the blocks like nothing had happened. Like I said, freshman year of college summed up through the actions of six year olds. 

They are also incredibly open about their bodily functions. I hear about fifteen times a day "teacher, can I go take a piss?" Apparently this is completely normal. It's also normal to go into detail by saying "well, you see, it's just that I haven't gone poo today so you know... I have to go." What shouldn't be normal under any circumstance is taking a poop in the middle of a park during a field trip. This also happened. This was also completely acceptable to everyone who witnessed it. 

“You are so big” is the new “you are so tall.”

I hope when I become a baguette I'll have this much fun. 

A girl can dream.

At 6'2 (likeee 1.8ish9ish meters) I'm pretty tall regardless of what country I'm in and people love to let me know that they know I'm tall (I then point out that they're not blind and from there we'll go back and forth sharing obvious aesthetic facts about one another). This is something I’ve learned to deal with because people will soon be able to say “you are so big” and mean it regarding both height and weight. (Spanish food is dangerously awesome and it's never a full meal without a whole stick of bread). This is perfect because when I inevitably turn into a baguette I won’t know that the kids are being sincere when they say that I’m big. Suckers.

The kids will cough and sneeze and then immediately find you for a hug. 

I'm talkin' to you, kid

This hug will consist of their hands on your face, in your eyes and mouth and sometimes up your nose. That is their hug.

Physical contact will not get you fired on the spot.

The first time a student hugged me I cringed and then looked around for witnesses. When I received weird looks for not returning the hug with just as much enthusiasm as the peanut with the death grip on my love handles, I instantly realized that the Spanish education system will be a game changer for me. 

“Fake it ‘till you make it” really works wonders in Spain

I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing 90% of the time in these classes. In fact, I get more distracted than most of the kids in the class. (There is clay everywhere. How can you not touch it?) However, every second that I am absolutely baffled by what is going on around me, I end up learning a ton about teaching. Teaching is hard. It might be just a tiny but easier than waitressing but to be fair I was a pretty bad waitress. 

The first thing we were told was "during the first few weeks don't smile too much at the kids, they will use that as an opportunity to take advantage of you." My problem is that when I don't understand what's going on around me, whether it is during a conversation or why some kid just ate a pencil, I start smiling. Like a huge, stupid smile. My eyes basically scream "I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about but I really hope you like my teeth." 

So the first week I was just beaming at the kids. And the next week they started putting me in timeout. Seriously. And sometimes I was just like "okay, yeah, I'll go to the corner because you seem to convey more authority than me." The week after that I realized that I actually had to pretend how to be a teacher even though I really had no idea what "being a teacher "consisted of. What it meant was not laughing at them when they farted out loud and learning how to hold a mean face for more than thirty seconds so that they actually believe you're angry even though you really don't give a shit that they're playing with Pokeman cards (and that you really want to join them). 

Gypsy’s are real

And I have a class full of ‘em

 (Side note: in Spain, “gypsy” is not considered a racist term, it’s actually what they’re called and what they call themselves—with pride, might I add). When they actually show up to class they can be the most adorable kids. They can also be straight up hellions because their parents don’t believe in the educational system. They’re basically forced to go to school every now and then because the police will get reports on a number of absences at one time and check in on the family. The parents will then send them to school for a couple days and take them back out immediately. This is actually really upsetting because you can tell that these kids have so much potential but barely speak Spanish, let alone English, and have just learned to write their names.

The teacher made the mistake of pulling me aside and pointing out all the gypsies in our class. I’ve made it my personal goal to teach them the alphabet and how to write before the year is up. This isn’t a joke yet, but I’m sure I’ll end up in prison for this at some point which will no doubt end up as a hilarious story for everyone but me. I promise to write from my cell. 

        Proof that I survived first grade