The American lady messed up my homework...

Km Hm Dm m dm cm mm

Do those mean anything to you? … Me neither.

We have an afterschool homework club two days a week and I have been able to help out the past two weeks. I have really enjoyed the time filled with giggles, snacks, and silly questions. But it is not without its complications.

The majority of the schools in the Madrid area boast a bilingual education program. I offered to lend a hand to the program and help out with English homework, especially since several moms had already approached me about helping their children.

Little did I expect that the majority of my time would be spent on Spanish grammar homework and metric conversion math. For the past two days I have been as confused as the kids who have been asking for my help. More than once I have, in a moment of exasperation and fear of leading the child educationally astray, called over one of the Spanish speaking tutors.

Yesterday, I spent a good hour working with a boy on metric conversion charts and warned him that there may be some problems with my answers when he got to school in the morning. He said "Don't worry. I'll just tell them you are American."

I do get the chance to assist with English homework; correct pronunciation, help translate, or quiz are parts of the skeleton (yes, they are all learning the parts of the skeleton/bones in English).

And learn that:

Km = kilometer

Hm = hectameter

Dm = decameter

m = meter

dm = decimeter

cm = centimeter

mm = milimeter

Did she say what I think she said?

I have sat in my fair share of translated meetings, being a listener who understands the two languages well enough to compare what was said with what was translated. There are many types of translators: those who translate word for word, whether it makes sense or not; those who translate nothing that is actually being said and create their own presentation; those who have the gift.

Translation is a serious art. It takes a real gift for the ability to quickly switch between two languages simultaneously. A gift I do not have, but am willing to let God to continue to work out through my efforts.

Since arriving at our new appointment in Madrid, a new style of ministry has developed for my husband and me. He speaks, and I translate. We are learning this together, and it is not without its frustrations. Most Sundays I come down from the platform exhausted, often feeling as if I made no sense at all.

Today, my husband spoke on the parable of the prodigal son in Luke. He began to describe the extravagant love that the father lavished on the returned son; a robe, a ring, new sandals. And as I translated I noticed the people began to chuckle slightly. I assumed I said some thing that when translated directly can be taken out of context, so I let it go. It happens often enough, that I’ve learned to try to not get distracted. After the meeting, someone asked me if I knew why everyone was laughing.

“No. Did I say a bad word, or something?”

“No you said that the father called for them to put watermelons on the prodigal son’s feet.”

“Oh.”

Sandalias = sandals……..sandia = watermelon

It’s an honest mistake. And I’m positive it won’t be my last.

Serious Mommy Issues

Bramwell, my 3 year old, starts school on Wednesday. You read that right, school. Not day care, but school. When we assessed our family situation in regards to overseas ministry we never thought that we'd have to even think about school until possibly a second term (you sign up in 3 year increments).

So it was a "mad dash", well, not exactly mad dash...anyways, we spent the first couple of months trying to sort out the school situation for Bramwell. We looked into local "escuelas de infancia", basically "baby schools". They're not quite school, but they do actual lessons, etc. We thought it would be the best option in order for the boys to learn operating Spanish so they could join school. Nearly everyone I approached told me Bram was too old for their program, and they couldn't take him.

So, we tried local schools. There is a private school taught by the local Spanish Baptist church, but they have a 3-5 year waiting list. (The "Missionary Card" didn't even help bump us up...) I then opted to look into local public school, but everything is taught in the local language of Valenciano. A language I don't understand at all. So if there were to be a problem at school?? He needed help with his homework?? I couldn't even get pamphlets about their programs in Spanish (even though it's the law!)...back to square one.

So then we heard about a private Spanish school system in the next town over. They are a British run school that teaches a Spanish cirriculuum. Bram will begin there on Wednesday! He'll be taught in both Spanish and English, with Valenciano language classes in the upper grades. He goes for a full day, wears an absolutely adorable uniform (there's a tie and everything), and rides a coach bus. I'm still nervous about the bus...I can tell that the teachers at the school hear the same nervous questions from every mother, they're answers are very rehearsed...

And now, it's down to the wire, the last day and a half that I have Bramwell the majority of the day. Honestly, it's liberating in a sense, but at the same time heart wrenching. My baby boy isn't a baby anymore. He's entering the world of school....away from me....with new friends I may never know............I'm scared.......

The Look

As time goes by here in Spain, I have begun to become familiar with a "look". It happens in the following scenario: I'm speaking Spanish, and a strange word slips out. A word that is not quite English, and not quite Spanish, it's a word lost in limbo. And then comes the "look". I don't know what I'm trying to say, the person I'm trying to talk to doesn't know what I'm trying to say, and we're both trying to be polite and simply move on from this limbo word.

For example? Sure...

Yesterday, we were enjoying a lunch with Salvation Army officers on vacation from Barcelona. I was attempting to tell them that there is going to be a clown show on New Year's Eve in our local town square. I know the word for clowns (payasos), but for some reason I simply could not get it out. It kept mangling itself as it tried to free itself of this language limbo. At that point....I got the "look".

Now, it's not a mean look, per say. It's just a look of pity mostly. A look that conveys "I know you're trying really hard, but I simply cannot understand you." The empathy behind the look really depends on the giver. Some people are very patient and understanding, and some simply, well, aren't.

An example of someone who wasn't:

When I worked a summer in Argentina, I lived and worked with a Salvation Army family who knew absolutely no English, I knew bare bones Spanish. (It was a special treat trying to communicate with sign language). There was a moment when I was carrying on a conversation with a small group of people, and I really thought I was doing well, they were nodding their heads, smiling (should have been my first clue, I realize). I reached the end of a phrase and I was really proud of myself, I had just maintained a conversation!! When one older gentlemen looked straight at the officer (pastor) in charge and said "What is this girl trying to say?? I have no idea what she's talking about?? Can someone translate her?"

::sigh::...I would have preferred the look.