Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Feelings of Guilt

Feelings of Guilt / Miriam Celaya
Miriam Celaya, Translator: Norma Whiting

These last few days a deep feeling of guilt keeps gnawing at me. Caesar,
my oldest grandson, told me, in a strong tone of accusation, that I had
lied to him. He said, and I quote, "Grandma, you lied to me, school is
not at all as you said it would be". The worst part of it is that he is
right: I unwittingly shortchanged him when I set out to prepare him for
his initiation into the world of school. Let me share this with you.

Cesar is 5, and he started preschool this year in a Sevillano
Development school, municipality of Diez de Octubre in Havana. Members
of the family around him had begun to prepare him during the summer
months for this new phase of his life where whole days of play and
cartoons at home in the company of his mother would soon become a thing
of his past, as he would start to spend long hours sitting in a
classroom, subjected to the discipline that learning and the
socialization process would entail, surrounded by classmates of very
diverse personalities. We had also all contributed to his complete
school wardrobe and materials.

The school would be -we told him- a wonderful learning experience and he
would learn new games, make new friends, the teacher would instruct him
in very interesting things, and he would learn new songs which he would
sing along with the other children. He would make clay figures and build
houses, ships and rockets with the construction games in class. We
wanted, with the best of intentions, for our kid to sail smoothly and
devoid of trauma through this necessary rite of passage that is crucial
in a life of a child. I, especially, have great influence on him and
tell him many stories he always listens to, spellbound, of my own happy
childhood and that of his father. I described the school in a world of
color still alive in my imagination, immune to the destruction and sham
of the system.

I didn't lie to my grandson when I spoke to him about the school
universe I discovered when I was four years old in September, 1963. Back
then, my father worked at the sulfo-metals plant in Santa Lucia, Pinar
del Rio, where I attended the first of my 11 elementary schools
throughout most of Cuba. My preschool teacher, Nela, is truly an
unforgettable character to this date. In that small town's classroom
there was a real piano played by the same teacher to accompany the many
songs I still remember in all their details. There were balls, toys,
puppets, modeling clay and coloring pencils. We learned with little
effort, singing and playing, under the guidance of that sweet kind lady
whom we all loved and respected.

I didn't lie to Cesar when I told him about the school his father, my
oldest son, attended. I was more excited than he was when he started
school in September of 1984. We lived in Old Havana, my home town, and
though his preschool classroom also had an old upright piano, the
teacher was not able to play it (by then teachers did not know how to
play) and there were not as many toys as in my classroom 20 years
before, but at least there was the traditional modeling clay,
construction games, and children learned through song. In addition,
Hildita was a loving teacher whose small frame was full of tenderness
and patience, and whose warmth and imagination replaced, to some extent,
some of the material shortages at the school. I know my son remembers
Hildita with the same appreciation and affection as I remember Nela.

It is not surprising, therefore, that the night before the start of
school Cesar was not able to get to sleep at his regular time. He would
recheck his backpack to see that nothing was missing, he would put on
and take off his uniform until his mother had to put it away so it would
not get dirty, and he would keep asking how long before morning would
arrive. At 6:30 AM he was already up, nervous and excited, and earlier
than 8 o'clock he was already at the school yard with many of other
preschoolers who were as happy and proud as he was.

That was two months ago, and Cesar's teacher has been in the classroom
for a total of one week. They say that she "has personal problems", "a
diabetic sister in Camaguey", or "an elderly mother". This may all be
true, but it does not excuse the school administrators for not having
sought a substitute teacher. Instead, a teaching assistant tries to keep
up appearances, putting the kids through one task and then another. It's
the only way to report officially that the school curriculum is being
met, and that all children are getting an education in Cuba.

In the meantime, however, Cesar's preschool is far from the expectations
I planted. No games and songs, no modeling clay or toys. No one can say
with certainty when the teacher will return, or how long she will be in
class before once again she has personal problems that are more
important than her job. Teachers are an endangered species in a country
that has seen the destruction of a long educational tradition dating
back to colonial times. The ethics of a profession, beautiful by its
very nature, has been lost.

So my grandson Caesar no longer wants to go to school, and holds against
me what he considers my lies. I explained to him that everything I told
him before was true, so he has proposed a solution: "look, grandma,
you'd better take me to your school and have your teacher teach me". I
thought about Nela, who by now is probably dead, since she was already
no youngster in 1963. Her memory may have made clear the idea that
surfaced: "I'd better teach you right here, at home". It's not as crazy
as it sounds, because my first profession was teaching. So for a time
now Cesar wastes his time at school Monday through Fridays, and on
weekends I teach him the alphabet, numbers, we review the colors, draw,
play with modeling clay, cut out geometric shapes and recite and sing my
old preschool songs. We also have storytelling sessions so he will soon
become interested in learning to read, and we put aside an afternoon to
take relaxing walks. This way, I make sure that he's learning, and at
the same time, I will try to overcome my terrible feelings of guilt.

Note: All names and situations referred to in the text are strictly real.

Translated by Norma Whiting

November 2 2012

http://translatingcuba.com/feelings-of-guilt-miriam-celaya/

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