"A LONG STORY ABOUT A SHORT STORY"

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”¡ADIOS, MUCHACHAS!”
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Here’s a story for you. Once upon a time---in 1999---in fact, I decided to take Spanish 4 at one of the Senior Centers in Albuquerque.

Many of us Clovis kids had taken three years of Spanish in the Clovis schools; Spanish 2 and 3 were taught by our (beloved) teacher, Dora Russell. I continued using Spanish through the years and was comfortable speaking conversational Spanish anywhere, anytime, even to leading Spanish hymns in Spanish church services.

Wanting to become more fluent, I enrolled in the equivalent of Spanish 4 at the Senior Center. It was a tough course with hard workbooks and much translation. We did weekly assignments and each of our twelve or fifteen members, sitting around a long table, had his/her shot at translating.

Now let it be known that I greatly admire and respect ladies...and...lady school teachers...and retired-lady-school teachers. Good thing too, because my class was full of them. (Note: in fact, I live with one---my wife, who was a highly-respected children’s music teacher for thirty-five years, in the public schools.)

Also let it be known, that in my many years of experience, it has been obvious to me that anywhere you have a group of people---say, a dozen or two in a little club or organization---especially older folks---there is always someone to whom fame and recognition are important! Might we say that they want to keep demonstrating the prowess that has made them great their whole lives. Their egos require subservience. Just think about it: hiking clubs, photo clubs, writing clubs, quilting clubs, even skeet clubs....and Spanish clubs---they all have “CHIEFS,” and four or five syncophantic “chiefs-in-waiting,” and the rest of us: followers---might we say: are “the lowly unwashed?”

There was ONE retired teacher, sixty-fivish, who was the self-appointed leader of our class. She wasn’t elected---she just assumed the role---“divine right of kings,” “eminent domain,” or whatever. Having “that competitive edge,” was so important to her that she enrolled in another Spanish 4 class at another senior citizen center across town---this one led by some noted teacher. She often reminded us: “No, we definitely learned it as such and such in so and so’s FAMOUS CLASS!”

She would NEVER own to a mistake, ever---caught in one, she would weasel and alibi out of it, as: “Oh, oh, I now see what you meant; I thought you said...” (ad infinitum.) We will see later, in this account, that those who “can’t take it,” can certainly “dish it out!”

So “along came Mil,”  enrolling and (I guess) wanting a tiny modicum of recognition. After all, Don (a guy that wintered in Mexico) and I were the best and most un-self conscious conversational Spanish speakers in the class. The ladies were great at the mechanics, and good readers, but when it came down to plain old speaking it to anyone, many were “tee-hee” talkers---it embarrassed them! This included our “Honcho de facto.”

In order to achieve my “PLACE IN THE SUN” in that class, I did something that probably no one had ever done. I brought a couple of dozen nice little Spanish folk songs from all over the Americas, with recordings, and taught them to the class. I took my wife, she played them on the piano, and we sang them. Wow! Is that creative or what---for a Spanish class?! “Ho-hum.”  Some liked that. Some didn’t like to sing.

Okay, hmmm. Got it. I’ll FAKE THEM OUT! Do something that has NEVER been done before, in that class! I’ll write a long short story (Is that an oxymoron?) in Spanish! Accordingly, one mild sunny, but cool, September day, I gathered my writing pads, my rolling ball pens (nothing like those), Spanish dictionary, diet Pepsi, and a few rice crackers (so favored by the wife),  made it to my front porch little round writing table, and there set out to write a story in Spanish.

The story was nine printed pages long, maybe 2000 words, and was set in northern New Mexico, in a mountainous area, filled with villages, and Spanish folks.  It was called “LA BRUJA,” “The Witch,” and was about a solitary widow lady who loved children, but never had any, and was falsely labeled a “witch” by kids passing her house on the way to school. How she won their love, confidence, and loyalty, and in effect put together practically a kids’ rural neighborhood entertainment center, makes a moving story. (What started it all was her pan de jingibre!)

When she died, adults who had loved her as children, came from long distances to her funeral service. On her tombstone, in Spanish, were the words from Matthew 25:40: “Insomuch as ye have done it unto to one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it also unto me.”

It was a grand story! All in Spanish! It was the only piece of fiction I had in my soul.
I took it proudly to class! No one had ever done a story like that for class! The  powers declared that regular translation lessons would be put on hold and Mil’s story would be read openly, translated, and enjoyed.

A GREAT VICTORY, MIL? NOT!

Guess what? I knew there were some mistakes. Try doing a story like that with no mistakes. And I knew they would find them. Verb tenses are tricky in a different language. That self-appointed honcho of the class, the one with the “competitive edge,” and her cohorts-in-waiting, proceeded to critique my story!

How can I describe this, vividly, to you? Have you ever seen a film where someone down on the Amazon River in South America, throws  a piece of raw meat into the middle of a bunch of PIRANHAS? Friends, that’s what happened to my story. They ripped it apart! I didn’t mind some criticism, suggestions, and corrections, but neither did I hold with half their ideas of wording. And the most disturbing thing--- they didn’t have to do it so GLEEFULLY! Like PIRANHAS! (To this day, when I see piranhas on TV, I think of that Spanish class!) Yes, it was “open season” on Mil’s story! None of them ever wrote a long short story for class!

So after that, I was a bit discouraged and thinking maybe I had taught those ladies about all I could, and should just turn them over to Don, so to speak. About that time I was invited to a public school here in town to teach photography to a Special Ed class of 9, 10, and 11 year old children, with learning disabilities. It was a three month class, scheduled at the same time as the Spanish class. I accepted it.

To my wonderful little lady friends over at the Spanish class, I had only two words.....

“¡ADIOS, MUCHACHAS!”

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BY MIL
9/10/12









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