Carlitos

by Cassie Silva (Canada)

Making a local connection Peru

His sigh precedes his entrance, as always. Carlos slouches into the dingy classroom and throws his books down on the peeling carpet with an angry bang, sending up a cloud of dust that lingers surreally in the dimly-lit room. Colorful cartoon paintings decorate the dismal walls around us, a project undertaken by previous volunteers to this Peruvian orphanage. Why did I pass up a similar art project to take on the seemingly impossible task of teaching English to an unwilling pre-teen? My prisoner slumps into a wooden chair like a man seating himself at his own execution, eyeing me warily. “Okay Carlos,” I chirp. “Hoy necesitamos a practicar inglés! Today we need to practice English!” He groans and emits a pained six-syllable “Whyyyy?” The one English word he knows perfectly. My smile falters, but the false pep continues. “En la Cocina. In the Kitchen. Let’s review.” His head slumps forward and cracks on the hard desk. I’ve killed him with boredom. “In Spanish you say cuchara. In English, we say spoon.” He repeats the word dutifully. “Spoon.” I draw a teaspoon. “In Spanish you call this cucharita. Little Spoon. Do you remember what it’s called in English?” He tilts his head. I can see the cogs turning furiously. “Spoonita?” he guesses hopefully and I can’t help but laugh. What a clever guess. Carlos quickly becomes bored with utensils and flips back in his book to an art project from last week, ignoring any further prodding to repeat the words “fork and knife”. I try to tug the paper out from under his crayon. My carefully designed lesson plan is crumbling to pieces. I wrestle him for the page and he clings tight. We glare into each other’s eyes, neither wanting to admit defeat. It’s not that the kids here aren’t taught to respect adults. They are woken at 5 AM, work hard in the fields, march to school in straight lines, and aren’t granted permission to enter class unless their palms are spotless. A brick wall and locked metal gate keep the boys from escaping, although occasionally one will disappear, choosing a life on the streets instead. They grow up in this dusty yard with seventy other boys, until the day they turn sixteen and are sent out into the world on their own. Carlos has such little control over his daily life – what he wears, when he wakes up, and where he is headed. No wonder he grasps at any opportunity to rebel against my structured lessons. Why not give him the opportunity to control his own learning? I reach for the backpack I’ve been living out of for the past month, and begin tossing wrinkled t-shirts and dirt-encrusted hiking boots onto the floor. Carlos watches curiously as I extract a washable marker from the depths of my bag and draw whiskers on my face. “Meow!” I can see the shock in his eyes. “Cat,” I say, then look at him questioningly. He nods. He understands what is being offered and he accepts the trade. “Gato.” I point to an insect crawling up the wall. “Bug.” “Bicho!” Now that he knows he has control, he bounds around the room eager to learn more. He rolls up his pant leg and points to an article of clothing. “Sock.” I grab a crayon and draw a picture he can he can appreciate. “Toilet.” He falls to the ground in near hysterics. Cockroach. Dinosaur. Beetle. Boys don’t just want to learn practical lessons. We explore new verbs: to laugh, to lie, to tickle, to poop. We sit now, weeks later, in amiable silence. He weaves bead animal keychains while I sketch the Peruvian flag. We converse casually and he allows me to hold the beaded animals as we name them. Jirafa. Giraffe. Cerdo. Pig. Burro. Donkey. I purchase Jirafa for two soles, about thirty cents, and he proudly hands it over. As the other boys play soccer in the dirt and haul rocks in wheelbarrows, bead by bead his dusty fingers piece together his own future and construct a ladder over that brick wall. You’d be 21 today Carlos. I hope your future still looks as bright as this beaded giraffe.