The Things We Print On T-Shirts

For the overwhelming majority of people with whom we cross paths, we will only ever show them a single fleeting glance into our rich inner lives. Walk through a moderately busy city block and realize that this is the only impression you will make for dozens of people. Multiply this effect by each block, each day, each year - you will begin to understand the importance of what is conveyed through our fashion choices. The things that we wear and the style we present is our chance to say something about what we believe, where we come from, and where we are headed.

Over the last eight months I have been performing the role of "conversation assistant" at a primary school in Spain. Mostly this has consisted of trying to talk to students and faculty in the classroom setting, but I have also had plenty of time to observe and reflect upon the stylistic choices of the people there. Generally the public in Spain has a higher regard for fashion than I would argue to be true in the various midwestern cities in which I have spent my time, which I appreciate. The students at school, as you might expect, vary quite a lot in their fashion sense. Some will arrive at third grade class in a color-coordinated matching tracksuit and sneaker combination, while others are content with the same Fortnite tee as yesterday.

One of the common themes that has struck me is the prevalence of English phrases on the shirts, pants or socks worn by these children. Given that I evaluate them every week in English class, I am confident that in most cases they actually have no idea what their shirt is saying; dozens of attempts to ask them have confirmed my suspicions. The content of their clothing will range from quietly profound to nigh gibberish, and over the course of the school year it has been a pastime of mine to document the statements they are making through fashion, whether they understand them or not.

In an attempt to capture and preserve some of the memories I've had during the past school year, I now present a handful of stories and experiences from my time, each paired with a real message I have read on somebody's t-shirt.

IT'S A BUG WORLD

It all began on October 1. I spent the first month of school organizing my visa documents, learning class schedules and trying to remember dozens upon dozens of names. I prepared a simple presentation to introduce myself to the students and fielded the exact same questions over and over again in each class: "I am 27 years old, I came to Spain by plane, yes I have a sister and a brother, no I do not personally know last year's American helper."

The first big shakeup to this new routine came at Halloween, the first of many days dedicated to festivity. The school was full of students in costume, with a parade going on outside and other activities for coloring and food. I saw none of this, as I spent the entire day manning the haunted hallway with the rest of the English department. The staff had blacked out the teachers' lounge and converted it into quite the creepy corridor: a fresh cadaver sat on an operating table, a crazed psych ward patient waited in (and would eventually escape from) her cage, a mummified nun placed curses upon the visitors. My role was to stand still, masked among a few other ghouls and silently sneak up behind the students as they passed through, popping a balloon to coerce a reaction.

It was interesting to observe the differences in how the various groups responded; the same events can be received with polar opposite reactions depending on the circumstances and energy of the group going in. Some classes were in complete hysterics, screaming and crying, others would cope by trying to mess with us or laugh it off. In all, we ran the same exact routine like nine times throughout the day, which was genuinely tiring work. I left work that day with much more respect for haunted house scarers.

COWBOYS & SUMMER
a perfect combination

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I tied up my hair, rolled up my sleeves and got my hands dirty in cookery class. Working in the cafeteria, Jorge, Cristina and I would walk a handful of students through reading the recipe, measuring and mixing the ingredients before throwing their creations into the oven. The recipes were intended to teach the students some healthy baking options, made with gluten-free flour and non-dairy alternatives. First was a dense, slightly sweet biscuit made from dates and topped with melted chocolate; the highlight for the children was when they got to use the immersion blender. After the new year, we changed the menu to include a vegetarian pizza made with yogurt. In cutting the vegetable toppings and kneading the pizza dough, I witnessed a few young chefs find their inspiration, something I can only hope they carry with them later in life. Whether or not they were excited about the process, everyone was delighted to receive their treats during patio after they had finished baking.

Of course, one cannot cook without cleaning, and so we also taught them to wash the dishes and clean their stations after the fact. Usually I ended up supervising dish duty, checking lots of bowls and plates that were not quite clean (but that the children insisted were spotless). I was somewhat transported back to my job working as a barista and communicating with my peers in the cafe. These moments at the sink were the times I was most comfortable practicing my Spanish with the students. I suppose that being in a crowded environment with everyone focused on an unglamorous task helped me get over myself and make mistakes without self-judgement. It’s a task that most people loathe, but for some reason I find myself at peace when I am washing dishes. I think I just like to feel useful.

unleash the future. embrace motion

A pattern I have noticed in my professional life is that my opinion of a given job correlates strongly with the availability of snacks and other treats in the workplace (reminiscing about the test kitchen from my corporate temp gig in Minneapolis - I had it so good, man). Fortunately for me, there has been no shortage of food in this school. Between the bocadillos coming from the dining hall and the stash of nuts and fruits in the English department office, I can find something to munch on any given day. Seasonal treats for Christmas and Easter along with monthly pastry deliveries to the teachers' lounge have kept my sweet tooth more than satisfied.

Recently I brought my V60 into work and started brewing my own pour-over coffee in the morning as a sort of centering ritual. I would measure out the beans (I bought a bag of Colombian washed) on one of our culinary scales, use my buddy Asher's hand grinder that I had on loan, climatize my filter and mug with boiling water, start my stopwatch and practice the techniques taught to me by the Ashley and Brandon at Blueprint Coffee. Taking notes on the procedure and results, I dialed in both the flavor of the cup and my own mental state to prepare for a day that would inevitably surprise me. I even got a few of my coworkers to try my 'café natural' which is so strange here in Europe. I don't think I've changed any minds, but at least they were willing to try!

ADRENALINE DINO
robot dinosaurs are cooler than real dinosaurs

I am proud of the fact that I have been able to branch out and make connections with a number of the staff members here. It has helped me feel like I am a part of the community at school, which I have learned is not always the case for those working in my program. More than this, talking with my coworkers has developed my conversational Spanish and given me more confidence in integrating myself to the culture here.

Every morning at school, I am welcomed with a grin and a “Hola Ben, buen día” from Andrés, the doorman. He is so much more than a doorman; he is also the guy with the keys who knows where everything is, the guy with special projects around the grounds that he’s always working on. I have helped him set up AV equipment for events, install new chairs and tables in classrooms, and change the songs on the PA system for time spent out on the patio. My favorite memory with Andres is when we fixed a disconnected circuit within one of the culinary scales, and to celebrate I showed him how I use the scale to brew my coffee.

The next person I talk to is usually Inés, the head chef. I poke my head in to el comedor to say hello and advise her that I'm going to be staying for lunch today. Her daily response which I receive in return rings out: “vale, te apunto,” served fresh with a wink. A few hours later, I am enjoying a filling and multi-faceted meal: salad, soup, bread, fresh fruit, roasted potatoes and asparagus, fish with lemon, and a chocolate pudding to finish. All for [EURO]4.25. To be completely honest, these meals have been so much for me during this time; life just feels a little different when you’re walking around with a full and satisfied belly. A few weeks ago, I had the honor of cooking alongside Inés in her kitchen as I spent the morning making cornbread to share for one of my presentations on regional yankee foods. It came out a little burnt on top, but was otherwise alright; what matters is that it exists, not that it’s perfect.

Cristina gives me a ride home with her sons Sergio and Pau every Wednesday. In the car, Cristina and I converse in Spanish so that I can practice and in English so that she can practice. Although I love riding the intercity bus, this trip is an exciting change in my weekly schedule. Facing the stresses of a long morning of play, hunger, and only having one and not two cookies to snack on, the young one cries a lot, turning most of these car rides into a gentle parenting session about managing expectations and emotions. But even he, across the months and months of the school year, has made noticeable progress, more often than not supporting pleasant conversation recently. Cristina drops me off at my apartment, or sometimes at a restaurant where I’m meeting some friends for lunch. We exchange goodbyes and our paths diverge, until we do it all over again the next week.

I TURN UP THE MUSIC;
I TURN DOWN THE WORRIES
born to sparkle; made to party

To cap the first trimester we had a winter showcase in which each grade performed a dance routine that they spent weeks rehearsing (with me among them in some cases). We walked to the town auditorium, and it was filled to the brim with families and friends all ready to watch, record and cheer on their loved ones. Some of the sixth graders took turns introducing the acts, and they handled themselves incredibly well as hosts for the show. I recall being more impressed by the routine that the first grade put on than that of some of the older groups. My primary role for this show was to lead the sixth grade in a hearty choral rendition of Good King Wenceslas in English. Predictably, most of them never really learned the words and I had to carry the whole performance, but that is no problem for a star like myself. Afterwards I went out with the other staff for a huge Spanish comida (you’re supposed to spend four hours eating lunch and drinking six to seven beers during that time) and some dancing. I got a little too drunk on the dance floor and left an impression one way or another on my coworkers. Oh well, I was having fun :^)

take it easy girl... follow the sun

I moved to a majority Catholic nation and found Jesus again. Or, I should say I found Jesús, who is the religion teacher at my school. He and I have built a friendship based primarily upon asking simple questions to each other and commenting on the weather. "Hace mucho sol hoy. El sol es la vida." Just about every day he asks me if I'm ready to go to work, or whether I am eating anything for lunch. I’ve talked to Jesús about various trips I’ve taken around Spain, my experiences working at a cafe during la Semana Santa, and my family history. We have built the kind of rapport where it seems we could discuss just about anything - or nothing at all - and it would be a nice time. Because I’m just a ‘helper’ and he only visits three days a week, both of us are positioned in a sort of liminal space at this school, and I think that has strengthened our connection. We have both built a reputation for ducking away into the teachers’ lounge to sit down and get away from the commotion throughout the day. 

One of his favorite things to do is find a single phrase and repeat it ad nauseum. “El sol es la vida.” My friend Camilla has also experienced this phenomenon; Jesús travels to her nearby school to give classes as well. Maybe I’ve spent too much time around him but I’ve found it to be a surprisingly effective means of making conversation, or at least filling the silence. “El sol es la vida.” Jesús is a genuine guy; there have been a few times where Camilla has missed the bus and he gave her a ride back into town. “El sol es la vida.” At my school I have often found him basking in the sun by the school garden plot. In these tranquil moments, I have sat next to him and passed time, watching the wind animate the artichoke leaves and listening to the birds chirp away. He is always telling me to let in the sun, and I think I have been slowly learning to do so. “El sol es la vida.”

COOL PLAN
est. 1975
[choose city]

Alcachofa fest (or alcasil fest) came more or less as a surprise to me, but man was it a special day. In the town where the school resides there is a plant for processing artichokes, so this crop is a really big deal locally. In the week leading up to the celebration, we spent every available moment in art class coloring paper artichokes to paste onto a giant banner for the event. On the day of, the whole school was converted into an interactive shrine for this vegetable: we made necklaces with artichoke pendants, I had an artichoke painted onto my face, we had informational sessions about how the crop grows with examples from the school garden. And of course, we had lots of artichoke to eat. It was prepared on pizza, in multiple different salads, in a huge paella, on a stick, and to finish, an artichoke-chocolate cupcake kinda thing (this recipe felt like a stretch to get something sweet in, and frankly it was pretty suspect).

The fun didn’t stop there! Quino and Noelia showed up to work flexing their artichoke shirts and custom shoes. The team of chefs who visited and prepared most of the food received an artichoke-shaped award and were interviewed by a local television crew. I played in a marching band for the first time in a decade, this time hopping on bass drum with no prior training or instruction. We marched up and down the patio in front of the students in perhaps the strangest parade I have ever been a part of. Inma’s son visited and reprised his role as Alcachofaman in a FULL BODY ARTICHOKE SUIT. The day ended with him performing a rap about how we should all eat more artichokes. I’m not exactly sure where all this support came from, but I am on board with whatever local initiative they have to propagandize everyone about artichokes. When I got together with my friends and we shared about how our days went, I remember feeling like I had just lived through a random Parks and Rec episode. This is exactly the kind of absurdity that life can throw your way on any given day, and I live for this shit. Thank you, alcachofa fest.

PEANUTS
League team, nice team
just sport

For the students, the highlight of any given day was the moment where they all spill out onto the patio and have the freedom to run and play as much as their hearts desire. Without fail, this initial burst of energy would metamorphose into games of fútbol or colpbol (a Valencian sport invented in the 90s, basically fútbol but you use your hands instead of your feet). Children of all ages would play, laugh, and eventually argue with one other over their perceived fouls. Many of the boys also seemed to be training their diving skills, trying to sell their injuries as more severe than they were.

As children have yet to learn moderation, it only follows that sometimes they would get the ball into places it didn't belong. One day, some boys approached me pleading for help to get their ball unstuck from a branch about six meters high. The only hope was to throw a different ball and dislodge the first one from its arboreal prison. They had been trying and trying and lacked the power and precision to achieve this. After a few tries to warm up, I removed my overshirt and breathed deeply as the boys began to chant "Ben, Ben, Ben!" in encouragement. I centered my days as a pitcher for the junior varsity baseball team, and fired a strike into the air, freeing the ball, prompting a series of screams and celebrations from the dozen or so kids who had gathered at this point. Although I never made big as a young hurler, it was nice to feel like a hero, at least on this one day.

A hero can very quickly turn into a villain if he does not maintain discipline and humility. Another day, I stumbled across the first graders in physical education class practicing making throws with an (american) football. Briefly my own sense of moderation lapsed when, in trying to show off my 40-grade arm to literal six year olds, I threw the football and it sailed high up into a tree. The ball was caught by the branches - my heart stopped - and after a moment it dropped directly in front of Jorge, the teacher. Just earlier that day, I had watched him collect a ball out of the tree, and I had come close to doubling his workload. This episode was a humbling reminder of the great responsibility to ourselves and others which comes with great power.

London
this city is a vibe
est. 1987

Patio is more than just a colosseum for competition; it is also a haven for imagination and wonder, which these students possess in droves. It is one of my favorite activities here in Spain to try out new cafés, so of course I had to take a seat when I learned that a group of students were operating a 'restaurant' in one corner of the playground. The venue was rather charming, with a close view of the school's garden, and a nice mix of sun and shade.

The rest of the experience was rather disappointing, however. To begin, there were nine or ten staff members bustling about, wiping tables, taking orders, running drinks, generating a rather busy atmosphere that made it difficult to relax. Although I was one of only three customers seated at the time, somehow my order was made with a significant delay - I am not really sure what all these worker bees were getting up to in the meantime. When my 'cortado' did arrive, I was shocked to see that it was in reality just an old yogurt container that had been filled with dirt and sticks. Needless to say, I left without paying.

Other patio traditions include playing tag with a group of girls that were intent on only trying to tag me - oftentimes I would be swarmed on all sides and hear a chorus of voices declare I was "pillado!" Of course, the reverse of this was also true; once I was pillado, I could scatter the group simply by waving my index finger and taking a few steps in their direction, sending them shrieking across the pavement. Another classic was the "cho-co-la-te" routine, where one has to memorize a rhyme and a series of claps and hand gestures to perform with their partner. Learning the choreography was fun initially, but soon I found myself facing a queue of seven all waiting to test me with the exact same ritual over and over, and it lost most of its luster. I am still teaching myself how to say no.

Live in the moment and enjoy life slowly
with Mickey Mouse

The cap to the second trimester was the drama showcase, in which every class put on a play, usually of a children's book adapted for the stage. Lola, Mónica and I spent months rehearsing the scripts, designing costumes and creating set pieces for the shows. I was also placed in charge of organizing live music for the performances. My years of training in the pit orchestra in the Tosa East theatre finally came to bear fruit.

The process of preparing primary school students to memorize their lines in a second language went just about as smoothly as you might expect. It was clear which children were rehearsing their lines outside of class and which ones were waiting for us to feed them their lines so they could just move on to something more important. After weeks of practice, many of the second graders would track me down just to start reciting all of their lines at me. Dozens of times, I would chuckle to myself hearing one of our brave actors energetically declare that it was a "feautiful day!" After plenty of failure, eventually he figured it out.

On the day of the show, as is always the case, we were faced with the realities of performance and brought up against the time-old tradition of ‘the show must go on.’ Musical cues were missed because my musicians were waving to family members in the audience. The stage lights were inexplicably flickering when adjusted, pero lo aprovechamos to create suspense during fight scenes. The actor playing the role of monkey was having a bad day and decided to sulk in the corner for the entire play (ironically, it was because he didn't want to eat the banana that his mother packed for him during snack time). Thanks to our dedication in rehearsal and the trust we placed in each other and our students, it was a largely successful day - certainly one of the best of the entire school year.

The first graders’ The Very Hungry Caterpillar was a smash hit, likely the overall favorite of the day. With tightly written dialogue, evocative costumes and a truly inspired transformation scene, the audience was taken along for a moving journey of self-discovery, overextension and renewal. On the contrary, what I had seen in rehearsal of the fifth graders’ Peter Pan indicated that it was doomed for a showtime flop. However I must admit that the usually rowdy and unproductive class proved me wrong when it mattered most. This show had the best blocking by far, and supported a cast twice the size of any other, leading to quite the spectacle once the lights were down. The writing, courtesy of everyone’s favorite LLM, left a lot to be desired, but it’s not like anyone was here for the script anyway. I suppose the lesson from this episode is that once we embark on a journey, things may seem to take on a life of their own, but moving in harmony with whatever happens can still produce good results.

you are what you listen to

Although I spent most of my time in a teaching role, I was fortunate to have some experiences on the other side of the classroom dynamic as well. Noelia offered a Spanish language class which was attended by a number of mothers within the community, and every once in a while I could sit in and catch the last five minutes or so. It was refreshing to be in a classroom with everyone deeply focused and invested in what was going on, compared to the relative chaos of young children. I also received helpful resources for my own learning: a sheet of common idioms ('yo llevo los pantalones', 'tú me estás tomando el pelo') and a vocabulary workbook, for example. Attending these classes helped me feel like I was not alone in my struggle to learn the language and fit in here, and gave me the strength to keep working on my individual Rosetta Stone lessons.

Antonio, the headmaster of the school, is also the music teacher and generally a trickster kind of guy. One can usually hear him coming in the hallway before seeing him; often he is singing songs about whomever he just spoke to or whatever they were speaking about. Whenever I had a free period, I joined his music classes to observe his teaching style and usually listen to something interesting. In these moments I have felt most like a peer to my students: together we discussed which instruments we're hearing in a song, we learned and compared the length of the various notes and rests, or we practiced a simple tune on the recorder. I did show and tell with my lute, teaching the students about its history, how its strings are plucked, playing chords and treble lines. Although I wasn’t fulfilling my ‘job’ of speaking in English to them, I think I was still connecting and passing on some useful wisdom drawn from my musical training.

JUST KISS ME 💋
We can talk later

For some time it was a vision of something to come over the horizon, for another time it was my routine, but my experience at this primary school is firmly in the past now. Thanks to a number of lawsuits and governmental restructuring, the program that brought me here is in the past now, at least for the short-term. It could very well be that I am the final auxiliar that these students will get to know. I wonder what I have left behind me in this place. What are the moments that my students will remember about our time together? Did I actually help them to incorporate the language into their lives? Will they be reminiscing with each other in ten years about the yankee from Wisconsin who came to speak English at them? I can only hope that they have positive associations with my memory.

Education is fundamentally a reciprocal process; in conveying knowledge to others we inevitably will absorb some knowledge ourselves. I am reminded of the dynamic between Po and Shifu in Kung Fu Panda: Shifu taught Po the discipline required to fulfill his duties as the dragon warrior, and Po taught Shifu to open his eyes and consider new perspectives, reviving his strained connection to kung fu. The children at my primary school have reintroduced me to the tenderness and fragility of youth. The stakes of their problems are much smaller, yet the struggles they face and overcome are just as substantial as the ones us adults contend with in our own lives. I have witnessed them experience emotional hardship and later come to see the bigger picture. I have seen them fall out with and stand up for their friends, unafraid to speak their mind and be understood, even if only partially. Whether or not I am conscious of it, I will carry forward with me the lessons taught to me by these scores of schoolchildren, and aim to live without so many of the useless reservations I have taught myself to hold.

It has truly been a blessing to cultivate connections with these kids; it warms my heart to receive a crude drawing of myself or be greeted with a warm “Bennnn” and a hug. It has also been an illuminating exercise to read the amusing messages on their shirts and share with them the shirts of my own (only having seven or eight shirts in this country, I started to feel like a cartoon character coming to work with the same outfits on). These past eight months have been full of moments absurd and mundane, surprising and disappointing. And I will remain grateful for them all. 🤙