The 90s. I work in the evening school. It’s called “adult school,” but the audience I have this time is mainly boys from Central America (Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua). They are somewhere from fifteen to twenty with a tail. Most of them were orphans after the Civil War. We try not to notice their age - we need attendance. As in any school, this is a problem.
Working with them well. The boys are polite and ceremonial, like Spanish grands. (It’s true, sometimes they’re trying to flirt with me – but that’s culture.) Discipline in the classroom is somewhat unrealistic – they just don’t breathe. They try with all their strength. One problem is that most are semi-literate, illiterate or illiterate at all. Well, and I for what? Let us do what we can. But I am tired. Oh! The call. The change.
I am back in 15 minutes. Yes is. early to rejoice. A class struggle. Two are fighting. It is true that they have time to breathe - but I have already had time to see. Fuck, we have to react. I honestly don’t see dramas – well, we fought, it happens. But my boss thinks differently. We, you understand, should in every way advocate for “non-violent conflict resolution” – “non-conflict... thyfu!” Only, it means, to conjure, quietly, gently, affectionately, and morbidly - none. Go and explain to them that not all conflicts... okay, you have to deal with them. I carefully depict the pedagogical fainting and begin to ask questions:
What happened here?
The boys are silent. They are silent, by the way. I understand them well. I remember from my childhood that explaining to an adult "why they fought" is a matter of turmoil and most often hopeless. These adults don’t want to listen. Per this is a matter of honor.
Well, and anyway?
They push each other. One cannot stand:
There was a delicate situation between the two men. It says, “A delicate situation between two men.”) is
I am delighted with the formulation. Men at fifteen - no, this seems to be sixteen. But they are men, men, of course men! God let me doubt! I thought it was a matter of honor. Everything is understandable. From pure hooliganism, I decide to squeeze them a little. A bit of:
Could you be a little more detailed?
It can! The second is going up, this gentleman did not behave like a cabalero!
Oh well, it is clear. The honor of the lady. There will be no more details.
“Well, so yes, Caballeros,” I say, committing a small official crime, “the next time you have a delicate situation, make sure I don’t see it. clearly?
The boys laughed calmly:
“Oh, sir, we’ll go out to the yard.
Not in the courtyard, I clarify, but on the street, over the fence. Let the police work, not the school. understandably?
“Master,” suddenly asks the older one, “do you have sons?”
“My daughters have,” I scream, “but they’re fighting too.
And I get an overwhelming compliment:
You could do it with your sons too. Like my mother. She has seven sons.
“Seven sons!” I think, with some horror, “This is probably not my mom, but a general.”
Well guys, sit down here. So much time lost. We continue. In the last lesson...
I continue. I am sad for something. I have no children, I have not done anything in my life. I will never understand men. Hope for grandchildren.