Filemon- age 9
Filemon should be in third or fourth grade, but because he just learning Spanish (he grew up just speaking Quechua), he was put in first grade. He understands most of what is said to him, but still struggles to express himself. He comes from a VERY rural area, and it's possible this is the first time he's gone to school.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Filemon is one of the first to walk through the school gates, his face serious, his big almond eyes taking everything in. He hangs back, watching the kids play and listening to their easy Spanish. He tries a couple phrases of broken Spanish, mixing his subjects and parroting expressions that sound funny with his Quechua accent.
Then all the kids come inside, and Filemon sits down without being asked, pulls out his notebook and gets straight to work on his handwriting homework. His looping penmanship and tidy letters set him apart from the other students and he finishes his homework in record time, requiring only an "l" here or an "i" there to be erased and fixed.
His eyes light up, knowing he's done, and he asks for the whiteboard marker to practice his writing. "Write 'ma'," I tell him, and his beautiful handwriting arcs across the board, writing "ma" perfectly. "Qhosa pacha", I tell him, "Excelente", and he smiles, laughter bubbling up from deep inside.
We finish the writing lesson on the board, and all the kids are given a blank piece of paper to draw pictures of their home and family. Filemon draws a quaint cabin-like house, pine trees bending in on either side. His mom is in the kitchen, cooking, and he's in the other room studying. There's a pond outside, full of fish. It seems he's one of the few kids who seem to have a peaceful home life.
As the other kids finish drawing, he tells me stories. "There lots of llamas in the campo." His eyes grow wide and he gestures with his hands, "In the campo there also LOTS wolves. They mean and eat sheep. One time, wolf jumped on sheep and it bleed and die!" He weaves his tales, showing with his eyes his fear of the wolves, his Quechua mixed in with Spanish phrases.
At the end of the day, he shoulders his backpack and starts up the hill. "K'aya kama!" I shout to him "See you tomorrow!" He smiles a little, and turns back to the dirt path that weaves through the flower and corn fields, headed to his home at the foot of the Andes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Filemon is one of the first to walk through the school gates, his face serious, his big almond eyes taking everything in. He hangs back, watching the kids play and listening to their easy Spanish. He tries a couple phrases of broken Spanish, mixing his subjects and parroting expressions that sound funny with his Quechua accent.
Then all the kids come inside, and Filemon sits down without being asked, pulls out his notebook and gets straight to work on his handwriting homework. His looping penmanship and tidy letters set him apart from the other students and he finishes his homework in record time, requiring only an "l" here or an "i" there to be erased and fixed.
His eyes light up, knowing he's done, and he asks for the whiteboard marker to practice his writing. "Write 'ma'," I tell him, and his beautiful handwriting arcs across the board, writing "ma" perfectly. "Qhosa pacha", I tell him, "Excelente", and he smiles, laughter bubbling up from deep inside.
As the other kids finish drawing, he tells me stories. "There lots of llamas in the campo." His eyes grow wide and he gestures with his hands, "In the campo there also LOTS wolves. They mean and eat sheep. One time, wolf jumped on sheep and it bleed and die!" He weaves his tales, showing with his eyes his fear of the wolves, his Quechua mixed in with Spanish phrases.
At the end of the day, he shoulders his backpack and starts up the hill. "K'aya kama!" I shout to him "See you tomorrow!" He smiles a little, and turns back to the dirt path that weaves through the flower and corn fields, headed to his home at the foot of the Andes.
clowning around
No comments:
Post a Comment