11.06, 11.26

Dear Ben,

The eleven year olds smoke here. It’s not scandalous, it’s not frowned upon and I’m not even sure it’s illegal. I live in the neighborhood where many of my students live, so I regularly see them sitting on benches in the plaza where I walk or in the shopping centers where I get groceries. I rarely meet parents but frequently run into groups of middle-schoolers (here called secondary) lighting up in between games of pick up soccer. The first time I saw it, I felt ashamed, like I was seeing something I shouldn’t and quickly looked away so they wouldn’t feel embarrassed at having been caught. But to my surprise, they calledme over and puffed right in my face, asking if I smoked. I asked why they smoked and I couldn’t make out their answer beyond “because we like it.” I asked where they got it and they seemed confused why I would be asking about something so trivial. “The store,” they said.

The students are by far the most interesting people in this country. They sing a lot in class. They also repeat this phrase over and over again: tu meao, meaning something like “you pissed.” They all have a high top fade and the hair on the back of their head is cut into a V shape. They all make fun of me for having shaggy unkempt hair. No one has hair longer than a knuckle’s length. They make fun of my accent. They scream at me on the side of the road from the school bus while I’m on my bike. One day I was riding up the school driveway and the bus was behind me; there wasn’t room for it to pass. All fifty or so students in the bus I know were looking at me, and that day I had decided to wear my birkenstocks, and one slipped off and fell behind me, causing the bus to slam on its breaks. I got off my bike, hopped on one foot to retrieve my shoe, looked through the bus windshield and saw a handful of students waving at me, put my shoe back on and kept riding. Everyday I learn new phrases in Spanish, that day I added, se te perdió la zapata.

They love to ask me if I smoke, and they ask repeatedly despite getting the same answer every time. Last week they upped the stakes and started asking if I smoke crack, or if I like cocaine. Anytime my hometown of Los Angeles is mentioned, they put up finger guns and ask if I own an AK-47, am part of a gang, or have ever been shot. Then the squeal “G-T-A-cinco! G-T-A-cinco!” until I tell them that’s not actually what life is like in LA. But they can’t be convinced. They’re obsessed with drugs, gangs and violence and that part of our culture, like all curious teenagers in every generation.

When I was on a Saturday night loneliness walk last week I passed by the city’s only dance club and through the window saw two of my students, two fifteen year old girls. They both ran up to the glass and waved at me. No shame in this town. It’s illegal for them to be in there, but no one enforces the age limit. Three more of my male students were standing outside the club trying to get in. They were barred not because they were underage but because they were short one Euro. They saw me and jumped for joy, then saw that I was smoking a cigarette and were ecstatic, since I had been telling them I didn’t smoke (but secretly I do on my Saturday night loneliness walks). We all had a good laugh about it. They pulled me aside and asked if I would loan them the Euro. To call it an ethical dilemma is an overstatement. There was no dilemma––there was a clear moral choice: do not give the Euro. But I had a Euro, and I was lonely, and I was just happy that someone in the city recognized me and so I felt less alone. Plus I had lost the moral high ground when they caught me with the cigarette. They talked to me outside the club for a minute and tried to get me to hand over the Euro. I had already decided I was going to but I wanted to talk to them more because it had been two days since I had interacted with anyone who recognized me and I was starved for interaction so I kept up the conversation. At one point they told me my outfit looked good (I was only wearing a hoody) and I succumbed to the flattery and gave them the one Euro coin. Bidufo, the lead fifteen-year-old, tried to offer me a cigarette in return which I declined. I regret giving it now. To think that I was seeking the approval of fifteen-year-olds, my students, rings a bit pathetic to me, but I suppose I was in that moment and I don’t say that with malice. The young teenagers raced off to the discoteca and got back in line. I knew they were there to drink and smoke and engage in debaucherous partying but I guess none of that mattered to me in that moment. What did matter was that I had something that someone needed, something that would make someone talk to me, and all I could do was hold on to that feeling for the five minutes it was allotted to me. As I walked back to my house I saw the female students through the window again; they blew a cloud of vape at me and waved.  

(During recess as well as during class I’ve noticed that the boys are not shy about hitting the girls, punching them in the arm or smacking them in the face or pushing them––it’s all ‘playful’ so they would say, but to an outsider it’s hard to watch and harder to get them to stop. I haven’t seen a girl hit a boy. I wonder if the girls were excited when the group of boys got in to the club on my euro. I didn’t think about it at the time, I just finished my cigarette. I think about it now.) 

Love you,

Luke