500 Hotdogs

Last year, students and staff got together and created a bunch of designs that described them as individuals. The designs were then taken by a local artist who transcribed them onto cement slabs and created a pretty sweet-looking bench. It looks like a bunt cake, if you can imagine that. Tonight, our evening begins with the dedication of this bench. The principal speaks, as does the artist. The speeches are translated and relayed orally to the audience in Hmong, Karen, and Spanish. A qeej (a Hmong instrument pronounced, for our purposes, "khling") is played by a 4th grader. I am only vaguely aware of the ceremony though. I can just barely hear it from my post; outside the kitchen's back door, in the teacher's parking lot.

You see, my job tonight is to grill 500 hotdogs.

When I say "my job," what I actually mean is "Cade's job." I had enlisted Cade to assist me even though I had witnessed his skill as a griller only twice before, and one time may or may not have involved some veeaary rare steaks. Despite this previous setback, I knew Cade would do his best because he is always up for a challenge. At least I assumed he would be... I may have stressed the quality of the event over the quantity of hotdogs.

By 3:30, I'm breaking apart frozen hotdogs by smashing them on the ground and against the brick wall. Don't worry! They are still enclosed in their plastic casings, which are still enclosed inside their cardboard box. Very sanitary.
By 3:45, Cade has successfully grilled the first batch.
By 4:00, Cade is a pro -  he constantly turns dogs, constantly smiles. He has mastered flipping six at a time, and now works on turning seven.
A little before 5, the people start coming. There are so many families with so many kids. I yell a greeting at the few students I know as they pass through the parking lot with their families.
At 5:15, I go dumpster diving because the principal needs proof that the hotdogs are beef and not pork, for the religious concerns of several families. Everyone is talking, everyone is eating.
By 6:00, I have conquered my dismantling clumps of frozen hotdogs technique. Cade could now cook a hotdog blindfolded if he wanted to. We try a bite of the Tofu Burgers cooked in case there were any vegetarians in the room. (There was one. And Tofu Burgers aren't bad, as long as they're smothered in ketchup.)

As Cade says goodbye and heads back to his homework, I immediately find myself pulled aside by a parent; Jesus. I had helped him fill out his daughter's immunization records just the week before, and he introduces me to his wife as "the lady who speaks Spanish so well." His wife shakes my hand and thanks me for being so kind. They comment on how lucky they are to have come early. We are almost out of hotdogs.

Bus 118

Kindergarten Bus 118 is the loudest and the proudest. "ONE-EIGH-TEEN! ONE-EIGH-TEEN!" we shout as we cruise past all the other, inferior kindergarteners who are laughing and giggling in their lines. We pay them no mind. We take our duty, to make it to Bus 118, very seriously.

Stories:

If Silver Lee doesn't hold the record for Most Time-Outs Awarded to a Kindergartener in the First Three Months of School, he is sure in the running. I, however, forget this every time he asks if he can hold my hand while we walk to "da buhs, go home to mah mom."

Javier greets me daily; "Sabes que hice hoy?" And because no, I never know what he did today, he immediately opens his backpack and pulls out whatever new creation of glue, construction paper and/or crayons he has constructed.

My group of Latino students is more excited than usual. When I ask why, they exclaim, "Es Peter! Él habla Español!"
"Is this true, Peter?" I ask. "Do you really speak Spanish?"
He grins so that all of his teeth show: "HOLA."
"Hola, como estás?" I ask.
Peter grins so that all of his teeth show: "HOLA."
"Ve????!!!!" the others exclaim to me, "Peter habla Español!!!"
I grin so that all of my teeth show, too.

One day as we wait in line Javier asks me, "Tienes una mamá?" Why yes, I answer, I have a mom. "Dónde está?" She's working, I tell him. "En dónde trabaja?" She works in a different city, I say. "Oh... entonces ella está muy lejos," Javier laments. Yes, I agree, she is pretty far away. Then Javier comments that her being far away must make me very sad and little does Javier know that on this particular day, it does. Damn it, Javier! I think to myself. You're so intuitive, so understanding, so... "Sabes que hice hoy?" ...yes. So that.

All Silver Lee wants is go home to mom on da buhs so we godda find da buhs is buhs one one eight go home to mom at home wit him on da buhs godda find da buhs...

Peter no longer responds to his name. I may call him "Ninja" or, if we are in a more formal situation, "Ninja Peter," but never just "Peter."

"Can I tell you something?" "Te puedo decir algo?" This is Rosalita's catch phrase. Every day she sits in her bus line, chattering away at me. Her voice is so high and soft that I can't really hear anything, what with all the commotion going on around us. I just nod and say, "oh really?" "Así?" Today, Rosalita gets fed up. From the corner of my eye I see a pink blur jump up and announce in its teeny tiny voice, "You're not listening to me!" "No me escuchas!" Her face is grumpy and her arms are crossed. I tell her I'm sorry and she lets me stew, tapping her white shoe on the linoleum. I know I am finally forgiven when I hear, "Le puedo decir algo?"

Silver Lee had a bad week this week. By the end of each day he'd had it, and so had his teacher. On Monday, the counselor was called in to assist. She and Silver Lee took a walk around the school, passing by my desk. We chatted awhile. Silver Lee recognized the number "18" on my calendar as part of his "buhs numbuh." After returning Silver Lee to the classroom, the counselor comes and finds me. "Are you busy?" she asks. No I'm not, I decide, because Silver Lee has requested my presence in his classroom. We color a picture of Thailand.
On Tuesday, we glue different foods into their different categories.
On Wednesday, we sit on the floor and sing a special ABC song.
On Thursday, I walk Silver Lee to his classroom and sit at his table for only a few minutes. "I need to help another student," I say. "Do you think that would be okay?" Silver Lee nods his head up and down. "Bye!" he says with a wave.
By Friday, Silver Lee and the counselor don't need to take a walk. I know I shouldn't be sad, but I am. ...right up until the back of my legs are attacked in the hallway by a tiny, but strong, hug.