Wisdom Wednesday: Learning New Perspectives

My school hygiene committee card, issued in 1966,  stated on the reverse
that I would promise to be a good example of physical, mental, and moral
health, and would strive to promote the same for the betterment of Mexico.

While my sisters and I attended school in Mexico City in the mid-1960s, we learned that not only was it important to be well-educated in the basic subjects of reading, writing, and arithmetic, but it was equally important to be take pride in ourselves and our country.  I owe much of my love and esteem for my "second" country to this priceless experience, for which I will be ever grateful.

It was inherent in a student's life that he or she wear their uniforms proudly.  At Ezequiel A. Chávez Elementary School, we had two uniforms. There was a Monday uniform consisting of a starched white cotton blouse with a sailor collar that trimmed with a double border of red ribbon, tucked neatly into a matching white pleated skirt. With a red cardigan and a broad red satin bow at the neck topping the ensemble, we looked pretty snappy.

We wore a different uniform for the rest of the week.  Along with the same red sweater, we wore a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, again tied at the neck with a red bow, over a grey flannel pleated skirt.  I remember my mother hand washing (few people had washing machines in those days) and ironing our uniforms on Saturdays.   For three children with all those different pieces, it was a lengthy process.

Every Monday morning, we met for a school assembly in the large courtyard in the center of the school.  Crisply dressed in our Monday uniforms, we formed long lines for each class, setting our bookbags on the ground next to us, keeping both feet together and hands at our sides.  Our principal, Mrs. Rangel, opened the assembly with the Pledge of Allegiance to the Mexican flag and two or three choruses of the National Anthem.  

After a short talk on good citizenship, our principal invited outstanding students to perform a declamación.  Technically, this would translate as a declamation, typically the recitation of an historic speech or a poem, but so much more is involved in it, including dramatic oratory and movement, emotion.  It took a lot of practice to do this, and the more talented students participated in local, state, and national competitions.

Before the close of assembly, we did some basic exercises, touching our toes and jumping jacks, all in unison.  Then we practiced following instructions, with Mrs. Rangel calling out, "hands in front, hands behind your back, turn right, turn left, " and so on, until we were dismissed to follow our teachers to class in single file.

Our classrooms were rather simple.  We received only one or two textbooks in the fourth grade and copied the rest of our lessons from the blackboard into our small 6" x 9" loose-leaf black binders.   When we learned our multiplication tables, our teacher, Miss Ofelia Ortega, tossed a ball around the room.  Whoever caught the ball had to recite each table. I was not good at catching balls, but that never excused me from the exercise.  

Maybe this active participation is the reason I recall some of those lessons so clearly today.  In fact, after we returned to the United States in 1967, I saw my very first overhead projector in junior high.  I remember shaking my head at how much "stuff" American students seemed to need to learn a subject when we did so much with so little in Mexico.

We took several field trips to learn about Mexican art and history.  It was exciting to see the Aztec calendar up close.  We also got to visit landmarks such as Chapultepec Castle.  The castle had been home to the Austrian Hapsburgs who were sent to rule Mexico under Napoleon before the emperor's eventual capture and executed by Benito Juarez, Mexico's version of his contemporary, Abraham Lincoln.  Experiencing these icons of Mexico brought its history alive and gave meaning to its culture for me.

Learning about the US/Mexican War in Mexico and then again (later) in the United States was enlightening in that I learned countries can have very different perspectives on the same thing, yet all of their citizens are proud of their heritage. Among other things, we learned that Mexico could have been one of the largest countries in the world if the U.S. had not "taken" much of the territory above the Rio Grande that today makes up much of the Western United States. The sting of that war remains in the country,  which will never forget the great power it could have become.  It was a bit surprising to learn about this war in a very different way when we moved to California a few years later. 

We also learned that "Americans" were referred to as "North Americans," a reminder that America is not just the United States but comprises all of the countries of the continent.  

In the fifth grade, I was chosen to represent my class on the school hygiene committee.  Our duties, as shown on the reverse of our member cards, stated our promise to be good examples for our classmates of cleanliness and sound physical, mental, and moral health; and to strive in the future to better Mexico by promoting the same.  

There were frequent hygiene checks, one of which was the occasional lice check.  The bane of every student is to be sent home because of lice.  A lot of the mothers dealt with this by shaving their children's heads so they were sure to get rid of the pests completely. 

When my sisters and I were sent home one day with the dreaded lice, my mother refused to shave our heads as so many other mothers did.  Instead, she and one of my aunts found another remedy that at the time was said to be foolproof.  We took turns going into the bathroom to have them scrub our heads thoroughly with a thick brown bar of soap that did the trick. It worked. I still remember the large letters engraved on the bar:  DDT.

There were always a few girls coming to school bald. The first couple of times I saw this, I thought it was kind of odd, but after a while, it seemed less shocking, especially as you knew their hair would grow back eventually.  

Not all girls had their heads shaved because of lice, though. Another reason that mothers shaved their daughters' heads (usually the younger children) was the belief that it would help their fine hair to grow back in thicker.  This was an old wives' tale, but there were enough people who believed it, and at the time, I wasn't really sure whether it was true or not.  

One of my little sisters had very fine hair.  Some of the other mothers tried to talk my mother into shaving her head, but she adamantly refused. To this day, my sister has always had a beautiful head of hair.

"Why aren't there any boys in our school?" I once asked my teacher. "Oh, they come later in the day," she replied,  explaining that due to a lack of space, not all the children in the neighborhood could attend school at the same time.  There were, in fact, two sessions: the morning session for the girls, and the afternoon session for the boys.  Coming from a family of all girls and being rather shy around boys at my age anyway, that was just fine with me.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know, or are you a member of the Huesca family or any of the people mentioned here?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Talented Tuesday: A Most Gifted Teacher

My science book from the sixth
grade at Ezequiel A. Chavez School,
Mexico City, D.F., 1967

On my first day of school in Mexico City, I noticed something I had never seen back home in Chicago.  As we entered the classroom, most, if not all, of the students kissed the teacher on the cheek as they greeted her with a  "Buenos días, Maestra" - Good morning, Teacher. 

Miss Ofelia Ortega Vázquez hugged each child back affectionately.  Back home, as much as we loved our teachers, there was a certain distance between them and us. As I watched, I thought that the attractive lady in front of the blackboard might be quite nice.

At the end of the school day,  the students thanked our Maestra, kissing her again on the cheek. After some time, I was doing it, too, not so much because my peers were, but because we seemed to  enjoy a certain freedom to show our love for our teachers. Although the current climate of our society today might not allow for this display of affection, at that time it was considered genuine and innocent, as far as I know.  

Showing me to my seat, the Maestra explained in English that she was about give us a spelling quiz. I remember it well. Miss Ofelia paced up and down the rows of desks, repeating each word three times.  I tried my best to listen carefully to the words and write them down phonetically, but I failed miserably.

"Don't worry," Miss Ofelia reassured me in a low voice as she patted my shoulder.  "You'll catch on."

Señorita Ofelia Ortega, or Maestra (teacher), as she was called, was in fact not a Miss, but a Mrs. who had been widowed at a young age. She was in her mid to late 30s, tall and slender, with a freckled face framed by short, soft brown curls. Her benevolent dark eyes danced when she laughed, and her voice, confident and reassuring, could command the room with a single word.  She moved purposefully through her classroom, not missing a beat, pointing out mistakes and exacting nothing less than perfection from her students while spending extra time with those who needed it most. 

Recess was a repeat of our morning arrival at the school, as scores of well-meaning but curious girls again surrounded my sisters and me, poking their fingers through our ringlets and peppering us with questions.  Some of our new schoolmates knew enough English to ask us our names and tell us theirs.  In giggly voices and heavy American accents, we repeated their names in singsong fashion, much to their amusement.  Mrs. Rangel, the principal came to our rescue as she had that morning, but this time we were beginning to enjoy the attention, so she left us alone.  By the end of the day, the three of us had made new friends.

Early that afternoon and many times after that, my mother picked my sisters up and let me go home with Miss Ofelia.  As soon as we got there, she'd pull on a checked print apron embroidered with red roses along the neckline and on the large pockets at the hem. She would sit down with me at the kitchen table and go over the day's lessons, leaving me to do my homework as she started dinner.

She paid close attention to my work, looking over my shoulder now and then, helping me conjugate a verb or explaining when to add an accent mark.  She wanted me to study hard so I could speak, read, and write Spanish as well as any native speaker.  Still, she made sure there was always time for play, and when it was time to go home, she sent me off with a big hug.  

Miss Ofelia would teach my class through the sixth grade, our last year at Ezequiel A. Chavez School.  Whether or not it was standard practice, it made sense in that she knew our backgrounds, strengths, and weaknesses well.  We too, got to know our Maestra well and not only respected her but loved her, too.  Our class was cohesive and well-behaved and studious for the most part.  Though there may have been exceptions, we were as loyal to our teacher as she was to us.

My parents and Miss Ofelia hit it off, and she was a guest at our home several times. Even after we left Mexico City, our family stayed in touch with her for many years.  When I was in the ninth grade and ready to make my Confirmation in California, I wrote to ask her to be my godmother.  It would be a symbolic gesture as she could not afford to fly up for the Mass, but still I was thrilled when she accepted.  Now I would get to call her not just Maestra but also Madrina, which means godmother.  It would mean an even stronger bond between us.

Miss Ofelia made a place for me in her class and in her heart. She will always have a special place in mine.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know, or are you a member of the Huesca family or any of the people mentioned here?  Do you remember Ezequiel A. Chávez School? If so, share your memories and comments below.