Swimming with the fishes

20 March, 14

Susan and I just took our written driving tests. If we pass, we take the practical test next. Spain has the reputation for the hardest exam and the worst drivers in Europe. I can vouch for both.

In a delicious irony, we drove our own car to the exam, taking two other students with us. The owner of the autoescuela drove three other students in his car. Evidently he just recently retired as a Formula One driver. We broke every single law that we had been so diligently studying for the past several weeks. He drove like a moonshiner with a Texas bubble gum machine hot on his tail. We darted in and out traffic, ran red lights, skirted around buses and basically gave the bird to Spanish law. By the time we got to the test site, we didn't care a wit about the exam. We just wanted to take a knee and give thanks for God's provision in letting us survive.

I have decided that driving in Spain is more akin to a school of fish. The scooters are like anchovies. They dart in and out with reckless abandon, with no obvious recognition of the other fish in the area. Cars are groupers or mullet, plodding along, keeping a wary eye out for barracuda.

The buses are whales that suck up huge loads of plankton at every stop. Now that I have this image in my mind, it doesn't bother me as much when a little anchovy goes darting by. There is a not-so-small piece of my heart, though, that is secretly waiting for a shark to come along and gobble up one of them. It's awful, I know, but that's the way of the sea.

The exam is 30 questions, out of a pool of about 4,000. That is not an exaggeration. We have memorized the whole freaking book, all 16 chapters. I can tell you about every road sign, light ordinance and right of way in Spain. I know where cattle should walk, alone or in groups. I know the difference between ciclomotores and motociclistas. I have a complete understanding for what constitutes a motorized vehicle and what is a non-motorized vehicle. Scooters and trains are non-motorized vehicles. Go figure that one out.

We have digested this great body of knowledge with 8-10 other students, all gathered around our teacher, Mercedes, who does not have a driver's license. She is passionate about her work and a good teacher. When she speaks, it sounds like a machine gun. Even the natives have trouble understanding her sometimes. By her own admission, she is also dyslexic, so she has to maintain a steady focus on what she is doing, or she gets lost.

Our fellow students are mostly young, 18-25 years old. When we started school, they all appeared to me to be a bunch of snotty-nosed brats, who would rather cut up or hook up than listen to the teacher. We slowly grew, however, into a family. Dani gave me a big bear hug after the exam. He was so amped up, he could barely walk. Before the test, the girls all had expressions of fear and doubt, so we tried to soothe their worried minds.

Susan is stick-a-fork-in-me done with the whole thing. Going to school has wrung her dry, because she doesn't have an opportunity to decompress. We literally go from language school to lunch to autoescuela. It is a grueling day. What makes it harder is that she can't go to her art classes, which have been such a nice getaway for Susan. This is the last week of class, however, so she should be able to get some peace.

The positive side is that we have a deeper understanding for what our girls face everyday.  This whole immersion learning thing is a bear. I am so proud of what Elizabeth and Katherine have accomplished so far. They can both speak and read a fair amount of Spanish.

One day, all of this will come together-living in Spain, learning a new language, experiencing different cultures, getting a driver's license. It better make sense, or I'm going to ask for my money back.

Cieza

20 March, 2014

Last weekend we took a trip to Cieza and Mula, two areas about an hour west of us. Mula means mule, so it promised to be a great adventure. Some friends invited us to go view a cave that has 5000 year old paintings. I'm always up for something new and different, so we took off.

In typical Askins fashion, we were late, which got us in just the right mood. The group was about 20 strong, so being late made the "foreigners" stick out even more. We walked up the hill and arrived at the entrance to the cave. It was basically a big manhole cover. The guide lifted the heavy steel plate door and propped it open with a metal rod that did not seem adequate for the job. We could look down into the abyss and see a series of infinitesimally small and unevenly spaced stone steps disappear into the inky blackness. Our guide suggested that kids go first, because they are more brave. We are definitely not in Kansas anymore.

What we could not know when we started our descent into Hell, was that the next set of stairs were spiral. MY hips touched both sides. It was a tight squeeze, to say the least. We dropped down about 75 feet into a fairly big cavern. Turns out the cave opens up to a beautiful vista, the other side of a river gorge. This is the first running water we have seen in Spain, other than what comes out of the faucet.

Evidently the tour guide was very proud of her job, because she spent about 45 minutes droning about a bunch of stick figures on the cave walls. At one point, she asked what we thought they looked like. In a particularly mischievous moment, I responded that it looked like a beer bottle. One person in the cave was not amused by my interpretation. She obviously lacked my recently honed artistic eye. Amateur.

After we left the big hole in the ground, we headed off for Mula, to get something to eat. I was a little uneasy about the restaurant and town, especially when one of my friends said, "I am pretty sure you are the first, and probably the last, foreigners any of these people will ever see." Cue the banjos.

We ate some great paella, which is basically rice with whatever somebody decides to put in the pan. In this case, it was rabbit. It is hard to distinguish rabbit from chicken, when you just see the meat. Discerning the difference between the two becomes quite easy, however, when you start digging into what you thought was a thigh, but on closer inspection, was a rabbit's head, cut in half lengthwise. I know it was a rabbit's head, and not a chicken's, because of the large front teeth and the eyeball that looked back at me, as if to say, "Can we please get this over with? I am really so done with this meal." Rabbits are not pets in Spain. They are dinner.

Am I eating the rabbit, or is the rabbit eating me?

After our lunch, we headed off to one of the locals' farm. I really didn't know what was going on, as we were basically just playing follow the leader. When we arrived, I realized I was with some pretty important people. We stood at the doorstep of one of their guest cottages, and my friend told me, "You see those mountains over there in the distance? That's on their property too."

Several of us went on a nature walk, and we spotted herds of deer, wild mountain goats and even two wild boar. I was in hog heaven. Sorry.

This is an abandoned building that the deer have taken over.

It was beautiful and relaxing. The terrain here in Murcia is so different from my native longleaf pine forests, dogwoods and azaleas. Our friend's farm has acres of peach and other fruit trees that are now in bloom. This was the first time I have seen something that approached home, and I realized a thirst in my soul.

Lessons from Art Class

12 March, 2014

As part of a 30 Day Challenge, I have been drawing something everyday. Well, almost everyday. Visual art is not my bailiwick, but I am literally surrounded by others that are inordinately talented, which makes me want to be good at it too. Both Susan and Katherine have incredible abilities, and my mother and sister are also plunging ever deeper into watercolor and metalworking, respectively. A few things about this challenge have grabbed my attention.

Perspective is hard to master

One of my favorite doodles as a kid was drawing a cube. That and stars would fill the margins of whatever textbook I was supposed to be reading, while the teacher droned incessantly. The problem was that I never got it right. The angles wouldn't match up, so I always had a whop-sided cube. It was and is maddening. Lately I have been drawing the buildings and streets just outside my window. Like that episode where I tried to eat a spoonful of cinnamon, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Upon further review, I think choking on cinnamon dust is preferable to drawing in three dimensions.

It is difficult to gain a proper perspective on things, in art and in real life. Angles that look square aren't. Lines that appear to converge don't. Plans that seem so crystal clear get muddied by the reality of what you couldn't see from your distant, uninformed point of view. My daddy, who has a unique perspective on just about everything, said, "Boy, better the devil you know, than the devil you don't know." That leaves a lot of paths to explore. Is the safe, known, life the right option, or do other paths afford greater glory, peace or prosperity? How do you define those things, anyway? That's where perspective jumps up and bites you in the butt.

Perspective, once we understand how to use it, allows us to see farther down the road without allowing the view to become distorted by time or distance or what seems like a huge obstacle, simply because it is close to us. We can't always know what lies ahead, but we also can't let fear of the unknown stop us from pushing forward. Even looking back gets distorted over time, so all we can really do is live in the present. "Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on (today) toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 3:13-14, italics mine)

Nothing is as easy as it seems

When we were visiting Czech Republic last summer, we encountered a caricature artist on some famous bridge. We lingered behind the artist, and in a moment of crystalline wisdom, I told Katherine to watch how he made the faces. They all had a similar style. He was both a technician and an artist. Then I tried to draw something. Epic fail on a worldwide scale.

Katherine has been my art mentor over these last couple of weeks. She made me watch step by step videos by Shoo Raynor, one of her favorite artists. Then one day, she taught me how to draw an eye. I was mystified as it emerged from the paper, line by line, shade by shade, stroke by stroke. She literally showed me how to build an eye. As is the case with most naturally talented people, Katherine does not realize how complicated and difficult her artwork is to create. She just does it. Easy, right?

Katherine made this for her art class in about 15 minutes.

Katherine coached me on how to make an eye.

This is a Shoo Raynor mushroom

Most things are not easy at first. Crawling precedes walking, which precedes running, but running is definitely worth the effort, even with the inevitable, occasional fall. Vale la pena, it is worth the pain.

Life is mostly drudgery

Artists live a blissful, hedonistic, happy life. All they have to do is slap some paint on a canvas and sell it for a few million bucks to some nouveau riche tech billionaire. Not. None of my artwork is going to make it to an exhibition. Of that I am certain. What I have realized is that the process of drawing something, even the simple little doodles that I make is more perspiration than inspiration. When we visited the Louvre and Musee d'Orsay in Paris a few months ago, I was able to get close enough to the paintings to see the actual brush strokes. That's when I realized how much work went into a painting, especially Monet's Water Lilies, which encompass more than 1000 square feet of wall space in its own museum. True art is seeing beauty in the everyday and somehow communicating that in a way that a simple redneck from South Carolina can understand it, while at the same time captivating an art critic or fellow artist.

It really just comes down to hard work, which is boring and well, hard. Learning how to work, though, forges in us an ability and a belief that we can accomplish anything, and completing a difficult task is exciting, fulfilling and worth it.

My thirty day challenge has turned out to be a life challenge. I have drawn more conclusions than cubes, but isn't that point of art?

To make us think?

To challenge our assumptions?

To change us?

Excuse me, but I have another class about to start.

How to Survive as an Expat

10 March, 14

When we decided to move to Spain, we really had no idea what we were about to do. Moving to a different town is difficult. Moving to another continent is ridiculous. If somebody could have told me ahead of time some things I needed to know, it would have made the transition much easier, so I am carrying it forward and writing a Top 10 on how to survive as an expat.

1. Learn the language as fast as you can. Susan and I enrolled in free classes given by the local government. They were very good, but only two times a week. We opted to add more intensive lessons, which can be a little costly. The tradeoff, however, has been a dramatic improvement in our Spanish skills. After only six weeks, we can have decent conversations with people on a variety of subjects. In addition, we have made several new friends from China, Brazil, Poland and Germany.
2. Be humble. There is a God, and you are not it. Make fun of yourself, not them. If a stranger came into your house and immediately started criticizing the way it looked, how dirty it was and your obvious lack of taste in furniture, you would be rightly offended. That is what it feels like to a native, when an expat tells them their streets are dirty or their cuisine is inferior. Nobody invited you to come and give a report on the status of their country. If you don't like it, leave.
3. Zip your lip. I am sure that you were appointed by President Fillintheblank to be his economic and political adviser, but the citizens of your new country really don't want to hear what you have to say. You are an ambassador for the entire country. It is fine, even expected, for you to be proud and passionate about your country, but they don't want to hear about it. When people ask you what you think about the President, tell them you haven't met him yet, but hope to one day. If you can't even order food at a restaurant without using a translator, how in the world are you going to explain democracy or fiscal policy? Keep your opinions to yourself, unless they flatter your new country and neighbors. Think about it.
   
4. Don't play the comparison game. The number one way to make people hate you is to compare them to your home country. Believe it or not, they are just as proud of their country and culture as you are of yours. Praise them for anything you can find. Where I live, they are very proud of their fruits and vegetables. I rave over their tomatoes and oranges. Now it is rare that we ever pay for oranges, as a friend gives us a big sackful whenever we need it. Be a sponge, not a hose.
5. Stop looking for McDonald's and Starbucks. In fact, stop looking for any chain stores and restaurants. The local shop owners are your neighbors, and some of them will become your friends. If you want to experience the true culture of a new country, don't waste your time going to some place that you already know. Hamburgers at a fast food restaurant really do taste just as bad here as they do everywhere else. When you go to a chain, you are making an implicit statement that you don't like the host country's food or culture.
6. Shop local. Eat local. Play local. Even if you live in a major metropolis, you can confine your daily routines to a small number of shops and restaurants, at least for the first six months. You will be surprised at the faces that you begin to recognize and the relationships you make. I know all the employees at the local grocer and butcher shop. They share photos of their children with me. Sometimes I get free stuff or extra cuts of meat. Even the customers recognize me and say hello on the street. 
7. Participate in everything. If there's a festival, go. If they invite you to attend some event, do it. I just finished an incredible weekend with 50 strangers. One of them had invited me to a pig processing day, where they made sausage and various other dishes. Some of the creations would not have been on my plate in a normal setting, but I tried everything. I now have 50 friends and a wider palette.
8. Sign up for classes. My wife is developing a great artistic talent that lay too long dormant by taking watercolor and pyrography classes. In addition, she is meeting people and learning the language. Susan is more shy and timid than I am, so a relaxed classroom atmosphere, with a shared focus gives her a safe way to interact.
9. Learn to laugh at yourself. I quickly learned every Spanish cuss word in the book. By accident. It is very dangerous to order cuts of meat at the butcher shop, because many of their "dirty words" are closely related to meat. Whenever I order, everyone gets quiet, so they can hear what I say next. Every time there is a roar of laughter, I know I hit a zinger. Instead of getting angry or embarrassed, I have learned to laugh along with them. 
10. Offer to teach English free. Most people in the world would love to learn English. In Spain, the children have a decent base from school, so they can read and write, and American movies and music dominate the screens and radios. All most people need is conversation. This is a great way to meet people and develop friendships. We are certainly not qualified as English teachers, but we can ask them to write and speak about their perfect mate or Utopia.

As I finished writing this list, I realized that it would probably work in a move across town just as well as a move to another country. We all yearn to know and be known. When we realize that we need to listen more than we speak, we will grow and develop into the kinds of people that are worthy of the title, "Friend". 

Pig Pickin' Spanish Style

9 March, 2014

Eighty-six percent of the world's population eats pork. I excluded Muslims and Jews, which comprise about 1 billion of the 7 billion people in the world. America is more beef-centric, but we still consume our fair share, but pig is the preference of Spain.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my experiences at the home of Pedro and Victoria, local owners of a restaurant landmark in La Alberca. During that meal, the jubilates, or retirees, challenged the jovenes, or young people to a wager. I was involved in the wager, as both sides wanted a strong American ally. My daddy always told me, "Son, old age and treachery will beat youth and inexperience every time." That usually came right after he finished a wrestling match against me by using the reach-around maneuver, which left me incapacitated, clutching my nether regions and rolling on the floor. Experiencing a twinge of nostalgic pain in my cajones, I quickly sided with the jubilates. I could see the sparkle in a few of the old men's eyes, which told me they knew about the reach-around.

Since their Spanish was so heavily accented, and my Spanish was so poor, I really had no idea what the bet was about. All I knew was that I was in for €20 and that we were going to kill and process a pig. At that price, I knew it couldn't hurt too bad, and I am fascinated with anatomy, so what the heck?

The appointed date was March 8, so I duly noted it in my calendar, as it was about a month into the future. Yesterday finally came, and at 7:30AM I went with Pedro and my new friends, whose names I do not know, out to a country home of somebody else, whom I do not know. It was a gentlemen's farm, about 2 acres, with a little one room cabin, named La Casica, which means little house, with a Murcian twist on the spelling. Pedro showed me around the gardens. It had rows of many of the fruits and vegetables that Murcianos love. Much of what we ate that day passed straight from the garden to the table:

• Lechuga, lettuce
• Aho, garlic
• Alcachofas, artichokes
• Apio, celery
• Naranjas, orange trees
• Judías, which literally means "Jews", but is a kind of bean. Nobody knows why.

 As we waited for the honored guest, the pig, to arrive, we gathered at the outdoor bar, which was furnished with a full cappuccino machine. We set up several tables for processing and made a fire in the outdoor cooking area. I was the youngest guy there, at 43 years old. There were a few other men about my age. The rest of the group was a bunch of seasoned veterans. The obvious leader of the merry band, obvious because he plopped down a set of knives that would make Jason Vorhees shriek with delight, was a grizzled old fella of 80 years. He had massive forearms, his shoulders resembled lumps of granite and he was missing his left thumb, probably because he bit it off when he was a baby. In a bar fight or zombie apocalypse, I'm on his side. He knows pig. 

The pig arrived at 9AM. It was already dead and cut in half lengthwise. I was a little disappointed about that, because I really wanted to kill the pig. For any sentimentalists out there, I'm sorry, but pigs, chickens, goats, deer and cows are food. I do not want to abuse any animal, but killing any of those foods is totally appropriate. If you don't agree, we can talk about it over a big T-bone steak at the restaurant of your choice.

We unloaded the "food" from the truck and plopped it on the table, which was a big, sturdy, old kitchen/dining room table that would seat 8 people or one pig. Edward Scissorhands and his son commenced to butchering up both halves. They moved with the technical precision of coroners performing an autopsy. 

Age: Approximately 2 years

Time of Death: 24-48 hours

Cause of Death: Severe laceration to the throat

Possible Motive: Hunger

While the doctors of death hacked away, everybody else milled about or lingered near the fire. I was rapt, transfixed on the process. There is nothing I enjoy more than seeing professionals at work. That's why I was born for management. They sectioned off the pig into different categories:

• Meat
• Meat with fat
• Fat with meat
• Fat
• Bone

As soon as they had cut off some nice pieces of loin, we threw them on the grill for breakfast. Another guy took the head, and dropped it in a pot of boiling water. They eat everything but the oink over here. 

Once we had some material to use, we started grinding up some of the fatty meat for use in different things. This is the part where my mama always says, "Don't tell me what's in the sausage."

One of the specialties in Murcia is murcilla, which is basically 

• Boiled onions, about 5 big bags full
• Fat, about 2 pounds
• Pig's blood, about 1 liter
• Spices

They pack it in a casing and boil it for about 30 minutes. It's actually very good. Even Susan likes it, as long as she doesn't think about it too long. The trick is to get the spice mixture just right, which is difficult to determine, without tasting a sample. You add the spices before you stuff the mixture into the casings, which means you have to sample it raw. Yes, that's right. R-A-W. Hackmaster's son invited me to try some and comment on what they needed to add. At first I thought he was joking, but then he took up a big pinch first, so I was obliged to join in. I told them I thought it still tasted too much like onion and needed some more salt, much to their approval. I also sampled the salchicha, or link sausage, and sobresala, raw.  It was like a scene straight out of Lord of the Flies. This was my initiation. "Kill the pig. Cut his throat. Drink his blood!"

I am now a member of the Old Boy's Club. I am also thankful that I am able to write this blog today, without any ill effects from consuming raw pork. 

I also finally know what the bet was. The Octogenarians wagered they could cook for everybody cheaper than the Twenty-somethings could provide beer and wine. That was a most foolish gamble on the part of the little ones. They literally drank themselves out of the bet, and everybody else helped them as well. The cost of food prep for about 50 people was €150, with enough pork left over for several days. The beer evaporated in the hot Spanish sun. Score one for old age and treachery. The ancianos did a reach-around and found the youngsters' wallets. 

Talking with the Devil

4 March, 2014

This is an interesting day. It is the only day with a command. March "Forth". I know it's kind of corny, but I still like it. A pastor used it one time in our church, as a means to prod us to take action. It was his last sermon at the church, so I guess it worked.

The "Christian Army" is a strange beast. We have a general, who left the field, in physical form, 2000 years ago. It was like Douglas McArthur in the Philippines. "I shall return." Only Dougie didn't leave behind our General's secret weapon, the Holy Spirit. So we don't have a physical general, but we do have a spiritual Master Sergeant, who leads us in battle, gives us direction and occasionally relegates us to KP duty. (For all my current Army buddies, that means Kitchen Patrol. You can see examples of it in old John Wayne movies about WWII, along with Jeeps and Tommy guns.)

Sometimes I feel like I'm taking the wrong hill. The mission is somewhere "over there", but I am running in the wrong direction. Not to worry, because we're making good time getting there. So how do you know if the war you're waging is the right fight? Let me know when you have the correct answer, so you can tell me.

We have two polar opposites in Elizabeth and Katherine, when it comes to school performance. Elizabeth wants a gold star for showing up to class. Katherine turns down the gold star for getting straight A's, because she should have gotten all A+'s. Applying that to our Spanish situation is doubly hard for her. Katherine is absolutely mortified with failing a test. We told both of them to expect to fail for at least the first semester, while they made all the requisite adjustments, like learning a new language in a new school in a new country. Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat, and she promptly set about doing nothing, in an effort to pass the bar as low as possible. Katherine went straight to defib at the prospect of failure.

The other day, Katherine had another meltdown. In airline parlance, she is experiencing some turbulence. Hormones are surging within her like the Mighty Mississippi, and her mood changes direction quicker than a fat rabbit eluding a skinny fox. Most of her anxiety stems from being a perfectionist, which is nothing new. What is new is the level of rage, despair and hopelessness to which she will fall. This is followed by soaring heights of happiness, affection and playfulness. I feel like I am watching an elephant on a bungee cord, in an awesome display of Newton's Law of equal and opposite reactions. Sometimes I feel like the cord.

Katherine related to us yesterday how the French teacher had singled her out in class to say that Katherine wasn't paying attention and that she needed to do better. That sent me to the moon. The Redneck in Europe was about to pull out a can of whupass on somebody; the economy-sized version with the easy pour spout.

I better preface this with a little note to the reader. My mama was a teacher for 30 years. I have the utmost respect for teachers, and I have always taken the teacher's side, when my children or other parents have complained about a particular educator. This time, however, I have previously met and spoken to Anti-Christ. I have seen her expression, when she asked if my daughter did any work at home. I have witnessed the condescending look in her beady little Hell-stained eyes. The can is open and ready to pour.

My first attack was an email, which I am proud to say was written entirely in Spanish. A good letter or email should contain just the right gas/air mixture to combust without causing damage to the engine. Just spewing out a bunch of expletives is sophomoric and belies a lack of vocabulary. I wanted to tell her that if she was on fire, I wouldn't pee on her, but it is much more effective to paint word pictures that lead the recipient to the inevitable conclusion that she is Wormwood, who needs nothing less than a rectal exorcism and a one way ticket back to Hell, without actually saying that. My daddy gained some notoriety on his way to becoming chairman of the Darlington County School Board for his letters to the editor of the Hartsville Messenger. If I can see far down the road, it is because I stand on the shoulders of giants.

Being something of a perfectionist myself, I first sent the email to Julio for proofreading. The worst thing in the world is a poorly written beatdown letter, especially one that is going to a teacher.  Julio dutifully returned the missive with the appropriate corrections and added, "Are you sure you want to include the last paragraph?" Well, duh, of course I want to send the last paragraph. That's the one that says she is a shame to her profession and qualifies her for water boarding. A good friend will make bail. A best friend will punch you on the shoulder and ask, "Who are we gonna call to make bail?"

In the meantime, I had also requested a meeting with the principal, who is our friend. I had told him I wanted to discuss Katherine's French teacher, so he would know precisely how I wanted to direct fire. I waited to send the email, until after my meeting with the principal, and Mephistopheles. Susan rode shotgun, in case I ran into linguistic barricades. I laced up my roach-stompin', tail-kickin', sphincter-insertin' size 13EEE boots and waited patiently in the outer offices. If you mess with my family, you will pull back a nub.

Luis, the principal, is a wise man. He had assembled a few people for our meeting, including the guidance counselor and Katherine's adviser. We first met without Beelzebub. That took a little starch out of my collar. Even when I'm mad, I don't like to talk about somebody behind her back. I prefer to face the enemy and spew venom, rather than take a chance on somebody else diluting it. During this meeting I maintained decorum and only made slight references to French class, preferring to keep a professional demeanor. Luis related to me that Lucifer had actually told Luis that morning how proud she was of Katherine's performance on her last exam. Well, that didn't fit my image of the Beast. What this a clever deception? Then she walked in the door.

Southern grace dictates a warm salutation, even for the enemy. I kissed both of Judas' cheeks, as is the Spanish custom. We sat down and discussed Katherine's plight. Apollyon related how her own daughter (aka demon in training), who sits beside Katherine in French class and refuses to help Katherine, is having back trouble and requires physical therapy, due to stress-induced cramping. She also related how this entire class seems to be abnormally preoccupied with good grades and performance. Great. That's just great. Not only is my daughter nesting with a bed of perfectionists, but now the Beast is becoming more human-like. She even appears to care a little bit. The scales were retracting from her face. That is not fair. Then she pulled out her ace in the hole.

On Katherine's most recent French exam, she had written in big red letters, "Tres bien!!!" Katherine scored a 5.5, which was higher than many of the Spanish students. Maria related how happy she was with Katherine's progress. She even got emotional with Luis, and told him the other classes should have more modifications to help Katherine learn the material easier.

The pus began draining out of my heart. I don't know what happened to her, but she definitely changed from the last time we met. Perhaps it was her own daughter's plight. Maybe it was the fact that we involved her boss. Whatever the reason, for now we have an ally where we previously had an enemy. When we showed Katherine the test, you could see that she was having trouble reconciling this new truth with her old paradigm.

I did not send the email, and I am glad I didn't. I learned a lot of things, all over again:

• Julio is my friend.
• Katherine is tough, but fragile.
• Luis is wise.
• Teachers are people too.
• I can write a nasty, almost grammatically correct hate letter in Spanish.
• God forgives, even before I ask.

The right hill to take is the one called Calvary. The battle is already over. We just need to occupy the ground. Onward, Christian Soldiers.