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Which has been an unusual and interesting task, from both a political and pedagogical perspective. Politically, because the education system here is almost completely decentralized (every school designs its own curriculum, hires its own faculty, manages its own budget, etc.), and there's a tremendous amount of resistance to anything that comes from the federal government. Pedagogically, because I've seen a variety of classroom practices that range from the amazing to the horrifying. Most impressive so far was a 2nd-grade project at Bogotá's only public Escuela Normal called "Contemplating My City," where the kids visited a bunch of cultural and historical sites around Bogotá and learned about them from just about every academic angle imaginable. They visited an aqueduct, for example, then learned its history in social studies class, learned about evaporation, condensation, etc. in science class, built papier-mâché models of the water cycle in art class, and, in literature class, made a book of their grandparents' anecdotes about the days when water in Bogotá was too contaminated to drink. Really awesome.
At the other end of the spectrum, I observed an "ethics and values" class for elderly rural students in which they were given a flier on the value of labor and then asked to complete a worksheet with questions like, "Do you like to work? Or do you consider yourself a 'maldito'" (literally, "accursed")? The teacher later explained to me that her job was to "modify" the negative views about work that some of her students seemed to hold. It was one of the more manipulative lessons I've ever seen taught.
Surprisingly, being a gringo has been an advantage in building relationships with the teachers at these schools. Last semester I spent a lot of time in an Escuela Normal in a small town north of Bogotá called Villapinzon. So small, actually, that no Colombian I talked to who didn't live there could tell me where it was. So small, also, that I was the only white person anyone could remember having visited in at least the last few years. I was referred to alternately as "professor" and "the specialist." I observed a biology class for rural extension students, and every single one of them asked for an autograph. They also made me sing for them. (I picked "Unchained Melody." In case you're curious.) The principal (a nun) had a whole team of minions who occasionally brought me food from the cafeteria -- mostly hot chocolate and ham sandwiches -- no matter how often I protested. When I left after my first visit, a bunch of kids got together and shouted, "bye, gringo! We miss you!"
My biggest undertaking this semester will be the theater workshop. I've done a lot of work in both theater and conflict resolution, but have never tried to combine the two things. I design the program, a team of teachers-in-training implements it, and we all adjust it together based on their experiences and my observations. At the end of the year, I'll write a guide on how to integrate conflict resolution and the arts in schools.
Also, instead of leaving Colombia in July when my Fulbright ends, I've decided to stay through next January to do a one-year Master's program called Theory and Experience in the Resolution of Armed Conflicts. This is not a topic that I necessarily plan on pursuing after the year ends, but the uniqueness of the experience has made it well worth the time, at least so far. I can't imagine there are many places in the world where students analyze armed conflict from an academic perspective while a very real, very old and very violent armed conflict evolves a few hours away. My classes started a couple weeks ago, and they're fabulous. I don't get to take any electives, which is a annoying, but this is one of the most coherently designed academic programs I've ever seen. Also, one of my classmates works for an organization that "reinserts" young, demobilized paramilitaries into civilian life, and has offered me the possibility of working with him. Which would be phenomenal.
Other than that, my life here is beans and rice, salsa (the dance, not the condiment), boys named Pancho, girls named Jantther (pronounced, inexplicably, Hanilth), soccer, and the old, colonial-era house that I share with 9 students from 6 different countries (among them, a radical feminist from Spain and a radical womanizer from Holland. They fill the house with constant tension -- for them -- and hilarity for the rest of us). Living in the house has been one of the most rewarding and frustrating parts of my experience so far. Never has reality TV seemed so much less interesting than my actual reality.
Hope all's well in Gringolandia!
Rob
