Between A and B is a Three-Toothed Mechanic Named Anna

I have incredibly good fortune where cars are concerned.

A friend once gave me her 1969 VW Bug when she and her boyfriend bought a new car. That little bug rumbled its way to De Anza College for 2 quarters before it finally retired itself with one final poof of non-regulated exhaust fumes, sputtering to a stop in front of my apartment building. I had transferred to San Jose State University (2 blocks from my house) by then, so all was good when the tow truck came to take it off my hands.

My current vehicle was similarly bequeathed. Three years ago, a friend of mine from Barnes & Noble told me his friend had bought a new car and was looking to gift his old one to a needy candidate.

So it was I came into the possession of a 1993 Suzuki Swift.

“Swift?” you say.

Never heard of it? Neither had I until I owned one. It looks exactly like a Geo Metro. The absolute tiny whiteness of it has earned it the name “Tic Tac,” and one of my coworkers’ favorite pastimes is making fun of its utterly ridiculous nature. (I like to think they’re just jealous).

Sure, it’s a deathtrap…a bloody mangled wreck just waiting to, begging to happen. But it gets me from A to B.

And it has no major structural problems.

There are, however, two functional problems with my Swift. The first is rather unfortunate because it happened at the hands of a friend who was trying to help. When I first obtained the car, it needed new brakes. This friend volunteered to help change them but in the process broke my door handle. So for the past 2 ½ years I’ve had to roll down the window and reach out to open the car from the outside when I get out. I don’t mind this; it actually gives me a humbling chuckle when I have to do it in front of people.

The real problem is that my car doesn’t idle. This means I have to put it in neutral at stops or it will stall.

At least that was the case until a month ago when I was rear-ended by a deranged holiday shopper near the mall. Miraculously, my rinky dink car showed no signs of damage on the outside. In fact, the only evidence that I had been hit (aside from the frighteningly loud crashing sound) was that my old school anti-theft radio (the kind you have to physically pull out of the console and take with you) flew out and landed in my lap.

But the best part of getting rear-ended was that it actually somehow fixed my idling problem. Now I can stop and sit at a red light for at least 2 minutes before the shaking begins and the car calls it quits.

Still, though, my car has begun to run poorly.

I thought an oil change would be a good idea. So I took the car to Jiffy Lube last week, where the young fellow taking down the car’s vital stats asked me questions that made me smirk in owner-sanctioned entertainment at the expense of my car.

“Suzuki Swift?” he asked. “Do you happen to know if that’s a 1.3 or 1.6 liter engine?”

I glanced at the back of the car, where stick-on numbers read “1.3”

“Um,” I said, knowing well that a 1.3 liter engine is just half a step above a moped, “I’m not sure. Do you think that 1.3 on the back means anything?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that would be 1.3.”

“Now,” he added, “this is your air filter. It’s black here, and that’s bad. It can affect your gas mileage.”

“Oh,” I said, “you mean I’ll no longer be getting 45 miles per gallon? That’s gonna suck.”

They replaced that for an added 13 bucks. The sad part was when the girl who rang me up explained the other service they’d performed.

“We checked your tire pressure,” she said, with thinly masked, well-deserved disdain for people like me. “You had some serious problems there.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Your tires are supposed to be at 35 pounds. One was at 54, one at 43, one at 19, and one at 14.”

Ouch. Dad, if you’re reading this, don’t kill me. And I’ve sinced figured out that my average tire reading between the four of them was 32.5 pounds. Only 2.5 pounds off…not too shabby.

Anyway, the car’s been acting up all week, post-oil change, and today it stalled on the road and wouldn’t start again, leaving me to finally make use of my AAA membership.

My savior was a sparsely-toothed, contracted mechanic woman named Anna…boy did she know her stuff. She got me started and back on the road in about 10 minutes, adding that it would be a shame for me to have to pay the $10/mile it would have cost if she’d ended up having to tow me.

There are some honest mechanics out there, it seems.

But anyway, my fear is that I will—Anna or no Anna—be needing to invest in alternate transportation options soon. That’s a painful thought, mostly because I’m trying to save money right now and a car was not what I had in mind to spend it on.

Still, though, I do have good luck in this category. My most ambitious hope is that the Tic Tac will hold out for another 100K or so. But if the Swift decides to put itself to sleep, I’ll be prowling Craigslist for another piece of crap that oh-so-gracelessly traverses the space between A and B.

I just love a car with character.

The Best Day of Your Life

One of my main goals in teaching my English classes is simply to get students talking. If you’ve ever studied another language, you probably know that one of the most inhibiting factors of the learning process is experiencing the fear of making a mistake. And you will always make mistakes; as a result, many second language learners are afraid to even open their mouths.

In an attempt to slowly assuage this fear, I give my students a prompt at the beginning of each class—usually a question or something that starts like, “Tell me about a time when you…”—and we listen to each of them respond, English only (!).

The other day, my prompt was this: Tell me about the best day of your life.

This is clearly no casual thought to ponder, but, to my surprise, my students answered quickly and with much conviction.

Mohammad (a 60-year-old Iranian man) began by sharing that the best day of his life was the day the 10-year-long war between Iran and Iraq ended (he was still living in Iran at the time). He said there were parties in the streets, dancing, celebrating, tears of joy and relief—a weight lifted. Mohammad doesn’t drink, so he didn’t partake of the festivities in that sense. He simply relaxed quietly with his wife and let the idea of peace take hold.

Ruby spoke next. She said her best day was the day her brother gave her a balloon. She said that in her town in Mexico, children receive—in addition to little toys and trinkets—a balloon at Christmas time. She was saddened every year because her parents couldn’t afford toys, trinkets, or balloons. She always thought, ‘why not me?’ When her older brother was old enough to work outside the home (which probably means he was 12 or so), he bought her and her other siblings each a big balloon at Christmas. To hear her talk about it, to hear the absolute gratitude in her voice, you’d think he gave them each a vital organ.

Miguel’s best day was the day his parents contacted him—out of the blue—from Juarez, a border town near Texas. They didn’t live there, but they were passing through on their way to come visit him in the United States. He’d been living here for 16 years at the time and hadn’t seen them even once since. They called to tell him they were coming, and he heard from them once a day in the days that followed, as they drew nearer to Northern California: “We’re in Arizona now,” “We’re in Los Angeles,” “We’re on our way.” Miguel’s smile during the recounting of the story was priceless.

I found my students’ responses to be truly humbling. The best day of my life was probably my 25^th birthday, only because it happened to fall on the same day I realized a long-time goal of graduating from college. My family was in town for the commencement ceremony, and I was surrounded by lifelong friends as well as friends from my program. Yeah, that was a pretty damned good day.

But to me, it doesn't begin to compare. Many, many people have the goal of graduating from high school or college; millions of people do so every year.

Just imagine the kind of joy Mohammad must have felt to witness the end of a ten-year-long war. Just imagine! Ten years ago, I was just about to graduate from high school. The thought of all the years since having been spent in fear and anguish—with war as a thought to wake up and fall asleep to—is confounding.

The thought of a balloon gift bringing me the joy of a lifetime, the thought of not having seen my family for 16 years because I had to leave the country and slave away at minimum wage jobs (with the constant threat of deportation to worry about) to support them, these are things I am far from having the capacity to absorb. These are things that make me revere my students, who are now undertaking the difficult task of learning another language as adults.

I think they probably have no idea how much I admire their steadfastness and their courage. What really affects me is the fact that they never, ever complain. I see their lives as being full of struggles I’ve never been even close to experiencing and often wonder if I’d be able to handle. For them it’s just life, just the proverbial lemons that come with the territory, and they don't even think to stop and feel sorry for themselves because they’re too busy making lemonade. They are some of the most amazing people I'm fortunate enough to know.

Learning English, One Murder Trial at a Time

The members of my advanced English classes (Rosi in particular) come up with some great questions. Most of the time, they're asking for clarification on the meaning or pronunciation of words or phrases that caught their ears that week.

“What it means when somebody hand you something and say 'there you go'?” Alfonso once asked.

“Is it okay to say 'press the green key' instead of 'press the green button' on the ATM pin pad at the register? I have trouble to pronounce 'button,'” Rosi said one time.

This week, she pulled out her notebook and flipped open to a page where she'd copied down a few sentences.

“I was reading about the Scott Peterson trial in the newspaper,” she said. “You could tell me what this means?” She read aloud:

"I should have never taken advantage of how great you are."

This was apparently an excerpt from one of the recorded conversations between Peterson and his one-time mistress, Amber Frey.

“Ok,” I said. “Let's start with the phrase 'take advantage of.'”

After explaining that, I had to talk about 'how great you are.'

Then we turned to the verb form (present participle) 'have taken.'

This is tough material to cover, even when the students are excellent. We finally got stuck because of the 'never.'

“It means he never took advantage of her?” Rosi asked.

“No, it means he did, but he regrets it.”

Nunca debía tomado ventajas de lo maravillosa que eres (just in case you were wondering).

We all breathed a sigh of relief when that one was explained. Then on to Ms. Frey's statement regarding Peterson's suggestion that he “take care of her” in some kind of relationship context when all this murder trial hullabaloo was said and done.

"I'd have to be out of my mind," she'd responded.

“Okay,” I said, “let's start with 'out of my mind.' What does that mean?.”

They translated it directly: “It means fuera de mi mente. Like, not in my head, but outside my head.”

“Well, in this case, 'out of my mind' means loca. It's an English idiom.”

Tendría que ser loca. “Basically, she's saying she would only agree to get back together with him if she were crazy.”

These two phrases-believe it or not-took up about 30 minutes of our time. But I think that's the best kind of learning. I would be surprised if, after that much fuss, any of those students forgot those phrases or were confused by similar statements in the future.

Hey thanks, Scott.

The interaction reinforced my contention that a language is easier to learn if you focus on reading or listening to things in that language that truly interest you. I told my students, “If you really want to learn English, start watching T.V. and movies, and listening to (good) music in that English. Oh yeah, and get yourself an English-speaking honey.

Rosi is comfortable with this approach; she's dated a few American men. But I realized recently that this can present its own problems. It's difficult to judge certain aspects of potential match-ups outside of your own language-like trustworthiness and compatibility-at least at the outset. I mean, these things are difficult enough when oral communication issues are not a problem (inasmuch as two people speak the same language). And imagine trying to pantomime your way through an argument.

A few weeks ago, Rosi was excited about a coworker she'd just started dating. “I like him very much,” she said. “He so nice, he tell me he love me. We go out for coffee after work the other day.” I was a little cautious on her behalf when she said he'd told her he loved her. She'd never even mentioned the guy until that week, they'd been on two dates, and already he loved her?

Then she told me about how, on the first date, he was showing her his martial arts moves. She started imitating what looked like Tai Chi in a very dramatic and serious way. I laughed a little when she told me, only because when she said it, she made a face that said she thought the display was funny, she didn't know what it was all about, but, you know, whatever.

The next week, she brought her new friend in to meet me, and immediately, he struck me as strange. Now, I love strange-a certain kind of strange (you know, quirky, goofy, weird sense of humor, uncouth, random…that sort of thing). But he was a different kind of strange, an anti-social kind of strange, the kind of strange that puts other people on-edge.

'This can't work,' I thought. 'Rosi is spunky, fun, outgoing. This man doesn't look like fun at all.'

The other thing was that I felt bad having a conversation with a native English speaker in her presence. It felt like I was betraying her, like simply by virtue of the fact that we were raised in the same culture, he and I were sharing a secret she wasn't privy to. I was a co-conspirator.

The next week she came in telling me that he was supposed to come over to her house that morning and go out to breakfast with her, but he never showed up. No call, no note, nothing at all. The next time he saw her, he explained that he was scared. That he “loved her very much,” but he was scared, so he decided not to go to breakfast with her.

“I don't know, Rosi,” I said, “this guy sounds like bad news.”

Then I explained what “bad news” means.

That same week, Rosi's guy told her he couldn't date her because he loved her too much. And after that, she was-understandably-a little chilly toward him at work.

“I'm a person!” he cried to her at the registers. “I'm here, Rosi. I'm a person, and you can't ignore me! I'm a person!”

She was confused by this guy. I told her to stay away from him. I wondered, though, if she would have picked up on his undesirable qualities had he been a native Mexican, and I'm pretty sure she would have. It's hard to notice these things when you're focusing so hard on simply understanding the meaning of a person's words. You don't have the chance to note HOW they're saying them, what they're not saying verbally but communicating otherwise, and when they are flat out lying.

Rosi remains single.



And then, sometimes, it works. Two weeks after English-by-murder trial, and one week after Rosi's “I'm a person!” ordeal, this happened:

Alfonso came to class looking a little nervous. He explained to me that he had a lot on his mind.

“You know my wife?,” he asked.

I do. His wife is an American woman who works with him there at Whole Foods. They have twins together-a boy and a girl, whom I've met and who are stinkin' cuties!

“Yeah,” I said, “I know your wife. What about her?”

“Well, she no my wife.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we no married yet. I just call her my wife because it make it easier, but we no get married yet. Today I go to talk to her Dad. I going to ask him for if I can marry his daughter. I very nervous. I scared he think my English is not good enough for marry his daughter.”

I thought I just happened into one of the most wonderful conversations I'd ever had. “Why don't we practice?” I said. “What kinds of things do you want to say?”

“I want to say I love her very much. I want to say she give me two wonderful children. I say I want to spend my life with her. That I want him and he wife to be my family, my father- and mother-in-law.”

Let me just state this disclaimer first: I have no romantic notions of marriage. Or maybe I mean I don't have any romanticized notions of marriage. I don't think marriage is automatically beautiful or good. In the abstract, I'm actually somewhat opposed to the idea of getting married.

But that's the abstract. Alfonso and his (soon-to-be) wife Nicole are the concrete. And the concrete example in front of me was beautiful, and it was good. I told Alfonso I thought what he said was perfect. We talked some more about how he would say it; he was going to have the conversation later that week.

It was the most worthwhile English lesson I'd ever given.

I suppose if you get the right two people together, things like spoken language become a secondary means of communication. The fact that something like the Peterson/Frey conversation even happened prove that speaking the same language as a honey does not automatically guarantee an easier, more seamless experience. That is, of course, putting it mildly.

Alfonso will probably, by sheer sincerity of intention, convince his would-be father-in-law of his worthy candidate status (I'm sure the talk is just a formality anyway. And besides, it's Nicole's decision to make, and she's already made it).

Rosi might meet an English-speaking man with whom she can communicate absolutely. Or she might not.

I'm just glad to be there to answer questions and watch them learn along the way.