Educating kids in Spain, the American way

In many ways, I feel my primary and secondary school education was sheltered as far as content goes. I learned a lot about the merits of an American democracy, and very little about alternative governing styles. I had one geography class and one world history class throughout all my 12 years of institutional learning, the former when I was 13 and the latter when I was 17. I didn't even learn very much about modern American cities or the cultures within them, only the main industries of each region in the 19th century.

Granted, this perspective changes from person to person, from school district to school district. It's just, I distinctly remember my freshman year in college being extremely eye-opening. I only moved 300 miles east (approximately 500 kilometers) to Philadelphia, and yet it was a whole other world for me.

Three main factors that caused this shift:

1. I knew maybe two or three kids that lived there. They had graduated from my high school before me, and we had hung out a few times with mutual friends. However, they lived in a different neighborhood, 30 minutes away by bike. And they didn't go to my university, or any university for that matter. So, essentially, I was going to a school attended by more than 30,000 people I didn't know. I was kind of obligated to meet new people.

2. I really didn't know Pittsburgh that well, the closest city during my childhood. More about this here. And let's just say that my hometown's population is smaller than that of Temple's main campus. City congestion alone was enough to make my head spin.

3. I was finally on the east coast. I was among those from Boston, New York, and Washington. I was in a city that had ethnic neighborhoods! This diversity permeated my university classes as well: fellow students that had learned English as a second language, professors from all over the globe, and class discussions about poverty, globalization, and gender discrimination.

I quickly realized how closeted my education had been. I remembered fighting for the right to publish an article about teachers' lives outside of class in our school newspaper. And now, in college, I could write a column about vodka tampons.

Just as quickly, I accustomed myself to this kind of learning. And I let my learning leave the classroom, to infiltrate my life in bookstores, bike shops, Vagina Monologues rehearsals, and my kitchen. I had always had a lust for learning, but it was able to flourish in an urban and conflicted environment that was both progressive and archaic at the same time.

In short, I don't see this in my young English students here. Perhaps it truly is just a difference in personality or interests. I enjoy language, discussion, and revelation, while they enjoy Tuenti, soccer, and going to the pool.

Throughout this past month, in the many moments I wanted to roll my eyes and throw up my hands at one of my apathetic pupils, I tried to put myself in her shoes. I remember when my peers were so important to me. I remember texting under the desk during class, and dissing the teacher during lunch. Yet, I was still very studious. I always respected the teacher, at least to her face, and I took her criticism or discipline very seriously. So, sometimes, my students' shoes just didn't fit.

I also saw some of this indifference in my students' parents, and even in other teachers. I'll admit that I'm generally uninterested in whether my students want to learn English or not. I don't expect any passion. I just expect willingness to accept the nature of their education system. You do work, you get grades, and good grades allow you to pursue most any career you want. When I was younger, I did not find history or mathematics to be particularly riveting; but I was highly motivated by good grades. I tried hard despite my disinterest.

I keep coming back to that idea, though: the nature of their education system. When I reflect on what's expected of these kids, part of me wants to blame the class format and the pressure put on exams rather than their apathy toward learning.

For example, I taught a couple classes, to children between 12 and 16 years old, everyday in August. We spent five weeks together, working through a summer review textbook to prepare for an exam they all had in late August or early September. These children had all failed their English exams in May, and were forced to repeat, and pass, the exam or otherwise repeat the course. During class, these children were totally motivated by either the end of class, or the opportunity to talk to another classmate. When assigned work, they worked through it as quickly as possible, often without reading instructions or listening to directions. Afterward, I would correct their mistakes, and they would shake their heads up and down saying they understood, but all the while glancing at their peers and surely ignoring everything I said. At home, to study, they memorized correct answers and even essays. At first, I tried to show them revision and problem-solving methods. Then I realized they didn't care. They just wanted the right answers, so they could pass the exam, and move on. This is all they expect, and this is all that their parents and teachers expect.

Friends and Elliot have told me this extends to university courses. Professors may even deter questions as they "slow down" the class. Students are expected to attend class, listen to lectures, and study, only to be assessed at the end of the semester with a cumulative exam. This exam is all that matters. Afterward, you can forget everything. Empty your brain for the next cramming session.

The nature of the Spanish education system does not seem to facilitate critical analysis or peer-to-peer discussion. Students are encouraged to listen and absorb as much as possible. Whatever is left to learn can be obtained through memorization.

While my education lacked in content (many Spanish teens are learning two or more languages and taking multiple world history classes), I don't think it lacked in methodology. I graduated high school completely capable of writing analytic and persuasive papers, implementing constructive criticism, and managing my time (of course, you can't always ask this of a 12-year-old, but that's what parents are for).

Even after all this experience and reflection, and even some supportive statistics, I still can't help but think that these differences are not cultural or systemic, but rather individually influenced. I remember classmates who refused to follow teachers' advice, who seemed to coast through high school. I suppose one truth that I've found is that, despite individual personality or ambition, the Spanish education system has hardly facilitated my position as a teacher.

Which vert are you?

I contemplate human behavior a lot, including my own. After reading "Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking" I realized that this contemplative trait makes me an introvert. The book also provoked more contemplating, which I find interesting -- a book about introverts making me more introverted.

Anyway, it relates to my travels in 2 ways:

1. Traveling involves talking to strangers and moving out of your comfort zone. This can involve a lot of stress for an introvert.

2. The book pointed to the United States as the most extroverted country in the world, which I get. The author mentioned Europe as a sort of conglomerate. And she talked about introverts in Chinese communities in California, which I suppose was her representation of Eastern countries. Let's just say her cross-cultural analysis was not particularly awesome. I understand, after all, because you can't load your book with research (if it even exists) from every corner of the world. But it still left me with want to mull over what I see here in Spain. And maybe get some feedback!

The United States has an extroverted reputation because of its focus on speaking your mind, taking charge, and getting ahead -- that's in social circles, work environments, and educational expectations. However, I feel that we also harbor some pretty firm, albeit unwritten, rules regarding personal space. I find that people in Spain don't hesitate at all in approaching a friend, keeping their face very close when speaking to them, or touching them in a friendly way. The same behavior would be considered sort of invasive back home. 

Americans also have a custom of being unnecessarily polite. Not saying that people in Spain are rude, they're just honest. When friends here offer to buy me a beer, I used to say no at first: "No, no, I'll get one! Let me buy YOU a beer!" But they were always very persistent, and often won. Some even confronted me about trying to be polite. So I've learned just to say yes. Because they aren't offering me a beer out of politeness, they just want to buy me a beer. In the same way, people here are not hesitant to tell you if you're getting fat, if they don't like the food, or they despise the music. Not to be rude, just to be honest. On the other hand, the U.S. loves their white lies because they prevent potential conflict.

This brings me to a point that the author of "Quiet" was trying to make. She cited the following statistic a few times: studies show that 1 out of every 2 or 3 people is an introvert. So, while a country like the U.S. may highly value extroverts in many aspects of life, anywhere from 33% to 50% of us are introverted. In other words, we're pushing to raise children and young adults with spunk and pizazz, but some of us just don't have it in our genes. Perhaps our reputation doesn't really speak the truth.

I imagine this statistic can roughly be applied to the Spanish population as well. But I'll still echo that social customs here in Spain are particularly extroverted. So I'm not sure these labels mean the same universally.

Of course, another point that the author makes is that none of us are purely bred introverts or extroverts. We've all got a bit of both, some more than others. (Believe it or not, there is such a thing as an ambivert.) So my love for travel and seeing new places, despite also having a love for Saturday nights at home, makes sense.

Overall, the book was very enlightening, and relates to so many people: employers, employees, parents, teachers, lawyers, etc. (In other words, anybody who comes into contact with introverts, or is one.)

I mentioned feedback at the beginning of the post, and I mean it. Let me know what you think, what experiences you've had as an introvert or extrovert.

Skiing down the mountain of my emotions

I've tried a lot of new things since my arrival in Spain.

Rabbit, horse, octopus, lamb.
Patxaran, ratafía, Jagermeister.
Haggling, apologizing, joking [in Spanish].

So when our friends invited us to a weekend in Hernani and a Saturday skiing on the slopes of Gourette, France, I didn't think twice. I just said yes.

It wasn't until I was on my ass at the bottom of a practice hill after having shoved off for the first time that I realized I might not be so great at it.

I'm not sure why, but before even trying, I was in the mindset that skiing was pretty simple. After seeing the "Aspen" episode of South Park a dozen times, I figured I would french-fry when I wanted to pick up speed, and pizza when I wanted to stop. So there I was, at the top of the same slope where all the French toddlers were taking lessons. I used my poles to thrust forward and found myself accelerating a bit too fast. I turned my knees inward, trying to pizza as much as possible, but I continued to hurl toward a line of people at the bottom. I let my ski poles drag on the snow and squatted down eventually coming to a stop. I got up laughing, gloves already soaked, but I was a bit shaken. Skiing wasn't something I was just going to pick up. It wasn't like riding a bike. It took a lot more focus and balance, which are not my strong points.

Later, though, I started having fun. I was still falling on every run, but we had progressed to an actual slope with turns and banks. They called it "Happy Place". I was feeling pretty good. We even got some action shots of me on two feet. I was french-frying a bit more, only pizza-ing when necessary, and I was excited to go again each time we got to the bottom.

We all decided to move onto something different, but on the same level. Like I said, I was in a good mood so I was game. I should've just stayed on the ground when I missed the opportunity to sit with my friends on the ski lift. I was swaying in the air by myself, watching the skiers underneath me. I was searching for a second Happy Place, but all I could see were wide, steep slopes. I had a bad feeling and we weren't even halfway up the lift; but I ignored it. What good was it going to do me then?

I stared out over the slope -- it was level blue, not level green as we thought -- and continued to force a smile even though my heart was racing. I lightly pushed forward to follow the others who had already shoved off. Suddenly, it was like that first practice run. I was going too fast, and pizza-ing wasn't slowing me down enough. I twisted my body and dragged my poles, making myself fall. Putting my skis in a perpendicular position, I lifted myself back up on wobbly legs. Elliot and the others had stopped a bit further down the hill, waiting for me.

"Come on, Sarah! It's okay!" And then some instructions in Spanish on how to zig-zag down the hill, rather than diving straight down. It didn't matter. The mere thought of twisting my body even slightly flooded my brain with thoughts of picking up momentum, going too fast, not being able to stop, flying off a hillside and busting my skull on ice and rocks. I was absolutely paralyzed. And I started to sob a little.

Suddenly, I was 16 and I was in Mexico. I was trying to make a deal with this vendor selling ceramic Aztec calendars at the pyramids in Teotihuacan. He handed me the piece so I could examine it, but I let it drop and shatter on the desert ground. I was mortified; and even more so when this man, who was obviously worse off than me, apologized and offered to give it to me for nothing. I tried to say, in broken Spanish, that I could not possibly accept, that I would pay double what he was asking. I walked away humiliated, and when the first person asked me what was wrong, I burst into tears and buried my face in Elliot's shirt.

Elliot inched his way back up the hill to help me. I apologized, not only because I didn't mean to get so upset; but also because I had a feeling the rest of my day wouldn't get any better. I had reached my peak of anxiety and fear, and I ended up walking or falling down what was left of the run. The muscles in my butt and legs had also grown tired, and so maneuvering haphazardly down the hills was even more difficult.

I was shaken up and exhausted. I felt like a wet blanket, but I didn't want to be. I felt unable to express myself in any language, unable to cheer myself up. I wanted to disappear so my friends could have fun.

Traveling has always seemed sort of against my personality. I consider myself very much an introvert, but at the same time I truly enjoy meeting new people and seeing new places. I also like being with Elliot, who is widely known as the most social of all butterflies. So I'm often in situations that make me anxious or on edge. Normally, it doesn't phase me. I may not be outgoing or flamboyant, but I remain interested and eager. But there have been a handful of moments in my life where this anxiousness has caught up with me, where I feel like imploding.

I suppose I'm telling you this, not only because it involves travel, exploration, and a bit of culture shock -- but also because, like my writing, my feelings (bad or good) are not something I put on display very often.

Baby research

I thought it would be neat to write a post on what my post-graduation job entails. The real one, as opposed the one on the side. (Just kidding)

For some of you, this might be interesting because you're interested in developmental psychology, jobs that resemble careers, babies, etc.

For me, this post not only reflects what I do five days out of the week, but also provides some insight as to what I went to school for in the first place. Especially since I'm currently in the process of paying back my dues.
 

I am the lab coordinator for the Developmental Science Lab, a psychology research facility, at Temple University. Behind me in the picture to the left, is the lab -- half kindergarten classroom, half high school chemistry lab.

What's more interesting about this picture is that this is what a parent sees when they visit our website and browse the members page. So that's me, trying to look friendly, approachable, and smart! The hand on the hip implies that I'm serious about my job, but I can have fun, too.



Most of my job responsibilities are routine: checking emails, answering phone calls, signing for packages, filing receipts, organizing data, managing undergrad researchers, and stuffing envelopes.

The reason I have this job, though, is more complicated. For those of you not familiar with academic fields that rely heavily on research, research, research, psychology is one of these fields. Most people imagine the whole therapist & couch scenario when they think of psychologists, but most of us (yes, I'm including myself because I've got a fuckin' degree) are researchers. That's how universities get money, and it's also how the field progresses (sort of).

Research, if done right, involves a lot of writing, planning, hypothesizing, and recruiting. Thus, research implicates the contributions of many different people: investigators (tenured professors, grad students, post-docs), interns, student researchers, and volunteers. All these people help to carry out studies, analyze results, and publish anything significant.

In short, my job is to keep all of this going. And the incentive is that if I don't keep all of this going, the lab's projects won't be funded, and I'm out of a job.

Ok, so that was kind of boring. I'll try to talk more about babies.

Yes, my research mainly involves 14-month-old infants! Basically, I invite them and their parents in (usually a mom, but sometimes a dad or a grandma), obtain consent (very important), and then try to put an EEG cap on the child's head.

I wish I could use a picture from our lab, but I'm pretty sure the photo consent form didn't say anything about use on a researcher's blog. This interweb picture does the cap justice, though.

You should know that this process is a challenge. While EEG is used worldwide as a way of collecting data, not many labs attempt to use the technique with children, especially those as young as 14-months.

You can't explain anything to the child about what you're going to do; all you can do is wave the cap in front of them and smile really big so they think it's OK. And it is -- I promise it is.

The first time I put an EEG cap on a baby, she cried. She frowned and buried her head in her mom's chest every time I came near her. I don't know if I can do this, I thought. I'm tormenting her.

But I did do it. And continued to do it. Approximately one out of two babies cry when we put on the cap.

Why? Because it's weird.
They don't want the cap on.
They don't know who I am.
Their mom is almost two feet away.
They haven't had their morning nap.
They have a tummy ache.

Most parents get this -- that babies cry for lots of reasons. Some don't. The mom's face starts to look worried and the baby can sense that and so she wails harder.

I've gotten used to the crying. Not that I don't know the difference between a whine and a get-the-fuck-away-from-me cry. But I'm not going to wince at every whimper.

The more shocking/awkward stuff I see is from the parents:

- One mom consistently bit her son's hand whenever he grabbed for something
- Another chose to start breastfeeding while the study was in session
- There was a dad who lied to me twice about his daughter's age
- A mom who brought four other kids with her, two that weren't hers
- A grandma who left in a huff because she totally disapproved of her daughter and granddaughter participating
- Several parents who disciplined their (14-month-old) son for playing with "girl" toys

Anyway, having worked in this lab for 3 years, I don't think I want to do research.

This job was great; it provided me with invaluable experience. I have sincerely enjoyed it. But seeing the research process in action has discouraged me. There are exceptions, sure, but most studies take at least a few years to plan, carry out, and publish. And it takes far longer for the information learned from these results to trickle down and benefit those concerned.

This bothers me. Especially when I get a rash of calls from parents seeking out an expert who can explain why their child isn't walking, talking, smiling yet. The point of research is to expand resources, but the chain of events is too spread out to be truly effective.

I still maintain that research is an important element for the field of psychology -- still enjoy reading about it. Just don't want to have a role in it. I'm not patient enough.