Call me Jorgé

Barista’s still in their corporate company collared polo’s. Forty somethings looking for a career change. Semi ambitious poor test takers bypassing university admittance testing. Flip flops. Blue hair. Arms crossed. Red college hoodies with Varsity font. Low cut jeans. Freshly washed hair from a non liberal arts major. This motley crew of 20 assembled to meet their elective credit requirement in the summer of 2010 at the sprawling institution of academia known as Mesa Community College. Shuffling in like ghosts, most wanted nothing more than to remain anonymous and under the radar on Day 1.

A South American Steve Erkel walked in promptly at 5PM. Plaid pressed shirt with creases on the sleeves. Khaki Dockers. A fresh gentleman’s cut with a precise part line. Suspenders. All eyes fixed onto him as he moved so confidently towards the largest desk in the room. Even the slowest brain in the room knew he was the instructor before he set his side pack bag down. The one person not so subtly bragging to his uninterested peers about how many and which martial arts he had black belts in fell silent. As he’d done so many times before, the instructor unloaded items from his bag with maritime military like efficiency.

The instructor turned to the white board and with a blue marker wrote: “Jorgé Antonio Manuel Fernández”.

He turned to face the class and spoke from the chest. “Hola clase. Mi nombre es Jorgé Antonio Manuel Fernández. Pero por favor llámame Jorgé. Muchos de ustedes probablemente tengan la impresión de que esta clase será fácil . . .” Jorgé spoke quickly, conversationally, fluently. Panic insidiously began to overtake the room as the invisible ghosts returned to their true meat puppet form, filling with adrenaline. These alleged academics with thirsts for knowledge had second thoughts about whatever dream led them to this posterless county owned room. Those who were just moments ago averse to eye contact began to glance around the room, wondering if they were the only one. As the Spanish monologue continued, the dread began to manifest physically. The class adjusted their weights in their 1990’s hand me down high school desks. Sweat began to appear on armpits. One, two, then the whole class frantically pulled out their syllabi to confirm they were in the correct room.

Course: Spanish 101

Professor: Jorgé Antonio Manuel Fernández

Building: EF-2

Room: 5

Many couldn’t hide the horror on their paling faces as the fact pattern emerged. They were in the correct room. This was the class they registered for. 101 is supposed to be the lowest level, easiest course one can take.  And this intimidating man had not yet uttered a lick of English. Being in Arizona, most in the room knew a few words here and there in Spanish. “Hola.” “Cerveza, por favor.” “¿Dónde está el baño?” (Usually in that order). Aside from a construction worker and a Mormon who mission’d in Guatemala, no one followed the now four minute long introduction.

In college there is a period of time in which students can withdraw from a course with full refund and no impact to his or her GPA. With this in mind the barista stood up and left the room. As taught in psychology courses all across the world, that one person’s actions would break the bystander effect that left the class frozen in their chairs. Another followed, and then another, until there were twelve students left. Unphased, the instructor continued his beautiful Spanish prose. After the student exodus seemed to have ended, a slight grin came across the instructor’s face.

“OK, clase, now in English.” The mother tongue had never sounded so sweet. The instructor went on to paraphrase his Spanish monologue into slightly broken English.

“My name is Jorgé Antonio Manuel Fernández. But please, call me Jorgé. No profesor Fernándezzz,” he drew out the ez at the end for effect. “No Señorrr,” he drew out the or at the end again. “No muchacho. No amigo,” he said abruptly, no Spanish elongation. “Just Jorgé.”

“You may think that because this is a summer class that we will do less work or that it will be easy. If this is you, you are sorely mistaken. For every hour that we meet in person, you will have three hours of outside work and study to complete. When you do the math, this course is the equivalent of a full time job. If you take my words seriously, then I encourage you to stay and learn. If you do not and you stick around, you will fail and will have wasted your time and your parent’s money. If this isn’t what you had expected when you registered for this class, you would be wise to leave like the others and withdraw from this course. My feelings won’t be hurt.”

The twelve students ran through a mental progression of just what happened in the last eight minutes. Some released the pressure and tension through nervous laughter. Jorgé had just tested their will, their seriousness. Some might consider it harsh, but it was honest. Jorgé was a consummate professional: he would not change the standards, the students would change their behavior to meet the standards.

Jorgé allowed for the instructor’s golden seven second timer to expire. “Perfecto.”

The unconventionality of the first 8 minutes was a preview of the next five weeks. Jorgé’s extraordinary brain constructed an environment inspired by pre internet, humble pedagogical Argentinian countryside classroom. Evenings felt like strange Telemundo game shows. Among the many props included in Jorgé’s seemingly bottomless saddle bag was a sound board which he was a master operator of. Correct responses were met with “Cha ching” money sounds. Incorrect responses were met with Charley Brown “Wah, wah, wahhh’s . . .”. Class started and ended on time, with high energy, pace, and tempo throughout. Jorgé gave us Spanish names and wrote them on popsicle sticks. He’d close his eyes and randomly point with his index finger to a popsicle stick, naming his next participant aka “victim” as we painstakingly progressed through every line of the textbook and worksheet together. If called upon, you would answer the question or read the passage perfectly before the class moved on. Pressure would mount as you struggled to roll your R’s for the fourth, fifth, sixth time, and beyond. Incorrect answers and mispronunciations and the fast follow of the buzzer resulted in a Standley Milgrim like psychological shock to your system. “Otro vez, todo completo” Jorgé commanded. So absurd, many looked for hidden cameras.

We grew fond of those evenings with Jorgé. Each night we heard the buzzer less and less, and the Cha Ching of the cash register more and more. We showed up a little early to converse in broken Spanish with our classmates. We found joy in drawing the barrio and labeling the carneceria. The maps of Central and South America never felt more relevant. We embraced our gringo status as we bravely said “Hola” to Spanish speakers in our daily lives. As Jorgé would command, we learned to speak with “con gusto”. We felt the spirit of the Latin culture, of love and death. As the class wound down and we prepared for our final exam, we sang:

Rosa, Rosa tan maravillosa

Como blanca diosa, como flor hermosa

Tu amor me condena a la dulce pena de sufrir

Rosa, Rosa dame de tu boca

Esa furia loca que mi amor provoca

Que me causa llanto por quererte tanto solo a ti

Ay, Rosa, Rosa pide lo que quieras

Pero nunca pidas que mi amor se muera

Si algo ha de morir, moriré por ti

. . .