Austin - Capitol Grounds, African-American Memorial (Top in Sunlight) / Journey into Another Language, High School

The only decent pics taken in the full sun were these.  The dove, alight on top of Lincoln's Proclamation, is a fitting emblem of peace in the midst of one of the great struggles of mankind.

Same against a blue sky below...

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[continued from yesterday's post]

So it was that during my freshman year at Orange Stark High School I elected to take Spanish I.  Our teacher was named Mrs. Herrera, a 400-lb Cuban lady, and I'm not exaggerating about her weight.  But she was a nice lady who did what she could to survive day by day, as her mind wasn't exactly on school but rather on her tumultuous home life, which she freely shared with the class at times.  Nevertheless, there was a good-faith effort to reign us in and put some Spanish into our heads.

But I didn't cooperate very well.  My own home life was not at all in order, and that plus the fact that I had friends in there equaled delinquent shenanigans and lack of effort.  I was able to eek by until the third six weeks, when I ended up with a 37 average.  I was on my way out, but can't say I thought about it too much.

Mrs. Herrera did, though.  She recognized my facility in the language and didn't want to give up on me or see me leave the class.  At the end of the semester she called me out into the hall, and showed me that big fat F on her grade sheet.  She explained that I had potential, and that if I could show real effort and apply myself she would change the grade to a 66, which would pass me for the six weeks (in those days a 66 was a D and considered passing) and bring my semester grade to something in the acceptable range.  Sure, why not.  I can do it.

And I was good for my promise.  Recognizing that she was doing me a favor, starting in January I listened better and actually did homework once in a while.  Speaking the language came naturally to me, so I excelled in the conversation part of the class, though I didn't recognize it until one day Mrs. Herrera call me out of class again, this time to ask me for a favor.  Her son Jay - who was a friend of mine - was not being very cooperative at home.  From the time he was little he refused to speak Spanish, though he heard it all the time growing up.  Now her mother-in-law was staying with them for a while and an impasse developed which caused Jay to shut down and not want to communicate with her at all.  He wouldn't listen to Mom or let her help, so could I please shadow Jay at home one day to translate (both ways) and help break the ice?  Sure, why not.  I went over to her house on the designated day, and was encouraged that I could actually help fill the gap and make their home life a little easier.

I will forever be indebted to Mrs. Herrera for that opportunity, but especially for the fact that she went out of her way for me in changing my grade so that I could stick with the class.  Countless times I've walked into a Spanish class of my own with the thought that she would turn over in her grave had she known that I was destined to become a Spanish teacher myself, and stick with it for 15 years in public schools.