Teaching in Bogota's Southern Slums

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I’ve had quite a few different jobs throughout my life.

I’ve had a wide range of experiences—from selling shoes to pissed-off soccer moms at Sports Authority, managing money at the CoHo, delivering flags for Nancy Pelosi to arguing with douchey reporters about why they should talk to my client; however, none of these could have possibly prepared me for what would prove to be my greatest challenge yet—teaching children a foreign language.

In other words; teaching is really, really hard.

Since the students at Nueva Esperanza knew little to no English, I decided to make my first lesson as basic as possible—teaching the two fraises, Hello, my name is and What is your name?

As I entered my first class, a potent mixture of adrenaline and caffeine powered through my veins. When my students saw me enter, they erupted in excited Spanish chatter, a few identifiable Teacher Mike! ’s strewn in here and there.

After my Colombian co-teacher helped me calm the class to what passes for quiet in Colombian classrooms, I wrote TEACHER MIKE on the board.

Turning to the class, just as I had done in the courtyard a week before, I pointed to myself and slowly said, “My name is Teacher Mike. Tee-chur Mike.”

Based on the look they gave me, I might as well have been speaking Klingon. In the dumbfounded silence, crickets could have heard crickets.


Read the rest at my TravelBlog

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