The other day, my students for choir were late to class because they were getting stoned. In the Biblical sense.
Usually I have class on Thursdays in El Grupo, the school next door to Centro Arte para la Paz. However, on this particular day, El Grupo was closed due to a staff meeting. Therefore, my students (smart children that they are) decided to walk to Centro Arte and find me for rehearsal. Unfortunately, they had to pass Yanira, a woman with many mental issues who lives in the streets of Suchitoto. Normally, Yanira is very sweet – she always smiles and says hello, and warns you if there is a car about to pass. Believe it or not, there are so few cars in Suchitoto, the warnings are greatly appreciated, as a passing (which in El Salvador is roughly synonymous with “break neck pace speeding”) car is not always expected. However, like everyone, Yanira has her good days and bad days. And good days very quickly turn to bad days if anything should happen to provoke her.
I do not know if this day in particular started out as a good day or a bad day. Unfortunately, a member of this group walking (because as smart as they may be, they are still pre-teen boys) yelled out a name as passing Yanira, and then quickly ducked behind a car. Yanira, turning, saw only my boys passing. She quickly turned from a helpful sweet lady into a whirling dervish of rage. Hissing and screaming, she chased after my students, throwing stones at them. Suchitoto happens to be almost completely cobblestone roads. As charming as this might be, it also gave Yanira a surprisingly large selection for her arsenal. Which included many a large rock; some so large that I was mildly surprised that Yanira (a very small woman) could pick them up, much less throw them with impressive accuracy.
My students sprinted towards Centro Arte, seeking sanctuary, Yanira close on their heels. “Seño, Seño, Seño!!!” (a cross between señora and señorita, what children call teachers here) they screamed Once in Centro Arte, Yanira was quickly banished to outside. Or so I thought. As I spoke to my students (still wide eyed and sweaty from both running in May humidity and extreme fear), I realized that a group of them had been chased away – actually, all of my girls in the group, along with some of the boys. Sighing, I told the boys to wait in the classroom, while I went in search of the other half of the class. They were more than happy to comply, and sat slumped in varying degrees of terror.
I walked out of the museum to the front area of Centro Arte, only to be surprised when a familiar voice close to my left said, “Oh. Hola!” I quickly turned. There was Yanira, waiting in a place were no one from the inside could see her before passing by, with a smile on her face and what can only be described as a small boulder raised over her head. “Hola, Yanira.” However, all I could think was, What a way to die. I always thought if I died in El Salvador, it would be the result of being shot or some sort of malfunction in a bus or being eaten alive by feral dogs. But getting my head smashed in by a rock? Nope, never really put that on the list of probable ways to die. We had a lovely conversation, while the boulder remained poised to be lobbed at some small child. Eventually, Yanira seemed to tire of the niceties. The smile turned into a small straight line, and her eyes hardened. “Y los bichos?” (And the boys?) she asked coldly. “Oh. They already went home, Yanira. Maybe you should leave, too…” And perhaps put down that skull crushing stone of death, I silently thought. Slowly, she lowered the rock, and muttering to herself, went to wait on the corner of the street immediately across from Centro Arte.
I searched for a bit for my other students, but finally concluded that no one else would be coming back. I returned to my classroom to find my boys had rediscovered their boyish swagger and were now pretending that they had not been afraid at all. After we had a talk about the need to respect everyone, and how name-calling is a form of disrespecting others, we began rehearsal.
And so, for once, my students actually had a good excuse for being late – “But Seño! We were getting stoned!”
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