There’s not one reason; there are multiple. And I’m not sure where to begin.
I want to tell you about the red flags I noticed before I boarded my flight, how administration said they were “impressed with my CV and wanted me to help them teach their teachers.” But then shifted from teaching teachers to teaching sixth grade…no teaching fifth grade.
“You can see what our school is like,” they said, “and then teach the teachers next school year.”
I agreed, ignoring the bait and switch.
I want to tell you about a happenstance meeting with one of the co-founders. I drank a Moscow mule and gobbled a cheeseburger as she pulled a crinkled piece of paper out of her Italian handbag. It was an eight-bullet-point letter from the parents. They were concerned about teacher attrition, no art at an “art school,” and a director who’d quit after one month. Next to each point were arrows and scribbles. One was about me. They’d assuage fears by telling parents that “Dr. Garland, from Los Estados Unidos would be joining them to teach fifth grade.”
I agreed, ignoring that I was being used for optics.
I want to tell you my TESOL instructor thought it odd that administration hadn’t connected me with three expats who’d been there since July. Wouldn’t they have insight?
“They probably don’t want me to talk to anyone…,” I said matter-of-factly, “…afraid I won’t come, but I’m still going,” I said with the ego of Dr. Garland from Los Estados Unidos.
I want to tell you about the day before my first day. How I unknowingly dropped dry white rice on the white floor of my home. The next day, I awoke to a mound of big black ants circling the kitchen, some forming a line, carrying rice on their backs from the circle to the door. Then, I saw a roach.
I want to describe to you how I was encouraged to rent this home 900 meters away from the school. But how no one told me the walk is on a highway with no shoulder or sidewalk. For two weeks, I slinked alongside semitrucks, buses, and motorcycles, hoping motorists saw me in time to slightly swerve.
My friend, who is a therapist, affirmed that lack of a sense of safety causes dysregulation.
I want to tell you about my first day. How at seven in the morning, the administrator asked how I was doing.
“Not well,” I told her, as I described the ants, the roaches, the road.
“That’s just Costa Rica,” she assured.
I batted back tears because the person from whom I’d rented the home was also her friend and the HR person. They’d scammed me for one-thousand dollars.
I want to tell you about how 48 hours prior, I’d asked if I was expected to teach Day 1 or if I would have time to orient myself.
“No. You teach,” she said. “This is your class. Do what you want.”
I want you to know that I received my email, the curriculum, textbooks, and direction the day I arrived. A teacher taught me how to use the copy machine. Another showed me how to perform twice-a-day duty that consists of watching children eat lunch and play at recess. They call it cuido; I call it babysitting.
I want to tell you about how this is a bilingual school, but there is more Spanish spoken than English. How everyone greets you with a hearty ¡Buenos Días! but if you mumble ¡Buenas! because you’re thinking about the dead roach you saw that morning, they side eye you, assuming you’re rude or don’t know the language.
How Monday begins with “The National Anthem of Costa Rica” and the “Guanacaste Anthem.” And how stupid you feel standing there, smiling, like a dolt, while ignorant of how to honor the country and the province.
How the day ends with dismissal in Spanish, and yes, yo comprendo, but not under this pressure. A student could miss their bus because I misheard details. So, a teacher enters the class, provides no Spanish greetings or eye contact, and grimaces as if I’m a liability, not an asset, certainly not Dr. Garland from Los Estados Unidos.
How Wednesday’s faculty meeting is 100% in Spanish. And again, yo comprendo, until everyone speaks simultaneously. My brain shuts down right as the bilingual teacher from Philly sidles up to me and whispers translations of faculty drama.
How there is one day I teach for an hour and sit for the other seven with pockets of nothingness. Other days teaching ends by noon.
It’s not all bad, though.
“I love you, teacher,” a few students say. One drew a photo. Another offered white chocolate. One gifted me with a handwritten card. “You’re not boring, like the last teacher,” they say. Even the woman from Philly praises how I’ve built classroom community; she wants to learn this skill.
I can teach her and these students. But I’m torn. I can neither waste my time with this flimsy schedule, nor navigate their system disoriented, so I ask administration if I can be part-time.
“No,” they say. “It won’t be fair to the other teachers.”
My only option is to teach fifth grade.
Without hesitation, my intuition guides me.
“I quit,” I say.
“Friday is my last day.”
K E Garland 