How to Survive An Earthquake
by Brittaney Carter
Teach in Chile 2010 Participant
An earthquake happens when the Earth's plates decide that it's time to move on. One piece of land moves a little to the North, for example, edging its way past the others, making a new space for itself on the surface of the world, releasing a mountain of energy.
My teach abroad experience happened the same way. On February 19, I boarded a flight to Santiago, Chile because it was time for me to move on. Like many of my peers, I graduated college with not-so-bright job prospects and the desire to travel. So I decided to claim, even if only for a little while, another piece of this earth for myself.
Twenty minutes after landing, I was sitting outside Arturo Merino Benitez Airport staring at the mountains. Santiago seemed to me like a dream that I never wanted to wake up from. During my first week here at CIEE orientation, I did my best to keep moving. I found the best empanadas and pineapple juice in Barrio Brasil. Every building in Bellavista was covered in graffiti—in bright blues, greens, yellows, and reds. La Plaza de Armas seemed to invoke the spirits of classical Europe. My fellow CIEE participants and I took Chile in deep breaths and great big mouthfuls, relishing the taste of fresh salmon at Mercado Central, surveying the city from the top of Cero San Cristobal and parading through the night life that Santiago had to offer. And when my welcome city seemed almost to be too much for me, the charming, slightly sleepy community of Providencia was waiting to welcome me home.
On Saturday, February 27 at 3:34 a.m. the earth began to rumble, and everything changed. That moment taught me that nothing is certain nor fixed—not my plans to find a steady desk job after college, not my previous sense of self, and definitely not my idea of what this year abroad would be like. That earthquake woke me up in more ways than one. Before then, I literally felt like I was living a dream. But the reality was, while living abroad was at times like a dream come true, it would also be hard. And sometimes, even heartbreaking.
I soon learned that teaching at a technical college here in Santiago would be more challenging than I thought. Due to the earthquake, the school year started several weeks later than planned. I raced to cram a month’s worth of material into the few class periods we had before my students’ first exam. I agonized for days over how I could make the material more interesting for them. I sang, I danced, I performed one-woman skits for them—anything to keep their eyes on board and their minds open to what I want to teach them.
The turning point came during my third week of teaching. Still having no idea of what I was doing or if my students were actually learning anything, I started to pack up my things after one of my Thursday intermediate classes. A young lady named Pamela, who was the last to leave class that day, said to me in perfect English, “I just wanted to let you know, we really like this class. You make it fun for us, and we want to practice speaking.”
After talking to Pam, I finally felt like I was on steady ground. I had survived the dreaded first day of classes, learned all of my student’s names and made it through the first round of exams. I had learned to accept that sometimes my students skip class. Sometimes they come in 30 minutes late. Many times, I find myself taking away someone’s cell phone or begging a student not to curl her hair in class. They’re just the eccentricities of life as a teacher in Chile. And they guarantee that I will always have a hell of a story to tell my roommates at the end of the workday.
Outside of the classroom, too, I’m beginning to feel like I’m finally home. I open the window by my bed because the noise from the street below lulls me to sleep. I stop at the corner bakery every other day for an alfajor, but I really go so that I can learn more ‘Chilenismos’ from the lady who always rings me up at the cash register. I can now describe how to get to the nearest metro station from my school ten different times over the course of an hour and never grow impatient because I remember what it was like when the street signs made no sense to me at all. And the times I feel the most at home in this sprawling city is when I'm walking down Avenida 11 de Septiembre all by myself, away from the city center and toward the mountains.
Today, I’m sitting on the balcony, grading my students’ midterms and enjoying the view of Parque Forrestal near downtown Santiago. Occasionally, I may look up and wonder if the small rumble that I felt was another aftershock or just my imagination. Either way, I think I've done a really good job of staying on my feet on this piece of earth that never seems to stand still.