Wrong Side of the Tracks

My official title here in Spain is Auxiliar de Conversación. In English, this means 'conversation assistant.' Back in October of 2022, I envisioned myself corralling a herd of rowdy middle schoolers into a room, struggling through conversations in broken English. And after living in Madrid for a few months, this seems like a shared experience among my friends. But of course, nothing can ever be that straightforward with me.

When I applied, I thought I knew what the worst-case scenario was. People I knew had been placed two hours outside of Madrid, or in sketchy areas of the city. I was also aware that it wasn’t common for auxiliars to enjoy teaching; it gets repetitive to spend each day reciting colors and numbers. Working as an auxiliar is simply a way to be able to live in Spain, not for the passion of teaching the rainbow. I came into this experience with a million expectations in terms of teaching. Every last one shattered when I received an email telling me my placement was at CIFP Profesor Raúl Vázquez.

One of the workshops

CIFP Professor Raúl Vázquez is a vocational school. This means that the students have all graduated secondary school, or high school. Specifically, CIFP Professor Raúl Vázquez teaches mechanics learning to work on planes, cars, buses, and trains. You can imagine the demographic this pulls. Men. Lots and lots of men. I had pictured sitting in a circle chatting with twelve-year-old girls about boys. Not once did it cross my mind that I would be sitting in a warehouse with a group of thirty-year-old men forcing them to play Scattergories with me.

To make matters worse, my school is in a neighborhood called Entrevías. If you go on Netflix and type in Entrevías, you’ll find a TV show by the same name, or its English name, 'Wrong Side of the Tracks.' It’s about this neighborhood and all the gang violence that goes on here.

None of this sounds super appealing... especially to my parents. One of the most well-known neighborhoods for crime, in a school for primarily older men. And me, a 22-year-old, blonde girl, trapped in a classroom with them.

My dad calls me, 'I just need you to know it’s not too late to back out. I really think this is a bad idea. I don’t want you to go.'

And again, the night before I leave:

'You don’t have to do this.'

I get a tour of the school a week before I start working. Classes are already in session, and to my relief, there’s another aux there. Her name is Emily, and she stands out in the sea of Spaniards just as much as I do. As we enter the school, it’s passing time. The students are lined up against the walls, waiting for the classrooms to be opened. We wade through the halls, hundreds of men staring at us as we walk by. I feel them leering at me. We meet one of the teachers, and I know I must look as petrified as I feel when she says “Don’t be intimidated. They’re only cheeky sometimes”.