The weirdos

I have always liked activities that require calm, concentration and silence, reading, writing, swimming, photography, yoga. This is the same as saying that I enjoy solitude or, what could be the same, that it is difficult for me to give myself body and soul to relationships marked by camaraderie.

However, I was once very young, dreamy and idealistic, and at that time I experienced the deep meaning of camaraderie. I was 18 years old and lived, like all young people, in a world of high-contrast colors. I began to study sociology. Up to that time world literature, mother's nightly stories and the powerful images of the music played on the radio had forged my sensibility. But the fascination with endless metaphors yielded to the power of the sociological argument and its capacity for synthesis.

The whole world can be summed up, as I understand sociology, in a few powerful ideas: human evolution, the beauty of difference, personal quests, universal values, among a few other ideas. One day a professor raised a discussion on the need to make theories compatible with practices.

That concept fascinated me. It made me compare my ideas with my practice. I took the concern to my group of friends at the time, a group of about sixteen people, all die-hard dreamers. We didn't want from the university just a degree, we were looking for meaning in our lives. So we argued about everything. We were the weirdos of the university. Talking about theory and practice gave birth to the idea of the little school.

My university was an oasis. Situated on a hill facing the sea (with beautiful gardens, water fountains, open-air artistic volumes, sustained cultural activity, daily cinema, concerts, theater groups, lecturers...) it became an attraction for the city dwellers, who came to that oasis to quench their thirst as much as possible. It also attracted a group of unschooled children who wandered through the clear and clean spaces, enjoying the classical music that played discreetly in some corridors, while offering a boot polishing service.

For some students and professors these children meant danger. For us, my group of friends, the weirdos, those kids were a joy. We read them short stories, we watched for them to eat something, we listened to them, we began to love them and think about them. And they us. Little by little a group of children without school gathered around us.

The children began to call us by affectionate names, using the diminutives of our proper names or some of our most outstanding characteristics. Our group was heterogeneous, we studied different careers in different buildings, we used to meet at noon to watch movies or in the evenings in the gardens overlooking the sea to enjoy the beautiful sunsets of my city. At those hours the children would look for us. Their ages ranged from seven to ten years old. When they located us, their childish voices filled the space in a fantastic way.

Carlitos!
Skinny!
Kike!
Chelita!
Eli!

A camaraderie was forged between the group of children and ours! Each of them had their favorite student, and each of us had our favorite child. Human things. But there was a certain imbalance between us. We felt that these children lacked something that we possessed. We knew what it was. We decided to make a little school within the spaces of the university.

We began collecting early reading books, notebooks, pencils and crayons. We asked permission to occupy an unoccupied coffee shop, and we took unused desks that we borrowed from the university's carpentry shop. I have a great fascination for the processes that take place when people learn to read. I experienced very exciting moments with my friends teaching these children to read. We were filled with great joy.

At some point we realized that the number of children was gradually increasing. So we decided to sell sandwiches to raise more money for the school. It was a time of great activity that we had to combine with academics. We were all in love with our careers and we wanted to make theory and practice coincide, and I in particular, with all vehemence.

The children learned to read, Eduardo, a mathematics student, taught them the basic operations. The children baptized my eternal friend, Carlos, a student of education, with the premature title of teacher, because he taught them the sounds of the syllables. Each of us found a way to teach something. I taught them to make puppets with recycled materials, Eli played the flute, we made them sing and above all we laughed in total confidence. With those kids we were, the weirdos, so happy!

One afternoon we received an unexpected visit in our school cafeteria. Two women and a man asked for Carlos, Iñaki and me. We had no idea what they wanted.

"First I want to give you a hug, Chelita." Said one of the two women and without waiting for an answer she proceeded to give me one of the best hugs of my life.

When she released me she explained that she was Daniel's mom.

"I am Daniel's mom, the quebradito." I was filled with surprise.

Daniel had been born with a deformity in his back that was never corrected. In his street they began to call him "el quebradito", because of the small hump that prevented him from walking straight. All the children called him that, without malice and with no intention of teasing him.

When Daniel first came to us, he showed a lot of aggressive behavior, he was constantly calling attention to himself. One day he grabbed my bag and ran away. My friends looked at me as if asking what to do. I waved them off. Seeing that no one chased him Daniel came back and sat down on the floor to go through my bag. Daniel pulled out all the items inside one by one.

"I'm not giving you anything back!" He shouted.

"I'm giving you my bag, Daniel. I'm giving it to you with everything in it." I said in response.

He didn't like that answer. He walked over to me and handed me my purse.

"I don't want anything for free." He said with an annoyed look on his face, but he made a space between me and another child and sat down next to me.

From then on I was his favorite student and he my favorite child. I gave him special attention. When we started the little school he was one of the fastest learners. His character changed and he became an invaluable ally for us. He was a sort of spokesman for the other children. He was the oldest of all, he was ten years old.

"I thank you for what you have done for my son and the other children in these months and we want to ask you for a favor." Daniel's mom said.

Carlos, Iñaki and I were perplexed. Other classmates had approached us. The children kept a respectful distance. We all listened without interrupting.

"The people of our neighborhood have thought that it is necessary for you to accompany us to build a school there.

"We have a piece of terrain, we have collected some money to buy blocks, shingles and cement. We have masons and carpenters. We will start building the school on Saturday. What do you tell us, teachers?"

What could we tell them? They called us teachers!

Carlos took the floor and without even seeing us, or consulting us, he answered for everyone.

We will be there. With pleasure!

The following Saturday we went to the neighborhood, which was actually very close to the university. Our group of weirdos laid the first blocks of the first wall of the neighborhood school. All of us, men and women, laid at least one block. The work was completed by people from the neighborhood.

Some time later I saw a photo in which Eduardo put the word "Escuela" School", written with a brush and white paint, on the front lintel of the door. That photo stayed in my memory. It would beautifully illustrate this writing.

We continued for a while attending to the children in our "school-cafeteria". One day we received the news that the regional government had assigned career teachers to attend the first three grades in the school built by the community. Our children had entered the educational system.

We, my group of friends from that beautiful time, followed our careers until the capricious life dispersed our paths. That was a long time ago. I was 20 years old.