I spend a considerable amount of time wondering how it happened that I came to find myself in the twilight zone San Marcos, Ocotopeque. How did I go from post-grad bum (the new-age trend for college graduates who quickly discover they can do very little with their recently acquired B.A.), in bum Mecca Eugene, Oregon, to teaching the third-grade in a Honduran pueblo so insignificant, discrete, unknown, and ostensibly undesirable, that it seems to barely exists. And how did this happen literally overnight? —a question I am still working through.
My arrival here was the result of a series of decisions that might be described as under analyzed, rash, ill-advised, and altogether arbitrary by a good number of rational people. I have come to realize, however, that nearly all my decisions have been made in this foolishly capricious fashion. And frankly, even the most premeditated decisions are, in fact, quite arbitrary; I cut right to the chase. I find it works surprisingly well.I received a phone call from a complete stranger claiming to be Peace Corp volunteer who had pulled my resume out of cyber space. She was looking for teachers on the behalf of a bilingual elementary school in San Marcos de Ocotopeque, Honduras. There was an alarming lack of questioning on both ends of the line. I was exceedingly open about my under qualification. Rebecca informed me of the dire state of the Honduran education system. Apparently the 18 years I spent in a considerably less dysfunctional system (I never thought I would say that about public education in the US, particularly not mine), and a college degree qualified me for the job. Basically the conversation was as follows:
Alleged PCV with supposed authority in the matter: Do you want to move to Honduras to teach some kids?
Me: How much will it cost me?
Alleged PCV: The school will fly you here and back.
Me: Deal.
Alleged PCV: See you in three weeks.
Impetuous indeed. But let me reiterate, if you buy me a plane ticket, I will go just about anywhere.
All the questions I should have asked before leaving my country were answered upon my arrival in San Marcos. After meeting PCV Rebecca, the school master, the other teachers, and the school itself, I had a clearer understanding of the series of events and relationships that brought me here, and of my own qualifications for the job.
Green Valley Primary, or La Green, as it is often referred to here, is a small private bilingual school started by a little old lady with a relative fortune named DoÒa Olga. Olgita (little Olga, as they call her) is a 4’10”, frail woman pushing 80 years who walks with a limp and a cane and exudes elitism. She appears to be a remnant of colonial aristocracy. Ten years ago, Olgita, who doesn’t speak a word of English, decided to use a wad of her cash to open a bilingual school in San Marcos that would provide an alternative—superior of coarse—to public education in her community for her
children and grandchildren. 
Green Valley is the pretentious rich kid school, funded by parents who, much to Olga’s delight, believe La Green to be a superior alternative to the public schools where there are 50 children per class and the teachers are constantly on strike. I find it rather disturbing that I am factually of this “superior” institution. But considering the fourth grade teacher, a Honduran native, does not know how to round to the nearest hundred or use a comma, I suppose I am comparatively qualified. What’s more, I am not on strike every other week because the government hasn’t paid my wage in a number of months, which is the case with all the public schools. This, however, does not make me feel better about my inadequacy as a third-grade teacher. My level of education may exceed that of a number of the other teachers here, as I have mastered a third-grade skill set, but I feel an irreconcilable guilt when looking at a room full of faces that deserve Floy Schuft (expert in the field of teaching small children) and they got me. Poor things. With virtually no experience, no teaching background, no background check, I have been handed a group of children to mold. Everyday I think how I must be screwing them up. I only hope my inevitable mistakes don’t result in any long-term effects or psychological disorders.
