The migration of the chalk

Mariana had been questioning me closely about my impending trip to Cuba, timidly confiding her own sympathy toward communism, even though she admitted not knowing exactly what it was. She knew that poor people in Mexico were becoming increasingly restless, and she was aware of the rebellion in Chiapas and the latent unrest in Nayarit, where we were. In fact, we had passed through several military checkpoints on the way back to the village from our trip to Compostela the day before, which our driver had explained was part of an intimidation tactic by the Mexican government, intended to prevent a popular uprising. There had been more than 200 soldiers with M-16 rifles lining the highway.

In response to the line of well-armed soldiers, Mariana told me proudly: "Many of our men have rifles." I visualized the old single-shot, bolt-action .22's the government allowed farmers to keep in order to kill rodents and other pests. The new Mexican revolution would be quixotic to say the least.

Mariana, pregnant and sweating in the afternoon heat, watched me at the board like her life was at stake, which it might have been for all I knew. I gripped the chalk and glanced out across the palms to the small bay that encompassed the village, the four or five palapa restaurants strung along the shore; I saw two large sailboats swaying in a light breeze, boats from El Norte, from California, probably. Not exactly an invasion, but suddenly I resented them. They looked like the outposts of an empire. There in Mexico, revolution still seemed like a real possibility -- not some academic theory.

Suddenly I remembered that education is not a luxury in most of the world, and I'd damn well better know what I was talking about. Even if I hadn't fully made up my mind about communism, what Mariana knew and thought could have a direct effect on her involvement in a real political battle. My own unresolved feelings about communism was a major reason I was going to Cuba. As Alice had said to the caterpillar, "I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly, for I can't understand it myself to begin with." I looked back at the blackboard, at my drawing.

"Este linea," I said, "es la linea por sistemas econsmicos." Mariana leaned forward intently, completely ignoring my abysmal accent and pronunciation. I reminded myself that the outcome of the next Mexican revolution probably was not at stake in this lesson. Mariana's grandfather might have been a Zapatista for all I knew. She might only have been learning the words for what was already in her bones.

I was scheduled to return to California in a month, after the trip to Cuba. She would live here for the rest of her life. And all over Mexico people were beginning to think, again, about what there was to lose and what there was to gain from these words that sat on the blackboard like undeciphered secret codes.

I hoped that the next time a student "grabbed the chalk" from me I would sit down gracefully and remember Mariana, who reminded me of the thrill and terror of knowing something that someone else wanted to learn. And I hoped that I would remember Peter, who gave me the tool for that day's lesson.

Yesterday, a student grabbed the chalk in my philosophy class and began explaining her "take" on reincarnation. My mind flew to Mexico before she could finish. I wondered if Mariana remembered an afternoon when the chalk migrated, again, to its natural home in the student's hand.

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