I first taught at Dual Language Middle School in the Upper West Side of New York city in April of 2021. It was my first foray into substitute teaching, and actually, in any type of teaching for that matter. It was completely by chance—not the teaching part, but finding an opening at that school. I was really supposed to start in February or March of 2020, but we all know what happened around that time.
I remember those beginning days to be incredibly nerve-wracking. Like most new job environments, I had a cold case of imposter syndrome. Did I belong there? Would I be good? Would I be accepted? Would they like me? And in this instance: Did they know my dad was a teacher? Would I be as good or effective as he was?
Looking back—during that first week—it feels like I barely uttered a word. I could tell right away that the job description of subbing was a quickly changing landscape, as most of the classes I was “filling in” for were being taught by the actual teacher, just in a remote capacity. I was there to make sure they were logged in to their Google classrooms and participating in the presentations and not getting distracted listening to YouTube (they were), surfing the web (they were), or ten different tabs (it might have been 20). In other words, I was tasked with—well…an impossible task.
Over time, however, I started to settle in and I like to think I got the hang of it, “it” being this particular form of subbing, as well as I could have. It was not without its challenging moments—I struggled with a few classes, as I couldn’t get the hang of pulling everyone’s focus and some days I left school feeling utterly defeated. And to think—this was with about half the normal attendance, since many kids [and their families] elected to stay home during the pandemic.
I was particularly drawn to one of the sixth grade classes. There were only about 10 kids, but all of the personalities were represented. They bickered back and forth, they laughed together and at each other, they sulked, and they ate Takis. They ate Takis like it was going out of style. An ecosystem of bubbling minds. Some days two kids in particular joined forces to form an uncontrollable tsunami of distraction, literally doing everything but stay on task, stay in the classroom, or finish work. Remember, this was April 2021. They hadn’t been in school for an entire year and their last full year had been as 4th graders.
A month into my journey there, one of those two kids forming that tsunami left the school, and, in turn, devastated his best friend who was staying behind. His name was Cruz. It took a while for Cruz to get out of his funk; after all, it’s never easy to lose your best friend or partner-in-crime in any scenario, especially under those particular circumstances, in which he was already in a limited social setting.
The good thing was—he did move on, and, sensing the lack of a shared dominating force, Cruz took on his role as the lone alpha. By himself, he still found opportunities to create a tsunami of his own and now, he roamed around his new territory—looking for kindred spirits and potential competition.
He met his match in Coco. Coco knew where she stood in the power hierarchy, right on top, just choosing to go about her business in an alternative fashion. Even when Cruz had his best friends with him, so did she. And she had more, and was always up to the challenge. Cruz was Dominican. So was she. He could control the gravity of the class. So could she. Was it as black and white as this veiled back-and-forth being a substitute for some twisted, blurred sort of affection? Who knows. It’s hard to tell from my point of view. I know it was hard to tell when I was in 6th grade.
One day in early June, the kids were working on an assignment from one of their other classes. At this point, I had filled in for pretty much every other teacher. A mix of co-teaching, monitoring, proctoring, covering, and most of all…making sure they made it to their next class safe-and-sound and in one piece. I vaguely remember them working on an art project in which they they needed to create and design (in scintillating, colorful fashion) their own shoe. They were having fun. On their best behavior. Attendance was easy. Think of an early period on a Friday. Not too close to lunch. Not too close to the end of the day. The ideal attentiveness on full display.
As a reward for doing such good work and staying focused I asked if they wanted to hear some music. Naturally, they all said yes. And naturally, they shouted out their suggestions. Coco exclaimed, “Bad Bunny!”, to the instant dismay of Cruz. “Don’t nobody wanna listen to Bad Bunny—he’s [*under his breath*]…gay.” Everyone’s eyes turned to me. I had heard what he had said—he didn’t exactly say it quietly. “I didn’t mean it like that…he’s not…he’s just weird…I don’t like him, so we not listening to him,” Cruz continued. A couple of other names were mentioned, ranging from Billboard hits, Cruz’ opposing reggaeton suggestions, to Bob Marley. It was pretty split down the middle, creating a seemingly bigger divide between Coco’s side and Cruz’s.
Finally, I decided to just take matters into my own hands. I played a song I had heard in my neighborhood all the time, when I initially moved to New York and lived in my first year-lease apartment on 184th and St. Nick in Washington Heights. The song was called “Medicina de Amor” (Love Medicine) by Raulin Rodriguez. If you’ve never heard of it, listen. It’s such a wonderful piece of music and, for me, it takes me back to living in the Heights. It transports me to a time and space. A simpler time. I can’t even describe it and appropriately do it justice. It just reminds me of huge swaths of people, families, vendors, colleagues, friends, and an entire community living and breathing life outside on their streets…on their blocks. The song is immediately recognizable for its opening—a magical plucking solo on the guitar taking us to the world of bachata, crooning, courting, and professing one’s love.
When I put the song on, you should have seen these kids’ faces. Even if they didn’t “know it, know it” , they knew it and none more than Cruz, whose face instantly lit up from the back of the room, a man possessed, as he started to slow step bachata back to his seat at the head of the class. After making it to his seat he came up to me to shake my hand, as if somehow, by the grace of the musical gods, I had selected exactly the song he needed. “My dad used to listen to this song when he was drunk,” he said, and before I could process the weight of a statement said so calmly, Wilbert closed his eyes and started strumming his air guitar in tune with the song.
The great thing about “Medicina” is how quickly it pulls you in at that beginning section and how it teases you and teases you before Raulin finally starts to sing. It’s almost an entire minute. It’s tantalizing. The feet can’t help but step. The hips can’t help but move. The heart can’t help but cry out. Meanwhile, even though I was captivated by Cruz’ sudden transformation, I saw Coco try so so hard to deny the emotion, catchiness, and familiarity with the song. Sure, she was eye rolling at Cruz, but she couldn’t help but be engulfed in the song’s supernatural aura.
Then, on cue:
Medicina de amor, quiero de ti // Love medicine, I want you
porque ti eres la mujer // because you are the woman
que me puede curar // that can cure
mi cancer de amor // my love cancer
I’m not sure I’d seen anything like it—all ten kids—moving! Working. Fluidly. Seamlessly. Cruz with his hand clutching his heart. Coco following along, but trying everything in her power not to give in. The song had its desired effect, injecting good feeling, easy vibrations, and distilling, if only just, some of the tension and overzealous completion that the opposing alphas had brought with them.
My time, however, was running out. As the song was coming to a close, I needed to keep the energy going in the right direction, so I asked Coco if she had another artist. She thought for a moment and said, “Prince Royce”, who I had only knew a few songs from. I asked her which song and she continued, “Recházame” (“Reject me”). Everyone appeared to be cool with that choice, even Cruz, so I played it shortly after “Medicina” finished, short enough after to where there wasn’t too much dead time in between and sure enough, the bachata guitar came back to life and the shift began. Coco, more animated this time, and starting to sing along with Royce and with her friends, who also knew the song.
Ayy, rechazame // ayy reject me
es que no puedo aceptar tu amor // it’s because i can’t accept your love
ayy, olvidame // ayy forget about me
aunque nos duela hay que aceptar ese dolor // even though it hurts us one must accept the pain
How can I paint this picture?
With “Medicina”, people knew it, moved to it, and were familiar, but only Cruz was being outwardly vocal. With “Recházame”, more began to percolate. The Coco coalition added to the vocalizations and even the guys, who might have been shy to show it, moved along. The shift and next wave had begun to take shape. Meanwhile, they were still adding colors and detail to their shoe sketches, even as the song started leveling up and culminating with every subsequent hook.
The issue was, I would have time for one more song and I only had a few minutes left before class was finished.
…
In my first year in New York living uptown I used to hear people play music on the subway all the time. It always seemed like they’d get on with me at the 181st or further down, closer to 145th or 125th on the A train right before the long break from the next stop at 59th Columbus Circle. My favorites were the guitar players—a lot of the times strumming their favorite acoustic guitars, offering corridos (Mexican ballads) or their renditions of other tunes in Spanish. One of these days a young guy came on. The doors close. *BING BONG* And he started playing his guitar. A wonderful, smooth velvety melody, which would be “Darte Un Besto” (“Give you a kiss”), also by Prince Royce.
…
Amarte como te amo es complicado // to love you like i love you is complicated
pensar como te pienso es un pecado // to think about you how i think about you is a sin
mirar como te miro esta prohibido // to look at you the way i look at you is prohibited
tocarte como quiero es un delito // to touch you like I want is a crime
When I played this subsequent song in that class it did its job, maybe to a fault because at this point they stopped paying most of their attention to the sketches and switched it to the song.
Almost every single kid:
Ya no se que hacer // i don’t know what to do anymore
para que estes bien // so you can be okay
si apagar el sol // if i have to turn off the sun
para encender tu amanecer // to ignite your dawning
falar en Portugues // talk in portuguese
aprender a hablar francés // learn to speak french
o bajar la luna hasta tus pies // or bring down the moon to your feet
The whole class together:
Yo solo quiero darte un beso // i only want to give you a kiss
llenarte con mi amor el alma // fill up your soul with my love
llevarte a conocer el cielo // take you to meet the sky
quiero que no te falte nada // i don’t want you to miss anything
How can I paint this picture?
Hearing this for the first time on the train and being completely taken by it then — the guy had probably performed it hundred of times, knowing there would always be that one person on the train that had never heard it before, that would be undone by its majesty. A man. A song. A guitar. A train.
Watching this class unfold. Exist. Crest. Trough. Weaving their words, feelings, emotions. This wonderful group of young kids, living, being, floating on their magic carpets on a sunny Friday afternoon. A moment in time.
The song ended. They started packing up. It was time to go to the next class. Coco and Cruz, sedated by a Bachata love potion. Alleviated adversaries.
For now.