6:20 A.M. and my alarm goes off. I never woke up this early for any job but then again, I’ve rarely woken up and been excited for work at any hour of the day. I get out of bed quickly, make myself breakfast, put on something casual, and walk three minutes to the metro; it’s still dark out.

The metro is Palos de la Frontera, and I take it one stop over to Embajadores. From there, I get on the Cercanias, usually around 7:40, depending on timing. I ride it for about thirty minutes, my stop being the last one. I get off at Humanes, and walk almost fifteen minutes to the secondary school that I teach at. Sometimes I walk with the other teachers and they help me practice my Spanish. The sun is rising, and makes a beautiful pink glow over the school, offering a greeting that I like to think says “Welcome! Today is a new day, and a fresh opportunity to shape the futures of the youth! Go forth!”

As I near the school, I pass groups of students. They wave and say “Hello, Angela!” I say hello back and ask them how they are. The more confident ones reply “I’m fine thank you, and you?” The others smile and giggle with their friends, embarrassed because they know I said something but they don’t know how to answer on the spot. I enter the school, and the receptionist says “Hola, buenos! Que tal?” I reply “Buenos dias! Bien, y tu?”, hoping there are no students around who will hear me speaking Spanish. One of the receptionists doesn’t speak any English and reminds me of the cute Spanish grandmother I never had. She likes talking to me in Spanish, unaware of the need for me not to reveal to my students that I do in fact know some of their language. I think she wants me to improve because she once asked me how it was coming along. “Poco a poco” is the word.

8:30 A.M. and the bell rings. Herds of students flood the two main buildings and the peaceful morning is broken by their loud chattering, as they stand outside the hallways, waiting for a teacher to yell at them to get back into their classroom. I make my way to the Gomez building for my first class of the day: Primero Bachillerato.

Spain’s educational system is confusing, but one month later, and I think I’ve grasped it. Students have compulsory education up until age 16. From there, they have three options: continue with free, non-compulsory education known as Bachillerato, go to vocational school, or join the workforce. I have two Bachillerato classes, primero and segundo, so ages 16-18. My other classes have ages 12-15.

Primero Bachillerato is a struggle. Combine your typical teenage attitude of not caring about English class, with a shyness to speak the language, and you get a classroom that doesn’t talk when you ask them questions, and talks loudly in Spanish to their neighbor. Their English level is very low, probably because there are typically only three students that ever talk. Some of them seem too shy to speak; others, tired and uninterested.

The bell rings at 9:20 and I walk back to the Fernando building for my Primero ESO class–my 12 and 13 year olds. As soon as I step into the uproariously loud classroom, shouts of “Hello Angela!” and “Hi Teacher!” greet me. Students are jumping around, not sitting at their desks, but all I see are happy faces–they haven’t seen me in a week, and are excited I’m there. What a nice change from my first class! These students are louder than others, so much so that I’ve found myself having to yell at them to “Be quiet”, or give them a glare while I snap my fingers to shush them.

I go from class to class, my role in the classroom differing depending on what they are learning that day. I give presentations, I help them with their group work, I answer their questions of “Teacher, what does this word mean?”, and I indulge in their jokes, providing an overall lighter mood to the classroom that they don’t necessarily get when it’s just the teacher. My job is to assist the teacher in whatever she needs, and that can involve as little or as much work as she wants. I typically spend an extra two hours lesson planning outside of school

It’s Friday, my busiest day: English Department meeting and five classes, from 8:30-2:30. The projector in one of my classes isn’t working; time to herd twenty five students, as quietly as possible, to a different classroom. I walk past a class in session, and they simultaneously turn their heads at me, waving and yelling “Hi Angela!” It’s impossible for me not to smile.

My last class of the day is always chaotic; the students are sweet and participatory, but they are antsy and excited to leave. The bell rings, and there’s a mad rush for the exit.

Time to walk back to the Cercanias. Students crowd the parking lot and sidewalks, making their weekend plans, and I feel a strange sort of nostalgia come over me. Shouts of “Bye, Teacher! Have a good weekend!” follow me. I think about the weekend’s plans, what new place in Spain I’ll be visiting next. The sun is shining. Life is good.