If you have school aged children whom you wish to send to an educational institution down here, there are a few things you might want to know. For example, you must first wait until they attain the tender age of four years, at which time they become eligible for that new mandatory two year kindergarten program which has caused so much widespread grief and anger since its implementation a couple of years ago (“What do you mean, my six year old cannot enter primaria and instead must spend another year in El Kinder?!!!” “It’s the new law.”). Believe it or not, authorities have emphatically announced their intention to maybe next year declare a third year of kindergarten mandatory, starting at age three. So our first born enjoyed only one year of “kinder,” while his younger sister has had to endure two years of singsong, fun and games. This coming autumn (God willing), they will finally both be going to the same grade school at the same time and getting out at the same time, and Mr. Mom’s daily routine will become so much simpler. Sra Brady has even been offered a permanent substitute teaching job at the school for a whopping hundred pesos a day, which would, if not exactly resolve our financial problems, at least eliminate all of the scheduling conflicts which limit me to night “work.” But thank God she has turned down the offer, having realized that trying to boss around that many underlings at the same time is beyond even her prodigious capacities in that department. The really good news is here in Mazatlán, you can send your child to any school you want, regardless of zoning laws (what zoning laws?). The catch is, there is no free yellow school bus waiting for them at the corner. After much thoughtful consideration, we decided to send little DG (then known as “El Peque,” The Little One) to the kinder in an undeniably intellectual colonia we once lived in. How undeniably intellectual is it? It is a government housing project for

members of the teachers’ union! We figured they would insist on high standards in the kinder, and we were right. Both El Peque and, later, his hermanita, were blessed with an attractive, shady grove playground and an air conditioned classroom supervised by the same kind, patient grandmotherly maestra year after year, and as a result each had a positive first impression of school. DG-cito’s first plunge into the primaria next door was not so successful. Actually, I thought his new teacher was pretty cute at first, but it soon became obvious that the esteem was not mutual. In retrospect, I suppose I got things off to a bad start the first day I went to pick him up. She walked over holding him by the collar and indignantly informed me that, “Your son said a grosería! (bad word).” As usual, I blurted out the first stupid reply that came to mind: “What did he say?” She gave me a conspicuously silent look of contempt if I’ve ever seen one, and released the profane child into my custody. So we were already on thin ice, but still it came to me as a surprise when Sra Brady informed me a few days later that she had transferred him to another school. Seems his teacher had called him a “tonto” for occasionally drawing letters backwards. (Here, “tonto” does not mean “keemosabe.” It’s a rather nasty word meaning “fool”). I mean, give him a break, he’s left handed, he’s in his first week of first grade, and she’s disparaging him for his penmanship (a decidedly feminine skill, surely). Sacre bleu! No need to traumatize the poor little guy! Now, after two years in a more supportive, if less prestigious, academy, the whole time with the same teacher who is wonderful and nice, he’s getting top grades and he likes school. What more can a parent hope for? Anyhow, understanding the local educational system is a learning process for everyone involved, including foreign parents of native children. Just don’t ask me to help them with homework, especially if it’s proper English!