February has never been my favorite month. It’s the point in winter when your skin is no longer surprised by the bite of the cold, when you anticipate an indifferent, infinite greyness to manifest itself in everything from the sky to your turkey sandwich, when the four walls of your bedroom are the only things you care to see on a regular basis. In February, you are numb to the darkness, and that’s simultaneously relieving and terrifying. 

It’s also the month in which one is supposed to commemorate love, whatever that is to you. But quite frankly, when your closest surroundings include spindly black tree limbs, early evenings and peers seemingly crumbling to bits, the timing sucks.

As I believe I’ve mentioned before, I have the unique circumstance of literally living next door to one of my students. Her name is Sofia; she has sweet dark eyes, a slightly mischievous smile, and is the only student who knows that I speak Spanish--and yet she hasn’t told a soul (doing so would render me almost entirely useless in class as students would most likely speak to me in Spanish instead of English, the language they’re supposed to be learning). 

Toward the beginning of the year, Sofia’s hand was in the air more often than a bird, her participation so frequent and enthusiastic that the teacher scolded Sofia for occupying class discussions and preventing--or intimidating--others from contributing. Perhaps identifying with Sofia a bit, I humored her thoughts and explanations even when they were off-base or entirely wrong, and in some ways I guess you could say I favored her. 

I returned from my break in the States with heavy feet and shaky resolve, where I too was surrounded by a handful of people who would always humor my often off-base thoughts and ideas. I thought that both issues would resolve themselves upon seeing my students (particularly Sofia) and that by extension I could selfishly feel better again via the supposed emotional consistency of others.

That wasn’t exactly the case. In class, Sofia’s hands found a new home on her desk and her eyes fixed themselves to the empty space approximately four feet in front of her. She no longer participated; she sat in silence.

Home was different, though. Given the circular setup of my apartment complex, what I do in my room can be heard just as easily in the next room as it can in the flat across from my bedroom window. In the evenings, then, it wasn’t unusual for me to hear the sound of Sofia’s little sister crying, doors slamming, and exasperated arguing for large stints of time. I remember once when I was coming back from the grocery recently, Sofia and her father were exiting their apartment and had left the door open for a moment, presumably in anticipation of another’s exit. They obviously weren’t expecting my arrival, and when Sofia saw me turn the corner of the stairwell, she ran to close the door in what I can only guess was fear, embarrassment, or a sad combination of both. I couldn’t see much beyond a mass of cardboard boxes piled one on top of the other, though I did notice a bed sheet taking the place of what would have otherwise been a proper door to the sitting room. Sofia meekly greeted me only after I made a point to say hello, and then quickly disappeared down the stairs clutching tight to her father’s hand.

Friday was Sofia’s last day in class. It turns out that her father had been unemployed for several months and, after exhausting all other avenues of employment as the sole breadwinner of the family, was no longer able to afford rent. They’ll be moving to the south of Spain next week--where the economic situation is even direr yet the cost of living is cheaper--and that will be that. I’ll probably never see them again and am currently struggling how to articulate my feelings on the matter.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I work with a single mother named Carmen, whose football field-sized heart has brought her Ismael, her son and one of the only reasons she even bothers to get up during the week, along with a wealth of disappointment that has now started to spill into the classroom. Carmen has had several breakdowns in the month and a half since school has been back in session, a couple of which occurred when I was the only “adult” around to receive and respond to them. As I don’t really consider myself much of an authority figure when it comes to relationships (let alone parenting), I felt that the biggest help I could give her was assuming the role of de facto teacher for the time being while she navigated whatever storm it was that was troubling her.  

Even that only lasted for so long, as she has now begun to divulge to me the goings-on in her home during class; how tired she is all the time; how blind-sighted she was when one of the men she dated and to whom she lent a substantial amount of money suddenly decided to stop coming by (she of course blamed herself instead of her shit choice in sleeping partner); how guilty she feels for not being with her mother following her father’s recent death. It’s certainly put me in a bit of an awkward situation: I can’t ignore the hand she’s extended to me but I can’t disregard her students, either.  They're why I'm here, after all.

The in-class distractions and collapses have gotten so bad that the headmaster has personally told Carmen that her behavior is no longer acceptable, and should anything of the sort happen again there will be serious repercussions. Turns out that Carmen has been trying to ween herself off anti-depressants for the past couple months. Understandably, Carmen thinks that the emotional dry well where Prozac drops her isn’t reality, and now that she’s been off her pills for so long she might as well try and stick it out for her own good--as well as her son’s. Truth be told I don’t know if her job will allow for that, and for that matter I’m not sure how much longer she’ll have a job at all, but I plan on bringing her flowers on Valentine’s Day regardless.

In summation: strange times over here. I personally plan on hightailing it out of Madrid on Friday and overindulging in fine wine as a Valentine’s Day gift to myself. Ready for Spring.