Over the years, I have taught many memorable students in my Spanish classes, but I seem to recall some students more often than others. One of these students was Larry, who on the first day of class already had a Spanish name that he preferred to be called: Lorenzo. When I first started teaching, I tried to give everyone in class a Spanish name since we are supposed to be speaking Spanish in class the whole time, in theory anyway. When I took Spanish in high school, everyone had a Spanish name. Mine was the same: David but pronounced in Spanish. When I took French, I was Dave, pronounced in French. When I studied Spanish in college, everyone had a Spanish name. So, when I started teaching Spanish at a Morton college, I attempted to give every student a Spanish name. However, I encountered so much resistance and resentment when I attempted to give students a Spanish name on the first day of class. So, after I few semesters, I stopped trying to give students a Spanish name. Now, I have them fill out an index card that I use for calling on students at random. If they so desire, a student may write down a Spanish name he or she prefers to be called. Not many students want a Spanish name, especially the students who only take Spanish to fulfill the foreign language requirement.

So anyway, this student named Larry, with what I thought was Russian last name, insisted that I call him Lorenzo when I took attendance on the first day of Spanish 102. I was impressed! I thought, “At least I have one student who loves taking Spanish!” However, immediately after class, when the rest of the students had left the classroom, Lorenzo told me that he had never taken Spanish before. For the spring semester, the college did not offer the required Spanish 101 class that Lorenzo needed to take before Spanish 102. So, I had to give him permission to allow him to enroll in my class if I thought he could complete the course with a passing grade. I was unsure whether or not to permit him to take Spanish 102 without any previous knowledge of Spanish. At a community college, the attrition rate is more than 50% for Spanish classes, so I was reluctant to let him take the course. I needed more convincing from Lorenzo himself, who hadn’t even bought the Spanish books yet.

Well, Lorenzo had two daughters in high school who studied Spanish and had won some kind of state awards for their proficiency in Spanish. He wanted to become more involved in his daughters’ Spanish studies. Although he had never studied Spanish or had paid attention to his daughters when they did their Spanish homework, Lorenzo decided he would now learn Spanish even though he was a typical American who only knew one language. Apparently, he knew no Spanish at all.

Of course, I believe that you’re never too old to learn a foreign language, so I told Lorenzo he could take my class, but that he would have to study very hard by learning the material in the first six chapters of the book (we would cover chapters 7-12 in Spanish 102). I told him I would be just as demanding on him as on other students who had already taken Spanish 101. I wasn’t going to cut him any slack just because he had never studied Spanish or was the oldest student in the class. Somehow, I had a feeling that he would do well in Spanish 102. Well, after the first quiz, he scored somewhere around a 70% on some topic as difficult as the subjunctive and we were both surprised! After class, I told him he did well because he had done everything that I had asked of him. He admitted that he did–plus, he practiced speaking Spanish with his daughters. I don’t remember his exact final grade, but I do remember that he got either an A or a B and we were both excited that he done so well in class because of all of his hard work. When I saw him the following semester at school, he greeted me in Spanish and we conversed in Spanish quite well. Obviously, he continued practicing his Spanish during the summer with his daughters!

Well, I finally got around to filing my income tax returns. Benjamin Franklin was right when he said that the only in things in life that are certain are death and taxes. The IRS reminds us yearly that we must pay taxes. Luckily, death only taxes us once. But what a tax!

I do my own taxes. Some of my friends are amazed that I’m able to fill out my own taxes. To most people, the tax codes and the Internal Revenue Service are the great unsolved mystery. But all you must do is follow all the lines on the 1040 form, and if you have any questions, just go to the little booklet that the IRS sends you and find the answer that you need. It’s that easy! People convince themselves that they cannot fill out their own tax returns, and therefore, have someone else prepare their tax returns.

My mother was one of these people. She religiously went to H&R Block every year. Her reason was that she owned a home and had extra paperwork to fill out in order to take advantage of all her tax deductions. When I started working, she told me to go to H&R Block, too.

I was going to, but I had a tendency to do the opposite of what my mother wanted. So I looked at the IRS booklet that I received in the mail and read it cover to cover. My mother was amazed that anyone would read the booklet, let alone understand it! Anyway, I filled out my own tax return my first year of employment. I believe that was the first year of the EZ Form, which was the form I was supposed to use according to the tax booklet.

The Illinois state tax return was just as easy to fill out. I was about to mail off my return, but my mother knew I was up to something! She had this secret sense that all Mexican mothers possess. She stopped me at the door. “Are you going to H&R Block now?” she asked, but I knew she knew what I had done. “No,” I told her, “I did my own taxes!” My mother gave me a look that indicated that I could not possibly be of her own flesh and blood. “Let me see them,” she said and took my federal and state tax returns out of the envelopes to examine them. Luckily, I hadn’t sealed the envelopes or put stamps on them yet.

My mother pored over those tax returns, much in the same manner as I imagine that archeologists first examined the Rosetta Stone. I nervously awaited her verdict. Finally, she said, “You’re not smart enough to do your own taxes! You’re going to H&R Block!” Obviously, she couldn’t check my calculations to see if I had actually did my taxes correctly. Those tax forms were as mysterious to her as hieroglyphics.

I knew I had done my taxes correctly because I had checked and double-checked. But I was only eighteen and I was supposed to listen to my mother because–well, because she was my mother, and I was only eighteen years old and still living under her roof. So, I went to H&R Block without my version of the tax returns I did because my mother didn’t want to be embarrassed when the tax preparer saw how wrong I was.

Of course, my mother was sure that I was beyond feeling any shame for my boldness to think that I could actually understand the tax law. Well, the tax preparer used the same EZ Form that I did and came up with the same exact figures that I did, only I had to come back in a week after someone else had checked his work and made copies for me.

When I showed my mother the H&R Block’s and my tax returns side by side, she still wouldn’t believe me that I had done them correctly. I never totally convinced her that I was right. She was glad that I went to H&R Block because, “At least, you know they did your taxes right!” She always taught me to second-guess myself. I wasn’t smart enough to do anything right, according to her. But at least I knew I was right, although it took me years of second-guessing myself before I developed enough self-confidence to believe in myself. Nowadays, I have plenty of self-confidence! I think.

Okay, I take back my last Blog entry. I love Christmas! Yesterday, Christmas Eve, I spent the day with my sons, and we went to my brother’s house for the Christmas Eve festivities. I love getting together with my family. I especially love giving gifts to children and seeing them go up to Santa Claus to receive them. Of course, not all children approach Santa Claus willingly or without crying. I don’t like to brag, but I didn’t cry this year as I sat on Santa’s lap. ¡Feliz Navidad!

When did Christmas become so stressful? I remember all the excitement and joyful anticipation when it came to Christmas. When I had my paper route, I loved all the excitement leading up to Christmas morning knowing that my parents, brothers, and sisters would be excited about the gifts I had bought them with my own money.

I used to dread Thanksgiving Day because then Christmas is just around the corner. But now I am beginning to dread Christmas soon after Halloween when all the stores start selling their Christmas gifts. Mainly because I hate Christmas and because I hate shopping.

How did a religious celebration become a capitalistic day of obligatory gift giving? No, I haven’t forgotten that Christmas stands for Christ Mass. I used to go to midnight mass at Holy Cross Church as an altar boy; I utterly understood the meaning of Christmas. I remember when I used to see large crowds in church for Christmas. Now I only see them in stores as we scramble to get the last toy or doll on the shelf. I guess fervent devotion still exists, but in a different form.

Well, only two more shoplifting days left until Christmas! Merry Christmas!

As a police officer, I work with many different partners. Partners of both sexes, different races, and many religions. I seem to have a good relationship with all my partners. One of my favorite partners, Calvin, is African American and I enjoy working with him because we have so much in common.

We both attended a Catholic school, we both went to the Marine Corps Boot Camp in San Diego, we are both college graduates, and we both work a second job. We actually have fun working together because we learn a lot from each other.

One day we drove past a bus stop with an ad of displaying an African American. I said, “That looks like someone I should know.”And he told me it was Ludacriss, the rap singer. About a month later, my sons are flipping through the magazine and they stop to look at the same ad that I saw on the bus stop. My oldest son held up the magazine and challenged me. “I’ll bet you don’t even know who this is,” he said. I immediately fired back, “That’s Ludacriss!” My son was amazed.

Anyway, Calvin and I got along so well that he started calling me, “my bro-THUH.” I was flattered. One day he found out that I taught college Spanish for my second job. So, he started calling me “mi hermano.” After a while, I missed hearing the words, “my bro-THUH,” so I started calling him “my bro-THUH.” Every time he saw me, he would call me, “mi hermano” and I would call him, “my bro-THUH.”

One day, another police officer witnessed our exchange of greetings and tried to be funny by saying, “You two don’t look like brothers!” And I said, “I didn’t say he was my brother. I said he was MY BRO-THUH!!!” That’s totally different, right?