Angelitos Alegres - Happy Little Angels

It's not everyday you get to graduate 32 Ecuadorian preschoolers. But when you do, it's a mix of slightly awkward, intensely adorable and simply confusing.

Amanda, Josh and I have been living in Puerto El Morro for less than two weeks, yet have already become the three town celebrities. Or at least the three strange gringos that are known for being tall, being white, and exercising – a very strange thing to do here. Puerto El Morro is predominantly composed of crab farmers and children under 10 years old. The residents' income largely comes from fishing and breeding an expensive type of crab. (We will unfortunately not be able to sample them though, as it is illegal to eat these crabs from January 15 to February 15 – the exact dates of our time here, while the crabs mate and grow new shells. Although yay for acts of environmental conservation!)

Life is tranquil; days move slowly and conversations even slower. The weather – which when you live this close to the equator hardly ever changes, is a popular conversation topic. As is my blonde hair; even the 5th time you ask me, my answer is still yes, it is natural. If we ask our host mother what type of juice we are currently drinking, we will not only be told the answer, but we will also be given – as though imitating the infamous scene from Forest Gump – a list of every type of fruit juice she is capable of making: pina, maracuya, guayaba, limonada, papaya tomatillo, melon, gelatina . . . When asked how old the city of Puerto is, everyone becomes involved in the debate. “Ohhh bastante! (A lot!)” The conversation does not speed up, but more voices are interjected as everyone tosses in their two-cents. “150 years!” “115.” “The church is 200 years old!” “200?!” “No...” “Mucha historia!” “My grandfather lived when Simon Bolivar passed through. Mucha historia.” The final answer? A lot of history, the town is very old. Yes, time has no real foundation here.

Historical time is seemingly lost, as is hourly time. Yesterday afternoon we arrived at the community center to watch the preschool graduation. In April the 5-year olds will begin kindergarten at the Big Kid School. We arrived early (and by that I mean on time. Everyone else showed up “on time” – an hour and half late). We sat outside the community center on the concrete benches and watched the parents and preschoolers trickle in. Moms arrived in heels and make-up, dads had their dark hair slicked back in style, and the petite graduates were dolled-up in their Sunday best. The teachers were all wearing gray business suits and looking incredibly clean. Everyone was so clean. Good thing we can just sit in the back and watch, I thought as I looked down at my flip flops caked in dried mud and my dirty capri pants, feeling rather under-dressed for the occasion.

Once almost all of the children had arrived – a good hour after they were supposed to, everyone stood outside the center. The preschoolers struggled to remain in alphabetical order, preferring instead to climb on the walls like monkeys or pull the girls' perfectly curled pigtails. The MC announced for the guests to take their seats. Amanda, Josh and I moved towards the wide double doors to find chairs in the back where we could whisper in English and snap a gazillion photos of the cuteness that was about to ensue. One of the teachers stopped us from passing inside. The MC then announced for the “Guests of Honor” to take their positions in the front of the room. The teacher pushed us into the line that included the preschool principal, education director, and the Catholic priest. Confused, and unable to spit out a counter-argument in Spanish quick enough to contest, we were soon sitting in front; three gringos staring like deer caught in headlights out towards a sea of smiling parents. (The irony should not be lost that the most I have struggled to understand during this entire trip has been when patient women who spend their entire day speaking to 3-year olds instruct me to do something.)

The graduates entered the room next, a train of 5-year olds that only derailed into mild chaos a few times. Next, we all rose to sing the national anthem which was a peppy dialogue between two different voice octaves about Ecuador's independence from Spain, or perhaps about how to cook corn – I really couldn't tell you what was said. I seemed to accidentally lose my pamphlet of language abilities outside the door of the community center around the time I realized that we were not just going to be passive observers but instead active participants. Convenient, Aer.

Then the priest rose, and we prayed, crossed ourselves, prayed, sang, listened to scripture, and then prayed. All against the backdrop of small children wearing button-up shirts and perfectly ironed dresses punching each other and whining. I became even more conscious of the 150 sets of eyes resting on us as I realized I didn't even know which body part came first in making the sign of the cross – the head or the shoulder? Shit. I decided to just sit, in my muddy sandals. Well I may be under-dressed and confused, but at least all I have do is just sit here and feign understanding.

Once the priest decided we were properly educated, the graduation ceremony began. The first child was called to the front. The tiny man dressed in his white button-up, bright blue slacks, polished black shoes, and blue bow-tie stood in front of the mass of observers waiting to receive his certificate. First the godfather (if you don't have one, your father; if your father couldn't attend, your mother; if your parents were busy, your grandparent) tied the graduation cape around the child's shoulder. Photo. Then one of the esteemed guests from our table pushed the tiny mortarboard cap on the child's head. Photo. Then I was called upon to give the child his certificate. Wait what?! I'm not important. But yes, Amanda, Josh and I were serving on the board of trustees so to speak and we were somehow without our knowledge serving the community, at least at this time, as much as the director and the priest were. I placed the certificate in the tiny clutches of an equally confused child and we both awkwardly gazed into the camera. Photo!

When each child has a name as long as the bus ride from Quito to Guayaquil, when three different people must rise and walk to the front of the room for each child's ceremony, and when a photo is taken of every step of the process, 32 graduates took quite a while. By the end of the alphabet, the preschoolers were either spitting on each other or jumping off chairs with their new flying abilities given to them by their new special capes.

Once all the children received their certificates, they were rounded up like cattle to perform their despedida (goodbye) songs. As their tiny voices filled the one-room community center, they quickly redeemed themselves from the monkey devils they had been just moments before. The teachers distributed tiny shots of the most rancid champagne I have ever tasted and we toasted to the longevity of the angelitos alegres (happy little angels). We were each given one heart-shaped cookie the size of my thumbnail, and a tiny ball of cookie dough wrapped in tissue paper. After happily consuming our preschool-sized treats I was ready to go. But then the colossal-sized meals were passed along – a heaping scoop of rice, fried chicken, and a few pieces of lettuce. I should have known. One thing Latin America is good at is cooking in huge quantities and ensuring that if you are at a fiesta, it is your own damn fault if you leave hungry. And then there was cake. And the children were once again adorable cape-flying terrors.

We left soon after cake, feeling that our incredibly important position as certificate and hat giver was completed. I said a few thanks and goodbyes, and ducked out, eager to shuffle my flip flops along the muddy, unpaved streets. It is not everyday that one gets to see 32 preschoolers graduate, let alone serve on the board of esteemed guests after only two weeks in a community. This town is welcoming, open, and eager to show their gratification. Not to mention, it is pretty dang cute.