Doña Tura’s Spanish vocabulary and grammar tutelage over me was not very long, if memory serves: one school year, maybe two, max.
However, her impact was lifelong.
She lived in the “otro campo” — the labor camp. Her house served as a school for younger children. She had one or two assistants, probably relatives, who helped keep tabs on the young and restless, or, in my case, hyperactive scholars. We may have been restless, however, we also knew that to irritate or otherwise provoke Doña Tura with our inability to sit still for at least a while, would likely result in a stern warning, loud enough to turn us into innocent pussycats.
In one of the classes, I sat next to white curtains which separated two rooms, similar to the flimsy drapes which separate business from economy class in some airplanes. In my infantile and energetic curiosity, I wondered if I could twist those curtains together and began doing so. The more I turned the cloth, the tighter it got and began to take the form of a nice torsion or spiral. Pretty neat, I thought.
Next thing, I heard a deafening voice, seemingly right in my ear, demanding I cease and desist — “¡Deja esa cortina!” I released the object of my curiosity and swung around so fast that the room spun, as the curtains unraveled back to the state intended by Doña Tura.
My age at the time of attendance at her school, was likely 6 or 7. She drilled us with vocabulary and grammar and penmanship. I was too young to question why my parents would take me there when I was already attending school at the Campamento Americano, and while my mother also drilled me at home.
Of course, years later, my parents’ actions became clear to me. The only other Spanish grammar and vocabulary instruction I ever received was by a teacher who came to our camp when I was eleven. He succeeded in tutoring us in the accent and other, more advanced grammar rules. Both his and Doña Tura’s training were instilled in me for life.
However, had I not had the privilege of Doña Tura’s early guidance, I doubt that the teacher who came later would have made any progress whatsoever with me.
In Gentle Regrets, Roger Scruton wrote, “The purpose of the school was not to flatter the pupils but to rescue the curriculum, by pouring it into heads that might pass it on.” Even as children, we understood that, if only intuitively. We understood there is a real distinction between knowledge and opinion; Doña Tura taught us accordingly. We knew she was doing more than merely “drilling”; she was imparting knowledge unto us, knowledge we would use the rest of our lives.
So, for instance, when she drilled the Spanish alphabet into us … “Aa, Bb, Cc, CHch … Nn, Ññ … ” she did so knowing she was teaching us the basic facts of the beautiful Spanish language. And she hoped — she had faith — that we would use that knowledge and, over a lifetime, gain wisdom.
We may have failed her in that “wisdom” part; if so, that was not her fault, but ours.
I believe the last time I saw Doña Tura was during my three week visit in 1978 — however, it might have been during an earlier visit; I am not entirely sure. What I am sure about is that she still lived in the Otro Campo but in a different section. Of course, she had aged, but was still very energetic. Her hospitality was impeccable and as we sat across from each other, during a quiet moment, I thanked her for having been my teacher. I’m not sure she remembered — she seemed to hesitate, but then replied simply, “Oh, de nada.”
That is a common reply to a “Thank you” — “For nothing”.
Only it was certainly not for nothing. And now, many years after her departure from this earth, I again say, “Gracias, Doña Tura”.
Aerial view of the “Otro Campo” (the labor camp) where Doña Tura lived and where she taught me. Unfortunately, I could not find any photos of her.
