There’s a saying that goes: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” And so, I wait. I wait for teachers to show up to school. I wait for students to be assigned classes. I wait for meetings to begin. I wait for lessons to be taught.
School starts at half past 8, but on the first day, students wandered in through the gates closer to 9. Not a single child brought paper or a pen. But at least they showed up, which is more than half the teachers can say. Fifteen teachers failed to report, and one came with her baby tied to her back.
Police tanks spraying tear gas barreled down the street; the water cannons followed quickly in tow. I ran for cover, ducking into a McDonald’s just as employees pulled the metal doors shut. The June scene, a once common occurrence in Santiago, is long-gone now as students buckle down to finish a school year extended so they could meet graduation requirements despite monthslong protests and sit-ins. At my school, however, the strikes have just begun.
