My classroom occupies two adjoining rooms, one cavernous, the other a small, octagonal space. Those in the octagonal room can’t see me when I teach, nor can I see them.

The larger room is a history teacher’s room. Giant screens hang from the ceiling. White boards with lavender markers and books line the walls.

I’m winging the lesson. I pass out index cards to the students, saying, “Choose a name in Spanish, and write it on the card. If I draw your name, you’ll receive candy. But I forgot to bring the candy, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”