Shaky Plurals & Misused Prepositions: The Horror!

Dear Professor X,

I'm sorry, but your second-language writer will not be able to achieve native-like English proficiency by the end of the semester, as you've requested.

Regrettably,

Heather

I got an email yesterday from a faculty member in the English department. It read something like this: I have a student in my Composition course with HUGE grammar errors. There's no way he'll pass my class like this. I told him he needs to have WEEKLY meetings with you to improve his grammar by the end of the semester.

Frankly, I was alarmed. I imagined a lost cause: a student who still hadn't figured out that in English, the subject comes before the verb. I was expecting the student to shuffle into my office and tell me him name Chong.

Instead, the student came in and introduced himself with grace and clarity. He told me that he'd written a few in-class responses to readings, and that his teacher had been less than happy with his work. He produced the evidence: one paragraph, scratched up with violent-looking red, including an endnote longer than the text itself.

I scanned the offending document. Guess what? There were a few local grammar errors, some forgotten capitalization, and some misuses of the semicolon. No global errors that impeded his meaning in any way. That's it. That's all.

Did I mention that he had written this in ten minutes during class?

Three hours, two jolly rancher suckers and one stryofoamy cafeteria doughnut later (I prefer to eat my way out of stress), I sat down to return the professor's email about Chong's HIGHLY PROBLEMATIC writing. I was polite and positive. I pointed out the type and nature of Chong's errors (articles, plurals, word form), and tried to explain that language acquisition is a process that cannot be "completed" in a few months.

I hope the professor attempts to understand this, and maybe even sympathize a little with this student. Chong has worked extremely hard to advance to this level. University course work in English is the that will further his development, but he's only a sophomore! What can we expect of him besides steady progress? And, by the way, our university admitted him, right? I doubt that his writing skills have regressed since he took that TOEFL last year, and we looked at that score and invited (energetically welcomed!) him and his tuition money to our institution. Why would we have done that if he weren't ready for college-level work?

This is frustrating. Tiresome. Teaching second-language writing in a liberal arts university is a lonely charge. But advocating for our students is crucial, and I'll keep doing it. With plenty of baked goods at hand.

Thank you for sharing.

Some favorite student remarks:

#5: Emailed: "Forgive me, but I cannot come to class today because I have the diarrhea and I have gone to the bathroom many times last night. I think I will go more times."

#4: "Do you make the muscles every day?" (Weight lifting? Flexing in front of the mirror? Paper Mache?)

#3: Perplexedly: "Why are you not like the girls on American Pie?"

#2: "You will never find a husband if you hate men." (After I had brought in a newspaper article about Hillary Clinton.)

And my all-time favorite:

#1: Disgustedly: "You are so eager and young." (Eager was our vocabulary word that week.)

Wherein I try to articulate something deeply abstract without sounding deeply corny

I had a great (online) conversation with a friend and fellow ESL teacher today. She asked me some difficult questions: whether I find teaching ESL to be fulfilling, and what, exactly, do I like about teaching.

It's funny...I can't remember the last time I answered these questions. No one really asks me about my job. I mean, besides my grandparents and my chatty hairdresser. I think most people assume I'm either doing grammar drills or leading a casual conversation all day long ("So do you just, like, ask your students about their favorite foods and stuff?"). Sometimes we talk like that, and sometimes we review tricky grammar, sure. But I teach writing. I talk about writing.

(Before I go on, I should say that an instructor who focuses on the beginning levels of ESL has just as complex of a task as does a teacher of ESL writing. But that is a different post.)

So here are my extended, non-linear answers to the above-mentioned questions, in gratitude to my friend for allowing me to reflect on my experiences as a new-ish teacher of ESL.

Is teaching fulfilling?

My friend mentioned that cringe-inducing saying: "Those who can't do, teach." Maddening!

I've been drawn toward teaching since I was a small child. I begged my parents to buy me an old-fashioned school desk and a chalkboard, which they finally found at a retired teacher's garage sale. At home, I forced my brother to be my "student," and I lectured to him for hours from ratty teachers' editions of textbooks I'd been amazed to discover at the Salvation Army.

In high school, I dropped pre-calculus in order to take an independent study with my favorite English teacher. I took extensive notes as I observed her freshman composition class, and later she let me teach a few lessons. It was heavenly.

When I was offered the teaching assistantship in grad school, I felt supremely lucky. I remember the tentative and mildly alarmed smile on the composition director's face when I told him that teaching English 101 was the most important thing I'd ever done. I'm sure he thought I'd get over that pretty fast, but I didn't.

So, yes, teaching fulfills me.

What do I like about teaching?

I like that there are an infinite number of ways to explain a concept, especially in the teaching of second-language writing. I love taking a potentially boring lesson and totally rocking it. I like surprising my students with the enthusiasm I feel for both writing and teaching. I like watching my non-native English-speaking students surpass the first-year comp students in essay writing.

When people demean the teaching of ESL as simplistic or boring (as opposed to teaching content-based courses), I get it. I mean, sure, I'd love to develop an expertise in classic literature and be paid to discuss Hawthorne's short stories with overzealous grad students.

But that's not what I've chosen. I've chosen to commit my time and energy to helping people from all over the world master valuable language and communicative skills. It's a practical job, and while my former world of literary academia seems to look down on practicality, I don't mind it. Besides, there is always more.

So much more!

There might be a few things I need to figure out before I write that letter of intent...

So, I’ve been kicking around the idea of pursuing my PhD in Applied Linguistics.

Huh.

Upon researching admission requirements for a few interesting programs, I realized that I have no idea why I want to make such an academic commitment, beyond my deep-rooted need for success. And options. I’d like to have options.

Administration? Isn’t that what most TESOL professionals do with their PhDs? Or do they just flaunt their advanced degrees in order to get plum jobs in gorgeous areas of the western United States? That’s what I would do.

3-5 years of a limited social life, an even more limited stipend, and unlimited stress. (I have never managed to achieve that blessed balance between academic achievement and, uh… life.) But what’s worse is moving into another stretch of time in which everything seems temporary. Can’t get a dog yet—it’ll be hard moving with her later. Might as well keep renting—I’ll only be here a few more years. Doesn’t seem fair to get into a real relationship—my life’s gonna be uprooted any minute, now.

Sigh. I never thought I’d be twenty-five-years-old and aching for a sense of permanency. Aren’t most people my age trying to escape being “tied down?”

I wouldn’t mind being tied down if the ties were planted in good, wild land. Fortune, bind me to Montana! Fasten me to Washington State! Chain me to Colorado!

Just release me from my own disenchantment.

If it gets too weird, we could always analyze the use of the subjunctive in Beyonce’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)”

Most Friday nights, I hang out at Jackie O’s or Casa, dancing to Latin music or talking with friends on the deck. My guy friends drape their tanned arms around me and I laugh back because we’re young and we’re single and we're close enough friends to get away with it.

And then I turn toward the stage, and in the crowd around it I see a familiar bolt of gravity-defying black hair, 70’s throwback eyeglasses, white-on-white Michael Jordan slides. I take in all of this colorful fashion and think, “There goes Monday’s lesson.”

Because, of course, the guy is my student. He’s always my student. And he’s always pretty interested in observing his teacher in her natural surroundings. Yes, apparently this opportunity is as thrilling as watching a tiger bringing down a zebra on the African savannah. Especially since I’m not wearing my Naturalizer Mary Janes.

How I dread these encounters. I’m sure my taller friends are tired of acting as human shields when they would really like to be dancing with a cute girl on the other side of the bar. It’s not that I don’t like my students—I do. But I like to keep my personal life…well, a bit personal (but not personal enough to lock down my blog?). I’d rather not have to explain that the handsome friend I went to China Buffet with isn’t my boyfriend, or that I was walking to school not because my car was broken and I’m too poor to repair it but because I like the exercise. Or that I’m quite old enough to educate you on gerunds and infinitives, thank you.

I know my students are just curious—hell, I remember being entranced by the sight of a favorite professor sitting cross-legged on a friend’s shabby rug at a neighborhood get-together. But that was different, you know? He was wearing jeans!

Okay, it’s exactly the same thing. I guess all teachers have to deal with the gawking student effect, right? Maybe next time, I’ll do what my professor did that night: flash a peace sign and a big fat wink.

I know I'm home when my shorts are newly ripped from barbed wire

It’s dangerous, coming “home.”  I still call Libby, Montana my home, even though I haven’t lived here permanently for many years.  But it’s home.  It’s always hard, leaving Montana once more and returning to Ohio.  As pleasant as Athens is, my body doesn’t seem to recognize its charms.

Alas, I am in love!  I’m enamored with my friends, international students and teachers who have brought color and vibrancy to my Athens life.  And I’m still giddy over teaching English, although I feel myself hardening.  (Note to self: do not become one of those stern, never-smiling instructors who revels in routine.)

Dream scene: Teaching ESL in Bozeman, Sandpoint, even Coeur d’ Alene.  Kayaking between essay drafts, backpacking on weekends.  Visiting my parents often and forging some sort of relationship with my brother.  Meeting a man who owns a pickup and knows his way around a Coleman stove.  (A man who doesn’t recoil at the idea of marriage--but that is a whole other fantasy.)

Part 1 of my plan (because I always, always have some sort of plan, no matter how transparently futile) is to bask in this newfound love.  The rest is top-secret, though I’m sure you can guess what it entails. 

I crush cedar for perfume.

What Not To Wear: Teacher Edition

I never cared much about clothes until I became a teacher. I slunk around in little boys' t-shirts and busted up jeans, gloves with the fingers cut off and Birkenstocks past their prime. It wasn't that I was vehemently anti-fashion; I was just lazy and financially limited. Also, I figured that it took more effort to dress in a consistently dumpy manner than to attempt to look good every now and then. So I pretended that my shabby look was intentional and hoped no one noticed.

These days, I can't get away with such sloppiness. Not so much because I have a "real job" that I respect by dressing appropriately (which is true), but more out of self-defense. Not only do I have to display myself in front of fifteen Polo and Guess-clad international students every day in the classroom, I also seem to run into my students around town at an alarmingly high rate. Regardless of where we are, they notice my clothes.

I know I sound paranoid, here. For those of you who require proof, here are some gems from previous students:

"Are those shoes leather? I think they are plastic."

"Did you change your hair on purpose?"

"Your arms are a little strange for a woman. Do you lift weights like a man?"

Most of these seem vaguely insulting, though all were delivered innocently enough. With second language learners, it's sometimes difficult to discern between criticism and curiosity. I try my best to breeze through awkward moments like these. No big deal, right? Yet I often find myself wondering, later in the day, why Ayumi* had been examining my unremarkable boots.

My theory is that students are fascinated by any information that allows them to understand their teachers as human beings rather than grammar robots, or whatever. Not that we educators are robotic, but learners sometimes assume that our lives are restricted to teaching during the day and grading during the evening. Students seem genuinely surprised when they witness us doing regular stuff that doesn't involve school. (Kind of like the time I saw the desk librarian from my elementary school at the county fair. She eats corndogs! She's not carrying a book!)

Yes, the attention is somewhat flattering, but also distressing. It means that I'm always being watched. Watched!  Hence, my current work wardrobe of black, black, and boring. No funky cardigans, tiny braids in my hair, or purple nail polish. I know, completely dull. But safe! You got something to say about my black crewneck? Didn't think so.

*All names and nationalities have been changed