I
n a fit of extreme agitation the night
before our first class, I haphazardly
threw
together
another
three
lesson plans. Anxiety meant that sleep
was improbable and creating increasingly
incoherent worksheets honestly seemed
like the best option. The next day, I
would meet my group of English as a
Second language adult learners, the
people I’d spend the next four months
tutoring through a local non-profit called
Washtenaw Literacy.
I
had
first
learned
about
this
organization from a guest lecturer the
previous
semester,
and
immediately
considered it as an opportunity to expand
my worldview and actually use some of my
linguistics major. Finally getting a class
should have been an exciting prospect,
except that I knew precisely nothing about
my students. What languages would they
speak? What level would I teach? Could
they respect me, or even like me?
It was that last question that haunted me
most. Because, why should they respect
me? Each had left behind familiarity in
search of something better. They had
come to an unfamiliar country with sparse
English skills and no guarantee of success,
buoyed a hope that somehow things would
work out.
Meanwhile, I was a kind-of sheltered
college kid who had never lived more
than 25 miles from my childhood home
in Dearborn. There was no question that
I would be younger than every single one
of my learners. Sure I had a few months of
training and observation to fall back on,
but realistically, what could I offer them?
In the 30 minutes before the start of
the session, my table filled with people
from seven different countries. So many
students at the table, but somehow the
silence was absolutely deafening. Doing
my best to feign confidence, I took a deep
breath and introduced myself. I mean, how
bad could it be?
It took only about three minutes for
me to realize that it could, in fact, be very
bad. I had spent all night making plans,
but somehow every single one was either
too complex or patronizingly easy. Every
attempt to spark conversation fell flat, and
I had somehow lost the ability to speak in
full sentences. After a painful 90 minutes,
class ended and I retreated to my car to
shed some frustrated tears.
As defeated as that first lesson left me, I
had committed to four months of tutoring
and so I dragged myself back to class just a
couple days later. This lesson wasn’t much
better. It was difficult to create engaging
materials and facilitating conversations
seemed nearly impossible.
However, as I got to know these
learners — their interests, their life stories,
their families — our sessions improved.
People actually spoke to each other and
I got a better gauge of their proficiency.
Every time I managed to clarify some
grammatical quirk or found the perfect
explanation for a ridiculous idiom, I felt
a tiny thrill of triumph. I hoarded every
single one of those little moments of
success until they slowly became the norm.
It’s impossible to pinpoint when exactly
things changed, but somewhere in that
first month, our ESL classes went from
excruciatingly uncomfortable to the best
part of my week. I found myself noting
down reading topics of interest or getting
excited over potential speaking activities.
So when my initial four months were up, I
quickly committed to more, knowing many
of my original learners would return. Now,
nearly two years later, my time as a tutor
draws to a close and I find myself reflecting
often on this remarkable group of people.
While I am ostensibly the teacher,
I’ve never truly felt the role. Rather,
each ESL session teaches me something
entirely original or encourages me to
reevaluate my own viewpoints. Maybe
I’m a little delusional, but I really think
there’s something kind of magical about
these sessions. Though the membership
of this group is somewhat fluid — new
students join, veteran ones move — the
breakdown almost doesn’t matter. No
matter who shows up each week, the
groups somehow manage to transform
our corner of a borrowed classroom into a
full-on international summit — with each
student contributing a unique viewpoint
and background.
In our sessions, things like age,
nationality and education maybe don’t
disappear, but they do become remarkably
insignificant.
A
seasoned
Japanese
software developer and a young German
homemaker chat about American civics,
commiserating over the absurdities of
the English language. Facilitating these
interactions isn’t always simple, but I’ve
gained some key lessons along the way.
Silences can be awkward but almost
never as bad as you think. Sure there
are a few moments of panic when I ask
a question and get only blank stares in
response. But I’ve learned that blank
stares rarely signal blank minds. There’s
great value to moments of consideration,
in navigating a restricted vocabulary when
your thoughts are so much more complex.
It’s also given me an even greater
appreciation for the resilience of each
learner. Uprooting your life to move to
another country is terrifying, to say the
least. Doing it with limited language skills
and without a guarantee of happiness
seems
almost
unthinkable.
Although
hearing their stories of daily frustration
and prejudice sometimes leaves me
furious, I know each of these incidents just
fuels to the determination to learn.
As important as English fluency is, some
things transcend language altogether. In
many ways, I only know my learners in the
most superficial manner. Per policy, we
have no contact outside of our sessions —
no phone numbers or email addresses have
been exchanged. Our relationship is built
on just three hours of interaction each
week.
Despite
the
language
barrier,
I
sometimes feel that they know me as well
as my closest friends. They wish me luck
before every exam (and often give me
advice on improving my study skills!), ask
after my family and even bring remedies
when I routinely turn up sick. In the same
vein, two years has taught me countless
things about each student. I know the
foods they miss most from back home,
which subjects their children struggle
with and their goals for the future.
If this reads a little bit like a love letter
to my ESL group, that’s because it is.
Teaching ESL is simultaneously one of my
most meaningful experiences and the one
I find hardest to define. As graduation and
my inevitable move out of Ann Arbor get
ever closer, I can only thank this group for
not immediately ditching me during that
disastrous first month, for sending me off
with new knowledge and perspectives,
and for so many moments of appreciation
and joy.
2B
Managing Statement Editor:
Brian Kuang
Deputy Editors:
Colin Beresford
Jennifer Meer
Rebecca Tarnopol
Photo Editor:
Amelia Cacchione
Editor in Chief:
Alexa St. John
Managing Editor:
Dayton Hare
Copy Editors:
Elise Laarman
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Wednesday, March 7, 2018// The Statement
Found in Translation
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | MARCH 7, 2018
BY ANJALI ALANGADEN, 2016 MANAGING DESIGN EDITOR
ILLUSTRATION BY ANJALI ALANGADEN