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

Finntan Storer

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

