Lesson Eleven: Division that Leaves No Result: Oracy and Literacy

            In reference to age, one year, three years, four years, and five years are quite significant, no matter which corner of the globe you go.  Ask people if they can guess what happens at those ages, and most will probably be able to tell you:  the ability to listen meaningfully (smiling at the sound of your voice), the beginnings of speech, the ability to read, and then the beginnings of writing.  These steps happen universally.  It is the natural process by which humans develop cognitively. 

And, yet, when it comes to academia, we constantly test, examine, analyze, quiz, drill, pound—you get the picture—two things:  reading and writing.  To give an example, I am a junior in college and, having gone through the entire public school system, have taken over ten standardized tests (read this, write in that), not one of which involved any listening or speaking exercises.  It will not be until my senior year of college that I will be administered a speaking activity, as part of my teaching certification.  It appears to me that—save a few select majors, such as mine—a student may pass through the entire public school system, and even college, without having once been evaluated on his/her listening and speaking abilities.

How, then, do we expect English Language Learners (ELLs) to ever be on the same par as native speakers of English?  It is assumed that they will simply “pick up” skills in listening and speaking in social contexts—a reasonably fair assumption for native speakers, though flawed.  If we feel the need to educate native speakers in academic reading and writing, we take the position that simply acquiring reading and writing skills from social contexts—text messaging, environmental texts, etc.—is insufficient.  By that position, it is our duty to educate students—all students—on how to listen and speak, because what is “picked up” from social contexts does not meet our expectations.  Throw a language barrier into the mix, and you have even higher a demand to instruct students—native speakers or ELLs—on how to listen and speak.

Lesson Ten: Community, Globality, and Everything in Between

            There are some six billion people living on this planet.  These people are scattered across six continents, 195 countries, and thousands—or millions—of cultures.  It is no surprise that, among these cultures, countries, and people, there are distinct differences.  You would not, for example, shoot somebody a thumbs-up in the Middle East, unless you intended to be highly offensive.  You would not find the Bushmen of the Kalahari Desert pondering discrete mathematics, much less whether or not Lindsay Lohan stole a necklace.  What is surprising, however, is the number of similarities.  Geographical location seems to take no toll on certain aspects of culture.  Whether you come from the gigantic landmass of Russia or the tiny island of Japan, for instance, you will probably have the same views about self-reservation in public.  The Internet Culture Projects helped to show some of the differences between cultures, as well as highlight some of the differences.

            One similarity I found interesting was between Laos and the Middle East.  In both places, it is considered rude to display the bottoms of one’s feet, the rationale being that the bottom of one’s feet is considered quite filthy, and by allowing them to be exposed—even by crossing one’s legs while seated—you are disrespecting all nearby.  The Middle East attained this custom via Islam; Laos, however, with Muslims representing only .01% of the population, has had practically no exposure to Islam, and has attained this social custom through completely different means.

            Another similarity was between the Philippine and Hispanic cultures.  In the middle of the day, usually around noon, an hour-and-a-half break is scheduled into society.  Children can leave, go home, eat lunch, take a nap, etc.  This commonality, however, is an instance of cultural diffusion.  Due to Spain’s colonization of the islands, the practice was adopted into the culture.

            It was definitely a treat to tour the world, so-to-speak, in class.  We got to see what we can expect from this culture or that culture, and we also gained some insight as to the level to which countries, cultures, and people are the same.  In my future classroom, I will most certainly be referring to the Internet Culture Projects for both quick-reference and detailed research into the cultures of my English Language Learners.

Lesson Nine: Instructional Novelties and Their Place in the Public School System

     As a requirement of the Secondary Education Minor + Foreign Language Major at UALR, I must also become ESL certified.  In my first course of ESL, or English as a Second Language, I share the classroom with many students wishing to become ESL certified.  I speak for myself—although I feel it would be safe to assume this for the rest of the class—when I say that my view of ESL and ESL programs was entirely inaccurate before this course.  I thought that, with my certification, I would be qualified to teach a student—who may not speak English—who had been mainstreamed into an all-English-speaking classroom environment.  While this is indeed true, I had no idea that other ESL programs existed.  Along with textbook readings, the film “Profile of Effective Teaching in a Multilingual Classroom” opened my eyes to another form of English language development:  a classroom-wide language learning environment.

     Ms. Liten-Tejada, the teacher of the classroom in the video, is in charge of something truly magical.  Imagine:  one classroom, around ten students, about as many different ethnicities and native languages, and all of the students communicating!  Through various teaching strategies, Ms. Liten-Tejada teaches the students in her class English, regardless of their language and educational background.  From basic things such as speaking more slowly and simplifying directions, to the effective implication of visual cues and group-based activities, the teacher involves every student in the learning process.

     Another benefit to the class-wide approach to teaching ESL is the ability to teach one idea from many angles.  Study after study confirms that when content is taught in a foreign language, and a foreign language is taught around content, both language and content are retained better.  Ms. Liten-Tejada is not only able to teach an idea across disciplines—e.g., the art of Egypt and the history of the pharaohs—but is also able to solidify language usage among the students.  This approach is a surefire way to ensure that the material that is to be covered is learned, while the language is actively retained.

     In my future classroom, I hope to be as skilled an ESL teacher as Ms. Liten-Tejada.  Maybe, if my fortune is good, I will get the opportunity to lead such a rewarding classroom like hers.  Maybe, I will help to renovate the currently-flawed ESL programs in school districts nationwide.  Maybe, because of me, a student will go forth possessing the skills necessary to succeed. 

     Even if those skills are as basic as speaking English.

Lesson Eight: The Passing of Time and the Age of Importance

            Perhaps all of us are aware of a Hollywood trend:  actors, such as the couple “Brangelina,” adopt children from a foreign, impoverished country, in the hopes of enriching the children's lives.  And, certainly, living in a household in which both parents have starred in more than fifty high-grossing films combined would leave a child with nothing close to a disadvantageous life.

            What we might not be aware of, however, is that many children are adopted from lower-opportunity countries into everyday American households.  It's easy to imagine Maddox Chivan, son of “Brangelina,” taking for granted his lifestyle, not even realizing what life in his native Cambodia is like.  But, is it harder to imagine that Kaylan, Anisha, and Lizzie—three girls adopted from India into middle-class Minnesota—would do the same?

            When the PBS program Frontline offered to take the three girls back to their home country, the girls' answers were surprising.  They had images and stories in their heads—the typical stuff you or I see and hear about India through the media.  When Kaylan puts on an Indian garb she ordered on the Internet, she is relieved to put her “normal” American clothes back on.  Anisha fears sticking out in Minnesota crowds, but feels American more than anything.

            Once arrived in Calcutta, the girls were taken aback.  They remarked at the beauty of a city so full of sadness.  They commented on the terrific—or terrible—sights all around them as they rode the bus through the city alongside lanes and lanes of bicyclists and confusion.  At the mall, they nervously laughed, realizing that the pizza, McDonald's, and ice cream they had eaten were just unreachable goals for the people all around them.

            What, then, do you suppose Nguyen Qui Duc thought as he returned to Vietnam, from which he was evacuated at the age of ten?  From ten onwards, he was raised American; however, the seeds of Vietnamese national pride and patriotism had already been planted.  As a journalist, Qui Duc returned to Vietnam.  He did not ride the bus, but instead biked most of his way.  He did not patron international restaurant chains, but instead local holes-in-the-wall for their delicate Vietnamese cuisine.  He did not express desire not to have been born there, but instead spoke of his home country in a tone of utmost respect.

            This difference is remarkable.

            As a future ESL teacher, this differences reenforces perhaps the most crucial of all instructional proverbs:  No two students are the same.  A classroom may have two students from Guatemala, and these two students may share some similar characteristics.  However, one student may have come to the United States at age three, possessing little or no attachments to their home country, while the other may have come last year and may feel very strong attachments. 

            Age may also be a factor, as well as the students' level of cognitive development.  For example, a first grader is likely to grow very angry if someone insults his/her mother, whereas a high-schooler might simply shrug it off and continue about the day.  Similarly, a younger ELL may have an innocent, learned attachment to a home country that may be grown out of as the child develops.

            They key in my future classroom will be understanding my students on a personal level.  Even with an Internet Culture Project, and the resources it will provide, nothing will beat the level of knowledge you can gain from a student by simply talking to them.  And, this is understandably so:  even in a class of 30 kids, getting a personal portrait of each and every student is difficult; across seven classes, it only takes more and more time.

            It is amazing to see the difference in the Indian girls' reactions and those of Qui Duc upon returning to their home country.  How much more amazing will it be to teach them?

Lesson Seven: The Phenomenon of Chicken Pox

     I want to start this entry by saying that the Chicken Pox video was absolutely amazing.  As a Spanish major, I have frequently heard that children attain a second language far more quickly than adults or teenagers.  However, I never imagined that such a phenomenon could take place so rapidly.  Kindergarteners, after only a handful of weeks’ exposure to French, were being spoken to, instructed, and speaking in French.

     The teacher in the video united several different instructional strategies, as well, creating the perfect learning environment for his students.  From an ESL perspective, the teacher was doing everything possible to ensure that the students were learning the language naturally.  They heard the words first; they heard them many times.  From hearing the words they inferred the meanings.  Eventually, they spoke the words.  Then—and only then—did they see the words and read them.  This follows how toddlers learn their first language (listening à speaking à reading à writing).

     In my future classroom, I will try my hardest to successfully employ as many effective language development instructional methods as the teacher in the Chicken Pox video. 

Speaking of my future classroom, I had never really seen myself as an early childhood educator.  The thought of being in control of a room full of thirty screaming six year olds never piqued my interest.  

     Now, upon seeing the innate skills children at such a young age possess, and the feeling of reward that a teacher must possess upon witnessing the children progress, I feel as though a new wind has blown.

Lesson Six: The Plurality of Languages and Its Profound Effects on Education

     Can you remember a time in high school--middle school, even--that you were bored in class?  The teacher was saying words and waving his hands back in forth in seemingly meaningful ways, and you were watching the second hand on the clock creep painstakingly slowly towards the twelve.  The teacher's lesson was certain to be important, something you would need to know in the future, especially on the test--and, yet, you simply could not keep focused.
     Now, imagine the same situation, with one difference:  every paragraph or so, the teacher would stop and speak a paragraph or so in Scandinavian, repeating himself in a foreign language.  Not only would the teacher's lesson time be struck in half, but the teacher would also have further trouble maintaining students' attention.
     This is the argument of many opposed to bilingual education and, just like the method it describes, is flawed.  This is not, however, the only available option for bilingual education.  For example, there is Pull-Out English Language Development (ELD), which is set up roughly like a Gifted and Talented program, in which students are pulled out of their regular class schedule for x number of minutes per day in order to receive instruction.  Sometimes a class period is worked into an English learner's schedule as an official class, but which receives no college entrance credit.  Additionally, there are well-designed courses, taught by well-certified educators, that teach English Language Development to students for college-applicable credit.
     As a student going into Foreign Language Education, I will also be certified to teach English as a Second Language (ESL).  In my decision upon which school I wish to teach at, a number of factors will come into play--among them, the type of ESL program available for language learners.  The method outlined in the second paragraph of this entry has been proven to be inefficient, and, should I be expected to comply with such a program, I would try rather hard not to teach in that district.  However, if another program--such as the college credit-worthy ELD courses--I would try rather hard to teach in that district.
     Unfortunately, the latter is more expensive and more of a "hassle" to school districts, to the extent that perhaps none exist in Arkansas--at least to my knowledge.  Larger schools, especially in larger states such as California, have access to more ELD resources.  But should a student's access to effecting instruction--both in English and in content--be limited by their geographic location? 
     Bilingual education is staring at us with a straight face.  It isn't bluffing.  It's our move.

Lesson Five: Social Conjugation and the Changing (or Changed) Face of Society

     We have all heard of Thomas Edison.  We know who he is and what he is famous for.  We know Benjamin Franklin, Alexander Graham Bell, and Henry Ford.  Apart from being revolutionaries of their times, they have something else in common, as well:  they are all white.
     A challenge:  Try to think of as many non-Caucasian inventors as you can.  It is likely that you cannot name nearly as many as you can their white counterparts.  This is evidence of a deep-rooted, racial prejudice--one that has only recently begun to be counteracted in textbooks nationwide.
     This move towards cultural awareness is evidenced in many classrooms across the country.  One example is, of course, the Little Rock Nine of the 1950s, which served as an impetus to future social progresses.  Pulaski Heights Middle School--where I observe an educator--currently displays informative posters outlining famous African Americans and their accomplishments.  These posters champion cultural diversity by providing students with information about people of other backgrounds, races, ages, and genders.
     In my future classroom, cultural diversity will be an almost inseparable component of daily classroom discussion.  Being a Spanish teacher, teaching Spanish to students comes not only with knowledge of the language, but also with knowledge of the culture, the people, the literature, the art, etc.  Individuals' viewpoints will be volunteered, valued, voiced. 
     Discussions of immigration and its effects on all aspects of society will be frequent.  Will the community's vote on ordinances begin to change?  Will labor unions be strengthened or weakened?  In this way, students will be engaged in cultural diversity, actively participating and actively aware. 
     George Washington Carver, Enrique Ostrea, Ann Wang:  maybe someday, children will name these among their list of most famous inventors.

Lesson Four: The Tongue Twisting Reality and a Teacher's Role in Revealing It

     When you logged onto your computer today, you probably didn't realize much. Sure, you might have noticed that somebody you hardly know broke up with her boyfriend on Facebook, and, if you're really astute, you might have noticed Google's new doodle. However, there is a complex, prerequisite understanding that you must possess in order for any of this to happen. However basic or trite it may be, this first-things-first principle is language. You read and interpreted the fields “Username” and “Password,” and knew what to do.

     Indeed, if you can read what I'm writing, if you know what I'm saying, and you know that I haven't made any grammatical mistakes thus far (or so I hope), then you have mastered something vastly difficult. Imagine, for instance, somebody had played a prank on you and switched your browser's default language to Italian. Anything except that which is in memory would be completely unintelligible. It would take anywhere from several weeks to several years to master Italian and regain ability to use your computer (or, of course, you could ask your friend to change it back).

     The point is this: language is complex, involves many rules, and can appear overwhelming; however, it is within human capability to master not only one, but multiple languages. In spite of their complexity, however, languages do share a handful of things in common.

     The first shared characteristic is that language is “dynamic,” meaning it can—and does—change. Twenty years ago, “Google” was nothing but a mathematical figure, and ten years ago, a “facebook” was nothing more than a photo directory. Now, both terms represent nouns, verbs, and participles. New words are introduced into languages at an accelerating rate. Queen Rania of Jordan, for instance, invites her Internet followers to “twisit”—a combination of “Tweet” and “visit”—her other online outlets.

     The second characteristic is the level of complexity. No language is “primitive,” or in any way less complex as a whole than other languages. English students studying Spanish may find the constant noun gender-conjugating a nuisance, while Spanish students studying English may find the number of irregular verbs in English staggeringly difficult.

     The third similarity among all languages is structure. There are only so many phonemes (individual sounds such as /m/, /b/, or /e/) in each language that speakers can combine to form words. Also, there are rules in each language for which phonemes may be placed together to create morphemes, or units of sound that have meaning. In Spanish, for example, /s/ + /p/, or /sp/, is an unacceptable phoneme arrangement, and will cause difficulties among native speakers, who will often add an /e/ to the beginning forming /es/ + /p.../. The same goes for English, in which Ndawlktx would be an unacceptable phoneme arrangement. Beyond that, at the level of words and sentences, there are rules that govern syntax, or the ordering of words in a sentence.

     Beyond spoken or written language, there is an antecedent form of communication that often lends certain contextual clues such as mood, urgency, and importance, to the speaker. This ancillary form of communication is body language. Leaning forward or backward while speaking, standing or sitting, slouching or standing upright, and maintaining eye contact or avoiding it can all indicate extra information beyond that which is coming out of your mouth.

     Problematically, certain body language can signify different things in different cultures. A teacher of mine once gloated that she could detect whether a student was lying by their level of eye contact; a few weeks into the semester, a foreign exchange student whose cultural upbringing taught to avoid eye contact with superiors proved her embarrassingly wrong. People of one culture may be certain that specific body language—such as nodding your head, or giving a thumbs up—is innate, whereas in actuality both mean different things in different cultures.

     As more and more Language Minority students enter the American classroom, further and further accommodations will have to be made. Be them after school programs, weekend English or tutorial classes, or even in-class teacher-directed strategies, changes will have to be made so that the issue of language—as well as culture—can be dealt with.

     In my classroom, I hope to promote understanding of multiple languages and cultures.  Exposure to other cultures is often limited in classrooms—especially in more rural areas.  This can bar a students' understanding of how large our world actually is, the host of different types of people there are, and the extent to which cultural differences, well, differ.  

     There is a lot to learn—more than just the content area.

Lesson Three: Opportunity Knocks Less at Houses with No Doors

     Students' disinterest in going to school is so deeply embedded in American society that it has come to be expected. To be sure, if a student wishes to find examples in the entertainment industry, he doesn't have to look very far before being sunburned by the radiation. From Ferris Beuller's Day Off of the '80s to The Suite Life of Zach and Cody of today, going to school is portrayed as a chore, something to get out of, a system to be beaten, “The Man,” so to speak. So many children have attempted to “play hookey” that dodging classes has become a culturally identified phenomenon.

     On the other hand, Shugafa—a girl from Afghanistan—actually enjoys going to school, and does so despite the danger of poison gas or other attacks by the conservative Taliban militia, who oppose the education of females. Neeraj, a girl from India, also looks forward to going to school, even though her daylong household chores require her to go by lantern light at night. Joab, an African boy, goes to school in spite of living practically on the streets. And, yet, some American students miss class due to an oh-so-necessary trip to Taco Bell.

     PBS's program, Wide Angle, decided to explore the lives of seven children from seven different countries at different stages of their education. Wide Angle's documentary, Time for School, began in response to the agreement of all 191 members of the United Nations to provide free, basic education for all children. Every three years, Wide Angle revisits the children to learn about their education, the obstacles they have faced, and their views on the future.

     Time for School revealed two anomalies that were personally significant.

     The first is that children in areas where education opportunities are scarce, tend to appreciate their education to a higher degree (no pun intended) than students in locations where school is almost universal. The five children who live in limited-access areas—from the slums of Rio de Janeiro to the villages of Benin—seemed to overcome many hardships in order to receive their education. On the other hand, Ken and Roluca—Japanese and Romanian, respectively—seem to share something quite peculiar: their hardships seem to be self-inflicted. Ken juggles the rigorous school system, after-school tutoring, baseball, skateboarding, video games, etc., and Roluca studies tirelessly in hopes of scoring highly on a practice entrance exam. These higher-performance students appreciate their high-level education, but more than likely take for granted the very existence of an education.

     The second is that the limited-access children tended to aspire to the same careers as one another, as did the full-access children. Shugufa, Neeraj, Joab, and Nanavi all expressed interest in becoming a teacher or opening a school. To me, this spoke of utmost gratefulness. Perhaps, even, these children could witness the effects education was having on them and desired to pass the torch to their neighbors, to strangers, to everyone. Ken, however, had his sights set on a career in graphic design—not that this is any less worthy of a profession, but it simply reflects the overall attitudes of each child.

     As a teacher, I feel that it is my obligation to thin the gap between the two sets of children. I don't intend on teaching in Afghanistan, India, or Brazil, but instead here in the United States. That means that I'll likely have a classroom full of Ferris Beullers—students who know about the “starving kids in China,” but who don't really care. Now, I don't mean that I'm going to flash pictures of Nanavi or Joab at the beginning of each class like a donation commercial, but I do intend to make my students value their education. Through engaging activities, momentum-driven discussions, and provoking assignments, I hope to teach more than just my content area.

     If all goes as planned, who knows? Maybe one day a student of mine will pass the torch.

Lesson Two: The Greatest Barrier May Not Be In Australia After All

      Many of us remember well our first day of high school. I know I do.

     As the school bus pulled into the campus, I peered across the baseball field at the middle school, where I used to stand and wait for class to start. I snickered at the kids still trapped there, with their colorful backpacks and talk of the latest trading card game. I was about to cross the void and step out onto the curb in front of the high school—and, in so doing, begin anew the four-year process.

     More nervous than confident, I scanned the crowd for my friends, whom I magnetized to almost instantly. We talked about our classes, the events of the summer, and which “clicks” we could identify and rank in terms of importance in our social agenda.

     The bell rang and classes began, and it wasn't all too long before I realized that high school was almost identical to middle school. Eight hours, boring teachers, sprawling lectures, chained-to-your-chair—it was all the same.

     Unfortunately, for many, however, the first day of school is nothing like anything else before. For a native English speaker, not having the greatest English skills may mean a C on a paper. But, many students who speak a language other than English in the home (Language Minority Students, or, LMS), are Limited English Proficient (LEP), which could mean confusion, stress, and failing grades. Those students who are LEP are at an obvious disadvantage.

     How large this disadvantage is—and the number of students limited by it—varies from state to state. In Arkansas, the answers to those questions may be surprising: there are more than 29,000 LEP students, almost 1000 of which are not enrolled in any sort of program “specifically designed to meet their educational needs.” For the 28,000 who are, the state allots $293.00 per LEP student per year, and, in many school districts, that may fall drastically short of the funds actually needed in order to provide meaningful assistance to LEP students. In the annually reported results of the Home Language Survey—a survey sent home with every student at the beginning of each year—nine school districts with over 90% of their LMS students being LEP are displayed on the first page alone, six of which had 100%. There are five pages.

     What does all of these figures mean? The answer is twofold.

     First, it shows that future educators will be dealing with an increasingly different classroom landscape than in years past. Students who are not participating in class, or who do not turn in homework, may not be “lazy” or “underachievers,” or—Heaven forbid a teacher saying it—“stupid.” Instead, they may not be proficient in English. Imagine being in a classroom in Spain and your Maestra telling you to write an “oración compuesta,” whatever the heck that is.

     Second, it reveals that not enough is being done to assist LEP students. In the past seven years, LMS students have increased by 85%, while LEP students have increased by 115%. Is $293.00 per student really enough? It is obvious that it is not.

     While a teacher may have a hard time convincing the principal, superintendent, or school board to change policies to better accommodate LEP students, it is definitely possible for a teacher to make a difference in the life of an LEP student. By understanding that there are students who may not speak English on the level of their peers—or, who may speak it perfectly but lack the ability to write it—teachers can personally accommodate. For example, a teacher could set up extra instructional time.

     The statistics in some states are better than in Arkansas, while in other states they are even worse. What is important is that all students receive a quality education, free of bias and disadvantage. The Education of All Handicapped Children Act (1975) and its amendment in 1990, the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, promised free, equal, accommodating education. It is quite safe to say that being Limited English Proficient is disabling. However, is it safe for us to say that we've been doing our part?

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All statistics come from the Arkansas Department of Education Programs for Language Minority Students 2009-2010.

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X and Y: Instructional Effectiveness and the Differences that Lie Therein

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This is a paper assigned for a different class. It is posted here due to its rele-vance to the overall theme of this blog. It is not related to any assignment of Dr. Dhonau's class.
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     It is hard to imagine a student entering the field of education without some person—or persons—whom they wish to emulate. Be it a favorite teacher, a counselor, or even an administrator, there is more than likely someone in all future educators' pasts who affected them positively, whose values and methods they wish to employ, and oftentimes who directly influenced their decision to enter the field. Likewise, in each past also lies the opposite—someone whom students wish never to be like. For me, at least, such is the case: one teacher, Mr. X, left such an impression that I aspire to be practically just like him; on the other hand, another teacher, Mr. Y, serves his sentence in the back of my mind as my personal counter-example, the teacher whom I wish I never become. While there is still debate over whether teaching is scientific or more of an art, there are several concrete, objective reasons behind my differing opinions of Mr. X and Mr. Y.
     As far as Spanish teachers go, I have had them all—teachers who favor traditional approaches to teaching the language, teachers who favor more immersive methods, and teachers who instruct uniquely. Mr. X, my eleventh- and twelfth-grade professor, taught in his own, distinct fashion—a combination of both traditional and newer instructional approaches. First, Mr. X successfully blended education with humor. In the middle of a PowerPoint-based lecture, as students' eyes slowly began to droop, a slide with an outrageous or otherwise humorous photo, quotation, or drawing would appear, regaining our attention, returning our focus to the class discussion, and reenforcing his lesson goals. Second, the learning environment was grade-A from day one. Students were encouraged to ask questions, seek clarification, and contribute to the conversation; even if in doing so they led the discussion in a different direction, Mr. X would always tie everything in—by the end of the lesson, there were no questions left unanswered. Third, if any student was still unsure of the day's content, Mr. X had wide, flexible office hours, could schedule appointments outside of those office hours if need be, and was able to provide helpful supplementary teaching to all who desired it. It was rather difficult for a student to finish his course with a low grade, as Mr. X made himself approachable with any and all questions, comments, and concerns.
     It would be difficult to play tennis in a football stadium. Similarly, Mr. Y was in the same stadium, but playing an entirely different game. Being my school's only music director, Mr. Y taught me from fifth through tenth grade. The effectiveness of his instructional practices are doubtful, to say the least, and he left a lasting, negative impression on countless pupils throughout the years. First, his management of classroom time was poor. The school had not yet adopted block scheduling, and his numerous time-wasting activities cut the already short instructional time drastically. After the bell would ring, he would regularly sit in his office making phone calls, filing papers, or finishing research until ten minutes into the class. He often stopped the students, mid-song, to answer calls on his cell phone—effectively damming the flow of learning for the whole class. Second, classes were always arranged in the same manner: a lecture lasting anywhere from ten to thirty minutes, and then song rehearsal. It was nearly impossible for a student to ask a question, and, if Mr. Y did acknowledge a student's raised hand, the question was dealt with in a condescending tone that seemed to imply, “I know everything about this, and you know nothing.” Third, and perhaps most detrimentally, Mr. Y had an anger issue. At the slightest mistake—either on the student's part or his own—he would resort to yelling at, insulting, and otherwise demeaning students. This unprofessional aspect did no good for anybody involved: it lowered the students to a level of fear and insecurity, and it lowered the students' opinion of him to a level at which respect was simply out of the question.
     As a pupil of each teacher, my feelings towards the two were much the same as they are now. I remember feeling very connected to Mr. X, both academically and personally. He was both a partner in learning to me and a close friend and mentor. His presence commanded a sort of tacit, amiable respect. I looked forward to his class, as it was a diversion from the regular, stuffy lesson-planning that comprised the other six hours of my day; it was also an outlet through which I could express my own ideas and listen to peers' thoughts in relation to the subject. We were allowed to be ourselves—our actual selves, not the cookie-cutter students we were trained to be—which brought a wide diversity of opinions and perspectives in the classroom. Where there is diversity, there is a whole new level of learning.
     Conversely, I purposely avoided any connections with Mr. Y beyond those that were necessary to pass his courses. He was not a friend, and he was hardly a teacher. He sought respect through intimidation, but received none. I dreaded his class, I lied about the honor-system-based homework, and I never practiced or did anything to excel. He expected each student to think and act in the same way—his way—but in reality we were being stifled. To say that Mr. Y was effective teacher is a crime to the field.
     I often find myself comparing new professors of mine to Mr. X. I look at his methods, which were more than effective, and try to determine if current instructors measure up. Mr. Y, however, is usually far from my mind, which speaks to the long-reaching influence a positive instructor can have when compared to that of a negative instructor. I know that in the future, I will be doing the same measuring of my own strategies of teaching. I hope to connect everything my students learn with something important to them, as Mr. X did so well—a joke, a local sports game, or something similar. I want my students to feel welcome to participate in their learning, to feel that no question is too big or too small. My availability to students outside of class will also be an important factor. I hope to use time in-class as the valuable resource that it is, and not something that can be wasted and replaced later. In other words, I want always to be X, and never to be Y.
     Education is crucial in more aspects than one. A student will bear the fruits of a constructive education through all stages of life. The student will be better able to lead, inform, and advise coworkers in any profession, and will be more active in his/her own child's education. A student who has received a negative education, however, will be at a disadvantage. I feel that it is my duty as an educator not only to prepare the generation of tomorrow for what tomorrow might bring, but also to make connections with students that continue outside of the course, span their high school career, and extend into even later stages of life. Mr. X, for example, frequently invites me to dinner, where we discuss our lives, our expectations, and the lessons that we have learned. Mr. Y, on the other hand, I have not seen or spoken to in over four years. It is my wish that my students can remember me some day as both an effective teacher and a friend.
     After all, I would like to invite them to dinner sometime.

Lesson One: Cover-Based Book Judgments and Their Unsettling Consequences

     I was starting to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable.

     It was the first day of the semester, and the students—some groggy, freshly out of bed, and others crisp and professional—were gathered around the door, waiting for the teacher to arrive. I had chosen to spend my wait next to two professional looking individuals who were discussing their expectations for the semester. They included me in their conversation and asked me about my major. I was envisioning the increasingly rare opportunity of having friends in a course, timidly nodding in agreement to whatever it was they were saying, when all of a sudden a voice came from the other side of the hallway.

     “Oh you're a Spanish major?!” it called.

     There was a momentary pause in my companions' conversation as they assessed the interruption. The voice had been that of a middle-aged woman seated amid her many bags and notepads. Tacitly voting me off of their own personal island, they resumed their conversation without me.

     Realizing that I had yet to respond to the lady across the hall, I blabbered something in agreement that, yes, I was indeed a Spanish major.

     Before I could turn back to the original pair, the woman continued. She told me about her many changes-of-major, the difficulties of being both a mother and a full-time college student, and—seemingly with nothing else to say—her excitement at having found another Spanish major in the class. Trying not to appear rude, but perhaps with no particular attention paid to saving face, I helplessly tried to get back on my original companions' island.

     The teacher arrived, barely unlocking the door before the flow of impatient students funneled inside. There was a hearty tug on my shoulder—not your average, first-day-appropriate tap, but a shake to a rattling degree of faux pas—as the eager woman from the hallway asked where I was going to sit. I moseyed to a spot in the front row, and the woman dropped her supplies next to my spot. It was obvious that I was going to get to know this person, like it or not.

     I'm glad that I did.

     Her name—for the sake of this blog entry—was Catherine, and she was a first-generation immigrant to the United States. She was born to white parents in Italy, where she was raised; she lived there until 2007, when she and her family immigrated to the United States for employment purposes. Catherine speaks five languages fluently with the desire to learn more, and her English was a second language, albeit flawless. A few socially-off interactions later, she and I exchanged contact information, and we currently chat on Facebook.

     Why is any of this important?

     I believe Dr. Dhonau once stated in class that teachers are never granted the privilege of assumption—a message that struck a special chord with me as I sat, attempting to hear a trace of a foreign accent in Catherine's English. She looked like me, she sounded like me, and she acted—for the most part—like me, save a few quirks. I couldn't help but believe that if she had engaged in conversation with me wearing a traditional Indian sari, or with German-language stickers on her laptop bag, I would have reacted far more positively to her interruptions.

     In my future classroom, the temptation to make the same blunder as I did on the first day of this semester will be a powerful one, if not a subconscious one. A room full of facial features, hair colors, and body languages will urge me to classify everybody instantaneously: this person may be a special-needs student, this person looks “normal,” I expect this student to do well, this person is this, this person is that. A roster full of names that I predict to be this ethnicity or another will precede even the classroom.

     It will be my job as an educator to do away with such instinctual classificatory assumptions. I won't be babysitting an assortment of strangers for an afternoon or two, in which such assumptions may be efficient and beneficial—I'll be teaching a relatively small number of students who bring their own personalities and experiences to the table, and I'll be doing it for the entire length of a year or more. To make general assumptions based on hardly anything at all—a name on a roster, the way a student seats him/herself, or an off-the-mark statement or behavior—would potentially damage the chemistry of the classroom, cause future speed-bumps in the learning process, and be a waste of valuable time, as the students would most likely prove me wrong.

     Catherine did.