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.