Reflections on Teaching and Learning English

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I wrote this article over a decade ago, but the ideas presented are just as relevant today.

In the time I taught English language learners, I was daily intrigued by the differences in their backgrounds, their stories, and their learning behaviors as they struggled to master the vagaries of our language.

         Along with their material belongings, many of these children brought emotional baggage with them to their new schools.  A child’s emotional state can impact the manner and speed with which s/he learns a new language.  Researchers in language acquisition call this factor the “affective filter.”  The filter can be loosely meshed and let in a lot of new information, or it can be almost a solid wall of resistance and shut out communication.

         The concept of the affective filter originated with Stephen Krashen, an expert in language acquisition.  It is one of five hypotheses Krashen developed about the process of language acquisition.  (The other four are acquisition-learning, monitor, natural order and input)  The affective filter addresses the socio-emotional variables that impact language learners.  According to Krashen, the most important affective variables that encourage new language acquisition are: low anxiety learning environment, student motivation to learn the language, self-confidence, and self-esteem.

          Learners of a new language may not only lack motivation, they may also be downright resistant.  I experienced this first-hand when I lived in Israel.  The summer after I finished sixth grade, my parents sold our home in Los Angeles and took me to Israel with the intention of emigrating.  For almost half a year we lived on the outskirts of Tel Aviv and I attended the local public school, where all classes were taught in Hebrew. 

My parents found a tutor who tried to teach me Hebrew.  Six months is plenty of time to pick up the basic functional communication skills of a new language, especially if you’re young.  But I was uprooted, pubescent, lonely, and sullen.  My affective filter was on high and I determinedly learned as little Hebrew as possible.

         Fast forward thirty years to the summers when I worked with high school age migrant students.  One boy from Colombia was a continual behavior problem.  From his writing, we learned how angry he was at being taken from his home, and how desperately he missed his grandparents and friends.  He was passionate about his country.  The longing he had for his home was heartrending.  And yet, amidst all this turmoil, he was supposed to learn English.

         Another time, a classroom teacher and I met with the parents of one of my ENL students.  This little kindergartener refused to speak in school, in English or Spanish.  Our inspired principal arranged for the parents to record their daughter at home.  In her own house, the little girl rattled on in both languages, teaching her younger sister all the stories and songs from school—in English. 

         During the conference, the child’s mother said that, a few days before, her daughter had asked her, “ Mami, should I talk like you or should I talk like my teacher?”

         What amazing discrimination for a five-year-old!  We teachers could only wonder at the way this child chose to deal with her conflicting loyalties.  How to choose between her mother, and mother tongue, or her new teacher and English?  Silence was her answer to the problem.  Her affective filter was tuned to let everything in and nothing out unless she was safe at home.

         Teachers who interact with ENL students need to be aware of the power of the affective filter.  Emotional issues can strongly influence the rate of English acquisition.  Cultural conflicts can impact students’ learning as well.  Children can find themselves caught between the traditional or religious practices of their family and the freer American lifestyle of their peers. 

         A child who seems unresponsive, lazy, slow, or sleepy may be showing just the tip of the iceberg.  If we have ever traveled in another country, we know how tiring it is to keep trying to decipher the speech.  Eventually we may shut down in self-protection, just to get some rest. 

         It’s up to the teaching adults to inform themselves about each child’s country, culture, and customs.  Were they willing or reluctant immigrants?  How did they come to our country, and whom did they leave behind?  The more teachers can help to lower that affective filter, the more comfortable the child will feel when tackling our rather complicated English language.

         I suppose I saw the ENL students as being a little more fragile than our homegrown kids.  Sometimes enormous sacrifices are made so that these children can take advantage of the opportunities offered in this great country of ours.  Families often endure long and painful separations, not to mention stressful living conditions.  Listening to their stories, I was constantly reminded that this kind of fortitude and aspiration is what built the United States. 

Bed

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Photo by Malidate Van on Pexels.com

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  1. In the store:

“Oh, yes,” said the manager,

“we’ll take the old bed away.

Just tip the guys twenty dollars each.

That’s what they usually get.”

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“What will you do with the bed?”

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“If it’s in good shape,

we put it on Craigslist.

We leave it out back.

People pick it up.

And if not,

they take it apart

and recycle what they can.

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“It’s a good bed.”

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  • Advertisement:

Free: king size bed

Includes mattress and frame

Must go by Sunday

Email:

I want this bed! Please!

Phone call:

I have ms.  I’ve been sleeping

on a mattress on the floor.

My dad is coming this weekend.

My son and my dad can get it.

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Do you still want the bed?

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No reply. She’s dissolved.

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Email:

Please send photo,

phone number.

I send a photo.

He calls.

We have a great conversation.

He calls back.

His wife doesn’t want it.

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  • Delivery:

Two jolly movers

heave the king size mattress

over the balcony.

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“The manager said—”

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“Nah, it’ll go to the dump.”

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“But he said—”

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“Uh-uh, the dump.”

They load the good mattress

into the van

I picture it tossed onto

black bags of garbage.

Maybe they’ll keep

the box spring and frame.

Maybe.

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It was a good bed.

It should have been passed on.

I now carry it on my back

along with all the other

plastic and garbage

I’ve discarded.

Tattoo

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Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

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I have permission to post this true story. Names have been withheld.

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Electric shaver buzz hums along my scalp.  Hairs trickle and prickle down.

When I am shorn short, writing a check, I ask the stylist, “What’s the story of your tattoo?”

She has a Native American woman’s portrait in full fur and feather headdress from shoulder to elbow.

“Oh, I’ll tell you the story,” she says, sitting in one of the styling chairs. “When I was twenty, I decided that I wanted to be a permanent make-up artist.”

“Like tattooing eyeliner and eyebrows?” I ask.  “A friend of mine did eyeliner.”

“Yeah, but you can do a lot more than that.  Lip liner and shading, and blemish erasing.  It’s awesome.  So, I went to a training school.  And as part of the training, we had to practice on each other.  I chose a Tree of Life for my back.  Each of the students got so many minutes to work on my back.”

 I’m already thinking, this is not going to turn out well.

“Of course, I couldn’t see what they were doing.  They put all these stupid things hiding in the tree branches, like an emoji happy face, cartoon characters, and some joker tattooed a penis on my shoulder.”

At this point, I’m wondering why she didn’t look at her back while they were doing the tattoos.  I don’t ask, though.

“This happened ten years ago.  I didn’t let anyone see my back for ages.  I never wore a bathing suit or a sundress.  I was so embarrassed and angry.

“I took them to court, and I won.  They paid the fine, but they never showed any remorse.  They still thought it was a big joke.

“Finally, I showed the tattoo to my boyfriend’s friend who was a tattoo artist.  He didn’t laugh.  My boyfriend paid him to fix the Tree of Life.  And this one, the woman on my shoulder and arm? That’s my grandmother.  I’m part Romanian and part Native American.  See—she covers up the pee-pee that was right here.”

Yellow

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Photo by J Lee on Pexels.com

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It starts with creased, yellowed papers of students’ work

stacked in a wire file basket

It’s the end of August, time to prepare

for the new kids coming in.

“Toss it all,” says her colleague from across the hall,

as he strips the bulletin boards bare.

She picks up a wrinkled sheet, reads

My mom got yelow paynt for the kichn.

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Yellow paint splatters, spilling that memory

of her ex, with the walrus mustache.

And when he bends toward her,

the father of her aborted child,

the wild-haired Lebanese

who cajoles, “Tell me

how many men you’ve slept with.”

And when she counts them off

on her fingers,

he slams the ladder to the floor

(they are painting his bedroom yellow)

and calls her “slut” and “whore.”

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The ladder shatters into spikes of glass

from the windowpane

he’s punched with his fist.

He bleeds on the yellow pillow she made for him,

with his name embroidered in Arabic,

that he’s cut open with a Chef’s Best knife.

“See what you made me do,” he says.

“See what you made me do.”

Grace and Gratitude

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Stuffy nose!  Sinus pain!  Headaches!  Unable to breathe at four a.m.!  Since September, I’d been having nose trouble.  Was it allergies?  A sinus infection?  If I went to an ENT doctor, would she tell me to get rid of my cat?

Finally, in December, I’d had enough so I went to a new ENT in Middletown.  She peered into my facial orifices and pronounced there was no sinus infection.  But I should, she said, see the allergist.  I went the next day and met Dr. P., a young Korean doctor.  While typing rapidly on the computer, he took down my medical history.  I was impressed with his speedy keyboarding.

I mentioned that I’d been retired from teaching for eleven years. 

“Oh, what did you teach?”

“Second grade for sixteen years, and then ENL—English as a New Language—for eight years,” I answered.  “I loved it,” I added.  “I loved working with those students and their families.”

Dr. P. stopped typing.  “I was in ESL when my family came to the U.S.,” he said.  “I still remember my teacher’s name and her face.”

He went on to tell me that he’d come from Korea to a high school in Baltimore in ninth grade.  The teacher was so caring and helpful, he said, and she provided a comfortable space for him and her other students.

“She didn’t just teach English,” said the doctor.  “She taught us about American culture and customs—stuff we needed to know.”

I nodded in agreement.  “It’s a special person who chooses to teach ENL,” I said.  “I ended up hearing things about my students that a regular classroom teacher with twenty-five or more in a class would never learn.  ENL teachers become advocates for the kids and their families.”

In my mind, I saw my students: the kindergartener from China who only knew one word in English, toilet.  The fifth-grade girl from Mexico who wanted to be a doctor.  The first-grade girl who refused to speak for an entire year.  So many that I loved and nurtured and watched adjust to the new language, new school, new everything.

Dr. P.  was now putting on his blue non-latex gloves to examine my sinuses.  “You ESL teachers do really important work,” he said.  “I will never forget my teacher and her kindness.”

I sat in the exam chair feeling warmed, like a golden shower of light had just poured down on me.  This was grace, a sudden rush of appreciation from someone I’d just met, for a job I did a decade ago.  Dr. P. offered his gratitude to me and all those dedicated teachers who reach out to immigrant students.  And on my part, I was filled with gratitude for the recognition.

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The Karakesh Chronicles: fantasy adventure for middle grade readers.

Available on Amazon and from Handersen Publishing

In Quiet

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In quiet would I look upon the world,

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Four bright umbrellas startle the horses

They careen around the paddock,

coats dark in the mizzling rain

When no harm comes

from purple and spotted mushroom people,

they stop, huffing, ears pricked

a safe distance from the fence

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My paddock has walls, not fences

few strange sights intrude

the space I’ve decorated

like a crab disguising itself with kelp and coral

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which but reflects Your thoughts, and mine as well.

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Wall or fence, all one creation

that won’t keep the wild out

craven thoughts or grudges

Rise, oh, rise above the green pasture

All are already forgiven

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Let me remember that they are the same,

And I will see creation’s gentleness.*

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*Course in Miracles, Lesson 265

Book V of the Karakesh Chronicles — on Amazon

Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake by Anna Quindlen

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Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake by Anna Quindlen–Random House, 2013.

Here is a wise and humorous commentary on life, women, and aging.  It’s a memoir plus reflections on women’s lives at home and in the workplace.  Quindlen comments on the many aspects of our lives, from aging bodies to mothering to friendship.

On friendship, she writes:

We trust our friends to tell us what we need to know, and to shield us from what we don’t need to discover, and to have the wisdom to know the difference.  Real friends offer both hard truths and soft landings and realize that it’s sometimes more important to be nice than to be honest.

I particularly appreciated Quindlen’s musings on solitude, as I’m an introvert who, like Quindlen’s son, would probably choose to hide in my bedroom at my own party.

Quindlen writes about solitude: I feel as though being alone is hanging out with someone I like.

I totally agree.  

On my wall, I have a quote from Lori Gottlieb’s book, Maybe You Should See Someone.  It says:

Being silent is like emptying the trash.  Introverts need solitude and silence.

On women in the workplace, Quindlen writes: It’s amazing how few women are required on a corporate board to satisfy the suits that they’ve done the woman thing. 

If you’re a woman of a certain age, especially one who juggled work and parenting, you’ll likely enjoy this book.

Petition

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Please, take me out of myself

out of the smallness of what to cook (pasta)

what to empty (the litter box)

what to save (receipts and leftovers)

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Please, take me out of myself

away from examining

the leaks and bumps

of bodily systems

away from this acrobatic mind

that tumbles thought to thought

away from the potholes

of judgement and gossip.

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Please, take me some place

where illusions melt

like morning frost

where the light of Spirit

looks through my eyes

where I can stand firm

on the love

that is our cornerstone.

A Course in Miracles

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A couple of months ago I joined an online study group that meets weekly to read and discuss the Course in Miracles.  First published in 1976, the book’s content originated with two professors of medical psychology, Helen Schucman and William Thetford, at Columbia University.  I have the third edition which includes the preface, text, workbook for students, manual for teachers, clarification of terms, and supplements.

To explain how the book came to be, it’s best to cite Schucman’s own words from the preface:

Three startling months preceded the actual writing, during which time Bill (Thetford) suggested that I write down the highly symbolic dreams and descriptions of the strange images that were coming to me.  Although I had grown more accustomed to the unexpected by that time, I was still very surprised when I wrote, “This is a course in miracles.”  That was my introduction to the Voice.  It made no sound, but seemed to be giving me a kind of rapid, inner dictation which I took down in a shorthand notebook.  The writing was never automatic.  It could be interrupted at any time and later picked up again.  It made me very uncomfortable, but it never seriously occurred to me to stop.  It seemed to be a special assignment I had somehow, somewhere agreed to complete.…The whole process took about seven years. (p. vii-viii)

The material in the Course in Miracles is dense and profound.  I must reread sentences multiple times, and even then, the connections and meanings may elude me.  It has felt like a return to my college philosophy class, but much more demanding of focus. 

That we are spiritual beings having a physical experience in a world that is only an illusion is a premise hard for me to maintain in daily life.  Most of the other members of the study group are more experienced students of the Course. 

Some passages are so glorious that I return to them again and again:

Lesson 278

2. Father, I ask for nothing but the truth.  I have had many foolish thoughts about myself and my creation, and have brought a dream of fear into my mind.  Today, I would not dream.  I choose the way to You instead of madness and instead of fear.  For truth is safe, and only love is sure.

Lesson 291

2. This day my mind is quiet, to receive the Thoughts You offer me.  And I accept what comes from You, instead of from myself.  I do not know the way to You.  But You are wholly certain.  Father, guide Your Son along the quiet path that leads to You.  Let my forgiveness be complete, and let the memory of You return to me.

To hear Marianne Williamson explaining aspects of the Course in Miracles, go to this link:

Greeting Card

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These are the days of inner light

to contemplate what is given,

what is right:

the lungs that breathe,

the hearts that beat,

loving eyes,

dancing feet,

the trees that glow

the frost that glistens

the sacred Spirit that always listens.

Oh, holy days of dark December

Let us give thanks,

and remember.

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