Reflection

To be honest, teaching English can be horrible. The monotony of planning lessons that are always 'interesting' and 'effective', the patience that I must put forth while sitting through an hour of poorly pronounced diphthongs and non-conjugated verbs, the frustratingly slow pace of speech that I must maintain--so slow, that I often forget my train of thought--and the feeling that my 'teaching' might be thoroughly useless, all congeal to produce some very awful days.

Luckily, like all things in life, there is another side of the coin that is usually a little more optimistic; like the fact that by teaching 'language' I can actually communicate with students. Unlike other common subjects that are taught, the foundational base of teaching a language is for communication: the exchange of experiences and stories through spoken words that are generated only through mouth, tongue, and larynx. In a weird way, language is studying people: the culture, the history and even the biology; one must be a student of all three to really 'grasp' a language or speak it 'fluently' (a word that is often thrown around by Czech speakers of English who have never spoken to native speakers. How can you be fluent if you've never met someone whose whole culture, history and art are tied up in the language, and you've only learned it through a textbook? You can't.) Anyways, I don't feel like I'm actually giving any 'knowledge' to my students when they come into my classes. of course, I might help them with some grammatical points or pronunciation, but I'm actually not giving them piles of information to upload into their active memories; to the contrary, I'm just teaching them how to tell stories, how to express feelings, how to recall the past; in effect, all I'm doing is helping them....talk.

At this level, my job can be like a treasure. The first day of the year always brings in new faces with frightened, intimidated eyes. They probably all feel like they will get bowled over by waves of rocks that hit the ground with "Th's" and "V's" (as opposed to "W's")and phrasal verbs. They are reluctant to speak, so the whole class as a group builds barriers around each other, not because of a sense of animosity, but because no one wants to sound like a 'fool'. Often times, the conversation in my 'conversational English class' feels more like an interview: the students don't interact with one another, instead, they just wait for me to lob another question, as if I'm shooting from a mortar cannon and they're waiting for the next round to obliterate them along with their partner: "Maria, would you mind telling me what your favorite sports is?" (Blank stare ensues...)After a few months, the scariness of me (the fact that I speak differently than their English-as-second-language friends) wears off, we begin to come together as a group. Inevitably, a class that starts with 12 students in September, dwindles to about 5 or 6 by March; however, the five that come, are here for year. And with them, the fun really begins to start...

We get to express some of our own opinions in class. We speak quickly, excitedly and, sometimes, incorrectly. I learn about their daily routine and I'm curious to see what they do on the weekend. I find out that one of my students flies gliders around the Highlands of Policka; I hear that another one was once one of the Czech Republics most skilled Morse Code readers; I'm told the sad history of families torn up and destroyed under a ruthless Communist regime. I learn about spouses, children, adventures from their youth, and cross-country skiing competitions. I'm surprised at their interest in me; I'm bombarded with questions: "Do you like the Czech Republic?" "Is it really true that Americans...?" "Who do you think will win the Olympic gold in hockey?" "What will you do when you return back to the United states" "Would you and Jamie want to come over for dinner on Friday?" "My brother has a hockey game on Wednesday, do you want to come?" "Hey, do you like Policka beer?" And on, and on. How lovely it is!

Towards the end of the year, I begin to realize that the motivation behind five who come isn't just to improve their English, but because they actually enjoy the group and view it as a time to socialize with new-found friends.

The young man I used to see at the grocery store who has the movements of a sloth, is actually named Roman. He lives with his parents in an apartment, is fond of American cars and wants to work with computers. The women I used to see pushing her newly-born child in a stroller, is actually Maria. She enjoys reading detective novels and boasts about the fact that she has blond hair. the old woman who hobbled about Policka lugging plastic shopping bags is actually Jarmila. She has three grandchildren, is a master at baking vanilla rolls, is Catholic and personally knew some friends who died at Auschwitz. In reality, I could view each class as just another step in our long introduction to each other. And when I think of it this way, I'm content.