Language Tug of War

My job is to teach English. The “theory” behind my “practice” is communicative, which means I have my students do more speaking and listening activities than grammar exercises. It also means I am supposed to speak 100% English, even when my students stare blankly at me and moan, “Spanish, PLEASE!?” While I tote a Trinity TESOL certificate and claim to be “professional,” I often feel like a fraud. This feeling especially emerges when I resort to Spanish to explain something, when my students have to make embarrassing noises and gestures to be understood, or when I practically beg them to practice English.

Eight-year-old Jesus recently hurdled a communication barrier by remembering the words, “Bathroom, please.” This success was greater than most. All last trimester, whenever his bladder was full, he looked like he was going to pass out. Waving his arm urgently in the air, his face turning red as an apple, he’d hiss, “PSSSSSSSS” while accidentally spitting and obscenely cupping an imaginary private part. My response: feigning seriousness and pushing down the laughter bubbling up my chest. “Jesus!! That’s very inappropriate! The question is “Can I go to the bathroom, please?”” Finally, after writing the question on the board numerous times, he at least says, “BATHROOM PLEASE!” and no longer gesticulates.



Class Clown Jesus. He has no idea he´s one of my favorite students.

Alfonso is a chatty five-year-old whose mother dresses him in navy blue knit stockings under plaid short overalls. Lately, his favorite thing to do at the start of class has been to press me about my personal life (in Spanish). “Do you have a boyfriend?! Do you have a husband?! What about kids?!? I know you at least have a husband.” Again, trying not to laugh too hard, I simply say “Alfonso, that is none of your business. And do I really look like I’m old enough to have kids?!” “SI!” he replies. The rest of the hour, he squirms around in his chair, smiling and blushing every time I call on him. But trying to get him to speak English is harder than it is for the rest of the class. I’m convinced that some of his confusion is pretend. Sometimes I let this class “play teacher.” One day, it was Alfonso’s turn to be the teacher and call out names of jungle animals. The rest of the class was supposed to respond by making the relevant animal sound or movement. Even though he at least knew “monkey,” he looked at me with big longing eyes and a faint smile, waiting for me to whisper a word into his ear. He rested his little arm on my lap and leaned in towards me. “Snake,” I whispered, and he blushed. “ESNAAAAAGGGUH!” gushed from his mouth. The other kids were dumbfounded and didn’t get down on their stomachs to wiggle around like they usually do. Sometimes my younger students imitate me perfectly, but others, my words transfer into their minds like hacking vomit noises. The subtle “uh” sounds (the shwa) entwined in our language are sounds we hardly notice, but often impede effective student-teacher communication, at least in my classroom. Sometimes my students try so hard to regurgitate my words that they stress every single sound, not just the important ones that I stress. This comes out like Alfonso’s version of “snake” and may accurately portray how American English sounds to non-native ears. It’s not pretty.



Me and Alfonso

Alfonso’s favorite word in any language is “caca.” He’s not the only one, though. Four and five year olds are obsessed with anything potty-related. It’s no longer surprising, nor amusing, when innocent English phrases become “caca” phrases. The phrase “Hello caca!” coined by mischievous little Raquel caught on like wildfire with a four year old class not too long ago. During drills, at least one kid refuses to repeat “cat” or “boat” and instead belts out a giggly “Caca!” Sometimes, I think, “You’re right; this is all a bunch of caca.”

This rings true when I have to beg four-year-old Javelu to come to class. For the first couple of months, I spent the first 10 minutes of class chasing Javelu around the playground. Every Tuesday and Thursday when he’d see me march up to the playground to gather my class, he’d peer at me like a deer caught in headlights, then run for his life. Through tunnels, up ladders, under staircases – you name it, he ran there and I had to follow. With the help of other teachers, sometimes I’d catch him, but then he’d collapse into heart-wrenching sobs. “I don’t want to go to English! I hate English! I’m not going! NO!” This hurt my feelings, but more than that, I sympathized with the kid. I mean, he goes to school from 9 to 4 without a nap. “Oh, Javelu, no pasa nada!” The words carelessly spilled out. That’s what all the preschool teachers say to the criers, “Oh, it’s no big deal.” But that’s the last thing Javelu wanted to hear. So, in my heavily accented, non-comforting Spanish, I’d say “Javelu, we’re going to have fun! We’ll play games and sing songs, and you can even be the leader today! Please come, everyone wants you to come.” He’d choke out a few more snot-filled ‘NO’s, and then the other teachers would take over. I gave up. After a couple weeks of cutting class, Javelu’s father demanded he go, tears or no tears. Now I can persuade Javelu to sit in class without crying, but I still can’t get him to participate. Songs, games, coloring, and occasional permission to stand on his chair won’t even bend the corners of his frown. My capability of teaching Javelu compared to his ability to shut me out is pathetic. He doesn’t say much, not even “caca,” but I know he’s thinking it. One day, not long after his tears had dried, he turned to me and spoke with surprising fervor. “QUE FEA!” stormed out of his little mouth. That means “HOW UGLY!”

Javelu, in many ways, is similar to my sixteen-year-old students who mostly refuse to speak English unless forced. Juancho and Ines, twins with matching bad attitudes and motorcycles, try harder to wheedle Spanish words out of me than they do to utter words in English. The only times they have ever spoken in English without incessant pleading is to talk about dating in Spain, which inevitably leads to probing me about my personal life. For awhile, I thought, “Who cares what they’re talking about, as long as it’s in English?” But on Valentine’s Day, after inventing romance fortunes for their classmates (in the future tense, thank you very much!), they asked if they could tell me my Valentine’s Day fortune. “OK,” I said nervously, “As long as you keep speaking English.” Bad move. Whatever flimsy wall I had built between my twenty-three-year-old-self and them, was completely knocked down. What they said was not only inappropriate, but also proof their English was good enough to humiliate me. The bell rang and I didn’t see them for another week because they cut class. Apparently, making fun of their teacher in English isn’t even fun enough.

A few of the ¨Caca¨crowd

Between understanding mean remarks like “Que fea,” and copping out of successfully giving instructions in English, sometimes I wish I didn’t know so much Spanish. Like Juan and Ines, most of my students do everything in their power to make me speak it. It often feels like I’m in a contest against my students for the dominant classroom language. I’m at one end of the rope, pulling with all my might to encourage them across the language barrier. They’re in a gang at the other end, steadily dragging me over to the Spanish side. As of right now, I’m somewhere in the middle, just trying to teach them something, anything, new in English.