Teaching English

Thanks Amanda McDonald for these awesome phrasal verb handouts.

I didn't know what a "phrasal verb" was 9 months ago (a verb that carries a preposition/adverb, often has an idiomatic meaning). I didn't know that some phrasal verbs can be separated with another word (turn the radio down!) and some phrasal verbs cannot be separated (everyone needs to simmer down!). I didn't know how to explain the difference between "in" and "at," or what a schwa is and how it haunts the pronunciation lives of native Spanish-speakers.

meet schwa, the neutral vowel sound  from hell.

Now that my Fulbright year is nearly over, it occurs to me that I've become moderately bearable at teaching English as a foreign language. Maybe one day I'll take a course or read an actual book about how it is supposed to be done. In the meantime, I've been mostly learning through embarrassing moments, deafening silences, and notes in my agenda that say "NEVER AGAIN." I bring my computer to office hours so I can google my student's grammar questions as they ask them. At the university, people are generally horrified to find out that I only have a vague idea of the "communicative method of language teaching" and don't know basic things like the phonetic alphabet (except schwa-- got that one).

Junior English majors at the Social Sciences/Education open house

In any educational setting, new teachers are asked to position themselves among a pre-established community of  students and faculty. Even though faculty at the same university (and especially within the same department) like to think of themselves as completely unique, the reality is that they tend to share similar teaching styles, classroom cultures, and agree on things like evaluation. Students become accustomed to these norms. New teachers must decide-- often with little guidance-- when they'll adopt common practices and when they'll challenge them, all while being held to a higher standard (proving themselves worthy) and not stepping on too many toes (hey adjunct faculty!).

Maria presents research + policy proposal on secondary school sex education

During my two semesters at the UTA, these questions of position and precedent have been extremely confusing. In addition to my kind-of-faculty role, teaching kind-of-classes, and being kind-of-qualified... I'm a 22 female living alone in South America. And yes, this last item is a teaching issue-- I can't even put my contact information on the syllabus because I get drunken confessions of love at 3 am on Saturday. I have a magical authority as the only native speaker in the department, but also no authority at all, since I don't know the basic underpinnings of the system (apparently the grading scale is 1-10?). Despite these oddities, I think I've established somewhat of a philosophy for doing my job. You probably don't care what that philosophy is, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

I speak almost entirely in English within University walls, even with beginner-level classes. Students complain, and they don't understand everything. Luckily, I don't care. I make sure most people understand most things, and proceed with the lesson. I don't want to meet them halfway-- I'd rather drag them kicking and screaming to my level. This is especially crucial because I am the only native accent most of my students will hear on a regular basis (Fulbright doesn't place us in Quito because students there already have access to native speakers in their universities). I also don't feel compelled to adapt my teaching style to match my coworkers or the Ecuadorian education system as a whole. English language teaching in Ecuador is overwhelmingly focused on grammar, giving very little attention to the fact that language actually occurs in a cultural/historical context. The focus is accuracy, not fluency; exams, not essays; pretty writing, not good ideas.

So there are about 25 faculty members in my department who can spell a word in English phonetically, and 1 who cannot. I'm OK with being that 1. For technical grammar questions, I'll keep using google and referring students to teachers who are more qualified to answer. I'll keep being the liberal arts black sheep in a vocationally-oriented "technical" university. Maybe my students will begin to understand that language is more than a means to financial security and social mobility-- even English, which tends to be exclusively framed in such terms. I'll keep talking about culture and exposing them to a style of learning that makes them thoroughly uncomfortable. After all, they could learn every language in the world perfectly, but it wouldn't matter if they have nothing important to say.

Nice Things About My Dad

Dad, Jenny, and I, circa 1993

I remember the day the new boy who had moved in next door showed up at the bus stop. I thought he was pretty cute, but a little bit dorky and more than a little bit of what we would now call "hyperactive." As we progressed through that school year though, we got to know each other better. I would always get off the bus laughing, and would be disappointed if he didn't show up for school. Soon we were spending time together in the evenings and on weekends, going to each others house to hang out. Neither of us could drive, much less date, but he would catch while I practiced pitching, and we both had dogs we would play with. I don't think either of our parents gave much thought to "that boy next door" or "the girl who calls all the time." Then summer happened, and we both went our separate ways and didn't see each other much. He spent quite a bit of time traveling with his family and hanging out with old friends from before he moved, and I was busy with softball and my friends. 

Jim + Marcia, early 1980's

When school started again, however, I realized how much I had missed him.  I don't think he realized how much he had missed me because he was more interested in playing geeky role-playing games with his friends. Back then you actually had to be in the same room with someone to play games with them and those people were never girls.  Lucky for me (and our children, who wouldn't exist otherwise) it was not too difficult to convince him that spending his weekends playing Dungeons and Dragons was not the way he wanted to spend his high school years. (Marcia, wife)

When I was about 18, Jim was home alone (11?) and I came back to my parent's house to check on him. He was fine, playing at his friend David Jewels' house, so I left to go home. 5 minutes down the road, I heard there was a tornado coming right at us. I turned around and drove to his friend's house. He and David were standing in the yard watching a twister come right at them! I made them go to the basement. Then of course, there was the job he had in high school that he got fired from - worked at a doughnut shop. A very large lady came in and asked for 3 dozen doughnuts and he asked her, with a straight face: were they to go or would she eat them there? (Karen, sister)

Spirit Animal

One word: llamas. (Anna, daughter)

Before I met Mr. Lewis, I was really nervous/scared because of the boyfriend and father-of-girlfriend relationship stereotype-- with the dad being mean and overprotective.  Actually meeting him was completely the opposite. Mr. Lewis (and Mrs. Lewis) have been very welcoming to me, which means a lot. I enjoy reading his facebook statuses and his blog; he is one of the more funny people I know. I'm looking forward to being roommates with him at the hotel in Illinois. (Mitch D., daughter #3's boyfriend and future roommate)

Favorite Uncle Jim Memories (by the Getz family)
- Salute to Cheese dinner- we left Jim and Mike in charge of dinner and they decided to have a theme dinner consisting of mac and cheese (from a blue box), cottage cheese and cheetos.
- 'Aren't you glad you got to see me'- the Getz kids would spend hours trying to think of a way to be able to say this to Jim before he said it to them.

- Jim and Uncle Bruce teaming up as the nerd character in the New Years Eve mystery party game.
- Garden tours (Kate is especially fond of these). 
- Cleveland art museum scavenger hunt (the wedgies vs the nose pickers) - especially trying to find a picture that most looked like Jim.
 - Going to Hawken to see a student production of Jim's play, Twyla's Secret.

Sample entry into the "Most Looks like Uncle Jim" art hunt

Jim used to amuse my brother & I with his double-jointed fingers when we were little. We were fascinated. (Vicki, cousin) 

Definitely one of the best, and certainly the most entertaining teacher I've ever had!  I count myself incredibly lucky to have been at Hawken at the same time as Jim.  I walked away from your class with a better notion as to who I was, not only as a student, but as a person. I loved babysitting for you guys, I loved doing Oliver! with you, having the BEST advisory group with you, and I absolutely loved taking Cultural History as a sophomore with a bunch of juniors with you. Which leads me to my all-time favorite Jimbo memory! The time you flicked-off (quite emphatically, I might add) my dad as he walked past our classroom window, because you thought it was Dr. Barter  You went off, and nearly charged the window doing a whole-body thrust just to get that middle finger up there as high as you could get it. When you realized, a.) that it was not Dr. Barter, you collapsed a bit, then b.) when you realized it was my dad, you were both embarrassed and amused as hell, all at once. I of course thought it was hilarious, as did my parents, fortunately for you! Clearly you are a man who enjoys life and has touched many people with not only your skill as a teacher, but as a comedian extraordinaire. Happy Father's Day Jim, I hope I brought a smile to your face, and maybe even made you laugh. (Betsy Tietjen aka Little Bare, Hawken School)

I don't even know.

When I think of Jim I laugh. His wit, his humor, his blog, his way with words. He just makes me laugh! What a great quality to have, and when he and Marcia are together and she adds to his conversation, you just have to sit back and listen and take note. What a grand relationship they seem to have. (Karen R., Columbia SC)

So Jim (formerly known as The Man) and I haven't hiked Everest together (yet), but truth be told, if he offered, I would probably say yes. Being Kim's Dad and all, I got to know him in a way not many other students did and I really came to respect him, both as an educator and as a person. Jim is never afraid to speak his mind, even (or rather, particularly) when his opinion may not be the most popular one in the room. He stood by my side as a friend and ally when I came out at HRA and even though we didn't spend all that much time together, I always knew I could count on him to defend me when I needed it and call me on my shit when I was full of it. He may not be my dad, but he's someone I still look up to as a role model for someone I might hope to become one day and someone I am glad is out there shaping the world alongside me and my friends. All of this is true. And no, Kim - I'm not drunk. (Ben C., Hampton Roads Academy '06)

Dad outside, barefoot, during a hurricane. Not atypical.

Best squidward impression. (Chrissy Borne, Canterbury School '06)

If I could only choose one word to describe Jim Lewis, it would be trusting. He is trusting of others. Jim thinks that if you trust someone, they will rise to the occasion. I know that there are those that let him down and let themselves down, but others grew into that trust. Trusting is a risky business, but it can lead individuals to discover what they are capable of accomplishing. (R. Deeley, Hampton Roads Academy)

Dad being Mr. Lewis, High School administrator

Well where would I be without Mr. Lewis? I'm not certain, although I would probably not have graduated high school on time. Instead of expelling me my senior year for not showing up for an in school suspension, he helped me. I'll never forget what you've done for me, and I hope your father's day is full of joy and satisfaction knowing that sometimes parenting goes beyond one's own children. You parented me when my parents couldn't reach me, and you saved my ass quite frankly. I hope someday I can properly thank you for that, and by the way, I didn't even mention that you are one of the funniest instructors I've ever had! (Brandon Smits, Canterbury School '02)

Dad + Mom in different hemispheres

Things I love about Dad (by Jenny, daughter)
-his sense of humor... he makes me laugh more than anyone
- his optimism/ positivity
- he has an innate desire to make everyone happy
- hes a supportive/encouraging person in general... but particularly when it comes to his daughters
- he's very talented... but still possesses a humility that I admire


Happy Father's Day from everyone who appreciates you in your many different roles.
Love,
Kim

Stuff, Ch. 2: USA vs. Ecuador

A sexier version of Rocinante

Around Christmas of 2008, my parents decided that the clunker I was driving had transitioned from "unreliable piece of crap" to "explosion risk." Fortunately, we had a backup chatarra they let me drive to college instead, and a new vehicle-human relationship was born. The first 2 weeks with my new car were magical. It's a beautiful feeling to have transportation in central Ohio winter, because even though you probably won't, you know you always have the option of driving away to somewhere less hellish. 

Don Quixote and Rocinante

But my car and I's honeymoon phase came to an abrupt end one frigid night in early February. I was awoken around 3am by loud knocks on my dorm room door and shouts of "SECURITY!" Now, my usual encounters with University Security were to serve as a mediator between them and my drunken idiots friends, so I was fairly certain I was about to be questioned about a public urination incident or something. Imagine my surprise:

"Sorry to wake you, but do you own a green Oldsmobile Intrigue?" At this moment I knew my car and I's relationship would never be the same. "Your car alarm has been honking non-stop for about 45 minutes. We've received complaints from several people trying to sleep on the east side of the building. Could please put some pants on and come turn it off?"

Which was odd, since I didn't have a car alarm. I've since decided (thanks Car Talk!) that the leather constricted across the steering wheel due to the sudden cold, pushing the horn.

My birthday is August 26

I had countless other incidents with the car over the next two years, some expensive and some flat-out ridiculous. My best friend Laura named the car "Rocinante" shortly after the phantom alarm night, understanding that it needed a name that was ironic and could be pronounced with a Spanish accent. The literary reference was a plus. Rocinante was Don Quixote's horse, described in this article as, "[Having] few of the expected attributes of prize literary horses. He does not possess the qualities bestiaries list as desirable in terms of figure, beauty, merit and color. Cervantes skirts the issue of Rocinante’s aesthetic worth by stating that Rocinante was a rocin, a work horse, rather than some noble steed (...) If [Rocinante] often fails tests of grace and speed, it is unimportant. Grander qualities of soul set him apart for posterity."

This is worth a whopping $45 if I am mugged.

Today I live in central Ecuador, not central Ohio, and I don't have Rocinante. In fact, I don't even have a car waiting for me in the USA, because someone actually offered money to purchase Rocinante (suckers!). I do have a prepaid Nokia 1800 cell phone, shown at right. My Ecuaphone has two dangling charms from it-- since people do that here-- and two fabulous features: 1. you can talk on it verbally to other people, and 2. you can type and send visual messages to other people (each letter of the alphabet has a corresponding number!). I also own a sharp kitchen knife, a handmade Jenga set I bought from an artisan in Colombia, and the reliably good laptop I am typing on right now.

I don't want to get too self-righteous about what stuff I do and don't have. The only thing more annoying than people who rub it in your face that they have more/cooler stuff are people who rub it in your face that they have less/humbler stuff than you. I will say that having significantly less and completely different stuff over the past 8 months has taught me a few things.

First-- you don't desire things you don't know exist, don't remember existing, or have adequate replacements for. I don't miss Rocinante because I live in a place where cheap and widely-available public transportation is considered a basic right. I'm not sad over 8 months of TV shows I've never seen, or losing sleep over my non-existent Blackberry when my Nokia 1800 does exactly what I want it to. But I just stumbled across this photo of my closet 14 months ago, and even though I have more than enough clothing (plus a mall 7 minutes away), I suddenly feel deprived of that pink dress which is in a box in South Carolina. I wish I'd never seen it.

Again... August 26

Second, there's some stuff I do desire from the United States which I don't have access to. Like my soft bed and Reesees peanut butter cups and Dunkin Donuts coffee and good beer. I also feel naked without my books. These aren't necessary, but I would like them.

Third, there's some stuff which appears to be unnecessary in any context-- Ecua, American, or otherwise. With this kind of stuff, it becomes important to ask whether our needs are real or manufactured by someone who will profit from that need:

Taken from the Huffington Post, which probably took it from another news source.

Stuff, Ch. 1: Surburbia and Millenials

I own a lot of worthless crap material possessions. These include blankets, bottle caps, books, and several pairs of alpaca-fur socks. I have expensive competition swimsuits which I wore during a maximum of eight races, fake pearls, real pearls, and (nerd alert) nearly every article I printed out in college. I have plastic chairs, hand-written letters, and a pair of highly-coveted mug-shaped sunglasses which say "Happy Beer-Day!" Below you'll see the disastrous area around my desk shortly before graduating from college last year. Please note the 3 separate coffee mugs, rubber duck, Virginia license plate, bottle of pills, and 2 bottles of wine (which I probably didn't want my roommates to drink so I kept out of the kitchen):

 

Like most people socialized in middle-class America, I learned early on that the accumulation of pointless junk material possessions was an important part of daily life. Let's go back to 1995. I was 7 years old, and acquiring Beanie Babies ranked right around "survival" on Maslow's Heirarchy of Needs.

This is my older sister Catie, glowing over our extended family's impressive collection. And while we never went as far as the crystal-display-case insanity of many suburbanites, Beanie Babies were important to me and my elementary school culture at large. Ripping the tags off beanie babies was treated like aggravated assault, on par with ripping off a classmate's finger. It was also financial suicide. After all, common wisdom professed that social security wouldn't be there for my generation, so a well-preserved pink flamingo WITH TAGS was basically our only chance at retirement. Catie and I used to discuss our prospects for getting rich off of Beanie Babies:  

Monster tag-ripper hiding under cute toddler disguise.

K (age 7): When do you think we can sell Pinky the Flamingo for lots of money? Like 1997? 

C (age 10): No, Kimmy. It's going to at least need to be 2000. So basically forever. But I figure if we can hold out until 2003, I mean, we'll probably be millionaires.

I might still be waiting for my Beanie Baby payout if I still owned them. Our basement flooded a couple times in the '90's, like titanic-style water damage, and I think a lot of our furry friends were lost in the wreckage. My parents also brought a new human being into the world, who, as a blond-haired-blue-eyed baby, existed solely to chew on and rip the tags off of Beanie Babies. But even if I still had my Beanie Babies... let's get real: Pinky the Flamingo is going for $3.99.

basement paradise, pre-biblical style flood

Part of a suburban childhood, particularly in the private school system, is the constant pressure to compare your stuff to other kid's stuff. At times I remember feeling like I didn't have that much, that my parents said "no, I'm not buying you that" far more than other parents, and that wearing my sister's old clothes was an insult that other younger siblings did not have to endure. Looking back, I think this is not only an absurd manifestation of American consumer culture (since I've always had my needs met and exceeded), but somewhat cruel. Why are happy children made to feel less happy because they don't have as much stuff-- especially since most of it is completely pointless?

http://www.flowtown.com/blog/who-are-the-millennials

I've been reading a lot about my generation, not because I'm trying to, but because people keep writing about us. If you were born between 1980-2000, congratulations-- you're "Gen Y," or a "Millennial," just like me. I recommend Millennials Magazine, an online (we're soooo tech-savvy) publication by 20-somethings and for 20-somethings, or this article, if you want some sweeping sociological generalizations. As far as I can tell, we're overly-entitled pains in the ass in the classroom, not particularly great in the workplace, and grossly addicted to technology. But you know what most everyone agrees we're great at? Buying stuff. Lots of stuff.

I won't claim it's false. I'm merely suggesting: Perhaps my generation wants to be known for something besides the accumulation of stuff? You know, especially since the Beanie Baby model didn't work out for us?

Reinas and Respect

<-- This is Luisa Fernanda, who was elected the Reina (Queen) of Ambato during the city's annual "fiestas" in early March.

I've been working on a definition of "fiestas" in the Ecuadorian sense: Fiestas: (noun) Any occasion, usually an anniversary or remembrance, at any departmental/organizational/municipal/provincial/national level in Ecuador, which demands special attention by all people involved in that entity-- usually in the form of elaborate parades, special competitions, cancelled work/schooldays, excessive dancing, and ceremonies where wealthy old men give long speeches about how great they are.

The Reina seems to be a "fiestas" centerpiece at nearly all levels of Ecuadorian society. That goes for small occasions (at my University, we have a Reina of the College of Human Sciences and Education) and large occasions (the National Miss Ecuador pageant is the pinnacle of Reina-dom).

At this point, I'm somewhat of an expert on Ecuadorian parades. I've had a lot of my classes cancelled in order to witness the glittery spandex, men-walking-on-stilts, amateur-dance-troupe, high-school-marching-band madness that constitutes these parades. I love them. But without fail, the following words escape my mouth at every parade I attend: "Why are there so many #!%* Reinas?" The first few Reinas are charming-- the girls are obviously living their dream and they'll reminisce about that parade as overweight middle-aged women. I can appreciate that. But after Reina #867, who represents a small neighborhood on the east face of a nearby mountain, I begin to wonder what the power of the Reina really is.

Let's be clear: these are not "scholarship competitions"-- they don't even pretend to be. They're strict beauty contests, where participants are judged according to their physical traits, their chosen costumes/dresses/swimsuits, and how well they are perceived to physically embody the entity electing them (the department, neighborhood, the City of Ambato, etc.).

It should also be noted that these pageants are a big deal. They hold serious cultural weight. My students can tell me more about Luisa Fernanda, the reigning Queen of Ambato, than their elected officials (who they definitely participated in electing, since voting is mandatory here). The Vice-President of Ecuador was the lead judge in the 2011 Fiestas de Ambato Reina Pageant. I repeat-- THE VICE-PRESIDENT took the time to judge a city beauty pageant (city population 300,000). Cross-cultural comparisons are probably not fair, but seriously, what if Joe Biden took the time to do this?

I constantly over-analyze social systems and cultural symbols, which can be somewhat of a burden for me and people who are forced to be around me. In college, an Anthropology Professor once warned that her discipline was a "destroyer of dreams," which basically existed to identify all the insidious underpinnings of things we love. My Ecuadorian peers will generally affirm injustice out loud ("Yes, this is a sexist place." "Racism is a problem here."), but very, very few people are willing to make the leap and identify where that injustice is made visible. So if you love the Reinas and their impressive hair extensions too much, don't read on.

There are there NO female administrators at my University. I'm serious-- NONE-- 0-- out of about 10. This baffles me, since I have plenty of smart, ambitious, and talented female co-workers.

Little girls grow up wanting to be la Reina de Ambato. She represents the pinnacle of femininity, and more than that-- I would suggest she is the most respected woman in Ambato. What did she do to garner that respect? Give selflessly to other people, work on behalf of the city, think/do/ feel? No. She met the unreasonable and racist physical beauty standards of an all-male judging panel. (I say racist because the Reinas de Ambato have historically been white or light-skinned mestizo-- you'll note that Luisa is a rare blond haired/green-eyed Ambateña-- which is openly valued as being more beautiful. 2011 was the first year in history there has even been a black candidate for Reina-- it created quite a stir). Then, the way our city honors her is parading her down the street on a glittery float so that she can be further evaluated for beauty by the general populous, and whistled at by my dude friends.

I'm not criticizing the Reinas themselves. I bet Luisa Fernanda is a genuinely awesome human being. I am criticizing the cultural symbol of the Reina, and the weight it holds here in Ambato. Machismo not only implies that men have the power advantage in social/economic/health/etc spheres, but that women are confined to pretty little boxes. I feel that box, too. I feel it when I get dressed for work, and remember the comment I heard about a female coworker: "she dresses like she doesn't have any self-respect." I feel it when male higher-ups at my job usurp my ideas and repackage them as their own (another story for another day). The Reina is like the ultimate embodiment of that pretty little box that so many women are trying to fight against. Maybe we should stop trying to be Reinas and demand true equality and respect.