Day 5 Mothers

My students and I have introduced ourselves, shared personal information like address, telephone numbers and our birthdays, but we still can't really communicate. However on our way to the computer lab, A. tells me that K. has six children. I stare at that young African face, shake my head, and spout, "No way!." At the most I'd figured her age to be twenty-five. "And I have grandchild," K. tells me proudly. "New."

I don't know what to say. She's certainly older than she looks. As I look more closely into A.'s face I see a much-lived life. Instead of a young woman she might be in her late thirties. But this has happened to me as a teacher many times before.

The first time was in Shanghai.
"Sue, do we Chinese all look alike to you?" asked one of my Chinese students.
"No, not at all," I honestly answered. But what I didn't tell her was that after a twenty-five year career teaching public school students I could only see the familiar mix of teenage anxiety and anticipation while standing before my Ph.D. scientists.

Day 4 Lesson plans

This morning Leo and I walked out the door at the same time...to go to work. It's the first time we've left together since we lived in Seattle and taught math at Seattle Central Community College three years before. He pedaled South towards his first day at Roosevelt U. and with a scarf covering the lower half of my face, I pedaled North to Truman. It felt good to be on the bike again.

Only ten students showed up for English class. My plans for the day included some grammar (personal pronouns and the verb "to be"), using words like short,tall, average height and blonde, black or brown hair. We were also going to play Classroom Words BINGO and sing "Head, shoulders knees and toes." I wanted a balance of fun activities and structured work. As we went through my lesson plan I wondered if I was giving enough time for each activity. My day's lesson plan was so full that very little free time was available for just digesting this new language. Do I plan too much? That's the math teacher in me, I've decided.

The first lesson began. "My name is _____, I'm from ________. I speak _________." I discover that the African women, Zorica from Serbia and Josef from Iraq all speak at least three languages. Zorica, one of the shyest and less sure, speaks Serbian, Hungarian and Russian. And I thought she had trouble picking up languages.

When our four-hour class endsed, Josef was the last student remaining. He had been laughing when we sang the Head/Shoulders/Knees/and Toes song while bending down to touch our toes, but his smile had faded. I decided to try to ask him some new questions. I found out that he came to Chicago last June from Bagdad to be with his son. He told me his three daughters were scattered between Canada and other American cities. He was about my age and a widower.

"My son, no school, no money. No good."
"Are you Kurdish," I asked, because that was one of the languages he said he could speak.
"No, Christian," he answered.

How do these students survive here, in this city that is even more expensive to live in than ever before? How do they get enough money to pay rent, to buy food, to pay the 10.25% sales tax? At least our class can be a place to sing, act silly and have some fun while we get down to the serious business of learning another new language. It's a daunting task, especially for me, as I struggeld to understand my Spanish teacher last night. She suggested I turn on the Spanish channel and closed caption. I'm not going to give up. Not with all these role models in my class.

Day 3 My student

After thirty years of assigning grades, I'm free from that horrible task. When you teach Level 0 English as a Second Language, (ESL) there are no written tests; you just pass your students on to Level 1 or decide they need more practice. I don't have to give a final exam, I don't have to create a "rubric that quantifies their experience" in my class, I don't have to label them with a letter or numerical symbol. ("Level Zero" is harsh enough.)

Honorine, from West Africa, showed up last week. She was a student last year but attended sporadically. In fact she stopped coming to class the last few weeks of the semester. She still doesn't know the alphabet and has trouble remembering simple vocabulary words, yet she can speak French, her own language, and she converses with students from Togo in their language. I really don't know how many languages she can speak. I think she's been in a Chicago quite a while. She does hair for a living.

"Sue," she asked me while we were in the computer lab. "Can I talk to you late?" After everyone was working on the computer I asked her if there was a problem. Her face pinched, her voice deepened and she began talking about her sister and water. "No water. Not right." She shook her head, held my hand. "I'm sorry for your troubles," I said to her, patting her hand. I felt guilty remembering my scolding voice when I had reminded her earlier in the class about trying to come on time. It sounded like she and her sister were fighting.

"Can you help. Apartment, two bedroom."
Does she want to get away from her sister? I considered trying to find a social worker for her to talk to. No, she said, they wanted a new apartment. They had been living in a place with no running water, but she didn't say for how long.
How could I help her? Did I want to help? Did I want to get involved? Then I remembered how I got my apartment.

"Let's try Craigslist-dot-com," I said and began typing "2 Br Uptown" into the search bar of the site. After a short time we found four apartments not too much above her budget of a thousand dollars a month. "My sister is good at English; she can call." Before I left the lab, I walked back to Honorine and told her, "Tell your sister to try to get a little lower rent. It's the economy. It might work."

Day 2 Back to School

Not only did the temperature drop in the night, but it was snowing again when I got up. No problem! I planned to take the Belmont bus to the red line and take the ten minute ride almost to the front door of Truman College.
I felt prepared for my second day of ESL Level O. I was dressed for the cold weather. My warm scarf would protect my face and could be used for warmth if my room was cold.

About ten minutes before I planned to leave, I went to my computer, typed in "CTAbustracker.com" to find out how long a wait I would have for the next bus. I'd just read that each bus has a GPS on it and its location was shown on a map by a big red dot. But, wait a minute, it said my bus would be there in three minutes and the bus after that in 23 minutes. My heart began pounding. I was going to be late! I told myself to calm down. I'd wait five minutes then just go to the stop before Greenview. There would be a bus in ten minutes. I'd make it.

I trudged through the new snow into a head wind. When I got to the Ashland Avenue bus stop there were five people waiting in the vestibule, out of the wind. It looked like they had been waiting there a long time. Should I tell them about bus tracker? Nah, the bus would be coming and the woman who kept stepping into the street craning her neck to see signs of "Belmont 77" would probably sight it first. I waited and waited. And waited. I was really going to be late.

That little voice inside my head started chastising me. You thought you were so smart. Anyone who has lived in the city knows that in winter you can't rely on buses! You'll always be a suburbanite! Hell, your just a hick from a small Missouri town if you want the truth! And did you really think the bus would be there in 23, not 24 or 22, minutes in this slushy mess?

I decided I didn't care what the other commuters thought of me. Mumbling my surrender, I started walking the three-quarters mile to the subway station. At first my head was down and I marched. But after a block I began to enjoy the walk and started humming. How lucky I was to be going to a job I liked, a job that was only two mornings a week! I made it just in time for the north bound train, never seeing Bus #77. I was a Truman at 8:20, ten minutes to spare.

I walked quickly to my room, and when I entered I heard, "Hello, Sue." It was Zorica from Serbia, my student from my 2008 spring class! She stood up from her desk and we hugged. "For you, I have" and she handed me a bag. Inside was a calendar. "From my place."

"From your city where you live?" I asked. After the semester was over, she had left Chicago and returned to Serbia and her son and husband. Nodding, she said she had been back in Chicago a little over a week. As the other students came into the room I introduced them to Zorica. I had four new students. Besides Zorica, the students were from Guatamala, Ecuador and Mexico.

I welcomed them and said, "Pasada Lunes, estoy un estudiante de Espanol. They looked at me and smiled. It was good to be on both sides of the desk.

Day 1 Back to School

I couldn't sleep last Sunday night. I've had the same problem since 1968, but back then I was a new teacher and had reason to be nervous. Forty years later and the old familiar worries still keep me awake. Did I have enough in my lesson plan to fill the four hours? What if I didn't hear the high pitched sound from watch and overslept? Had I packed all my papers and books I needed? Would I miss the Belmont bus and have to walk to the Red Line station? How long would that take?

Silly to worry, I thought when I entered Truman College, a half hour early. I walked straight to my room, saw the green "blackboard" and was comforted by those desks in tidy rows. So familiar.

Maria from Mexico was first to enter the room, though tentatively. Big smile, shake hands, exchange "nice to meet you"s and wait for others to arrive. Jesus, tall and friendly, walked up to meet me. "Hi, my name's Sue. What's your name? Where are you from?" Then more students came in.

Like last year, my students are from all over. And, although this class is supposed to be Level O (whatever that means) everyone understood my two questions and I could understand them when they answered. Like last year I have students from Eritrea. This year I know where that is. I can't wait to tell them that my son and his wife will soon be traveling to their part of the world to gather up their "kid 2." He'll be Eithiopian but from an area near Kenya.

I wonder what Akil and Josef's stories are? They are two students from Iraq. One is young and the other is about my age. Then enter two students from Ecuador and one from Guatamala. Won't Yoalin be surprised when I tell him that I have a grandson who is Guatamalan. When will we be able to exchange stories?

Before class is over, I tell my students that I'm going to be a student that night. I've signed up for another Spanish class. Let's see, this makes my fifth one. We'll see if I've improved. But just like math, if you don't use it, you lose it. Big grins appeared on Jesus, Yoalin and Maria's faces when I said, "Esta noche yo estoy un estudiante!"