How do you teach an ESL class when you have no voice? It’s easy.
[The “bonus” scenes from At Home on the Kazakh Steppe continue with this one from my first semester.]
They put the smell of Vicks VapoRub in the Kleenex here.
I know this only too well for I have been living with a box of tissues by my side all weekend. My cold started Friday morning with a bad case of laryngitis and got progressively worse throughout the day.
In spite of my voice, I hold my Monday night teachers’ English club as schedulued.
I explain how sore my throat is, that I really need them to run it tonight. I’m using the exercises that use intentionally bad directions, where the appropriate response to many of them is, “I can’t remember everything,” or “I don’t understand.” I expect it will be an easy evening.
But when I stop talking, no one takes over. I ask Gulzhahan to read the exercises. She begins.
“Cover your face with your hands.” And all comply.
“After you open your mouth and close it, clap your hands four times; and then stand up and turn around twice before you fold your arms.” People are confused, I can see that, but no one says anything. Some just do movements to appear active. They all want to “do well.” No one laughs; this is serious stuff for them. I’m surprised so many of them actually try to do these silly exercises at all.
“Cover your mouth and then touch your nose.” Is that an audible sigh of relief? Everyone follows appropriately as they do with the next one, “Shake hands with the person next to you.”
“Skip over to the window and count to fourteen, after you first stand up and say your telephone number, then your birthday, and then your address.” Again, there is much activity, but no conversation.
The instructions go on. Everyone is involved; they all do the ones with the simple directions easily and eagerly, but there’s random disorder at the confusing directions. Some just make up any activity at all.
“I don’t understand the directions,” I model for them, whispering hoarsely. “Would you please repeat them?”
“You’re not a good student,” I hear immediately. It’s Togzhan, who laughs as she says it.
What a great example. Here in Kazakhstan, good students don’t ask for help. Good students, it is said, don’t need help. Only “bad” students, weak ones, need help.
“Actually,” I rasp, between laughs myself, “anyone can ask for help. The thing is, if you need help, it’s the strong person who asks.”
Now that they knew what to do, the teachers are eager to try again. So, Gulzhahan continues to read the list and I sit back in some relief.
“Make a fist, and then open your hands wide.”
An easy enough direction. Yet many voices echo, “I don’t understand.” Now that this is understood as the “right” answer, this is what they say. There seems to be no thinking about whether they really do understand or not.
“Say these numbers after I finish saying them: 7, 3, 8, 11, 2, 6, 12, 9, 4.”
“I don’t understand.” They chorus and everyone is happy. This is one of the correctly confusing exercises.
And so it goes through the evening.
Gulzhahan wants to set up a teachers’ group at the college. Asking for help will be our first lesson.
How about you? How are you at asking for help?