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The World's Worst English Teacher PDF Print E-mail
Contributed by Senor Guapo   
Tuesday, 28 October 2008

ESL, the Journey Into EnglishMost of my time as a volunteer was spent standing around wishing there was something to do.  At Thanksgiving 100 volunteers show up to serve 150 hungry people at a soup kitchen.  I usually end up standing around maybe getting a chance to do something but in reality doing little more than getting in the way and envying the guy who was chosen to wash dishes or take out the trash.

When I volunteered to teach English, things were different.  There were meaningful jobs to do for everyone who volunteered.  There was no “busy work”.  If you weren’t a teacher then you could support a classroom or work one-on-one with a student who was having trouble keeping up.

The first day I volunteered, both teachers for the Level 1a class, the absolute beginners class, were away.  I was paired up with another first time volunteer.  Neither of us had any experience nor training in teaching English.  I thought we did ok considering the circumstances.  But it was a rewarding experience because it was the first time I had volunteered to do something where what I was doing was extremely important.  That was a great class.  We had a lot of fun.  The students were so eager to learn, and we being new teachers were so fired up to teach, that we asked the church if we could meet five nights a week instead of two.


I wanted to be a good teacher because I knew it was important and could make positive contributions to society.  I took classes.  I read books.  I researched lessons on the internet.  I tried to teach and tried to encourage the students to learn.  But I sucked.  But that didn’t stop me from trying. I just tried harder.  Mrs. Guapo got tired of teaching so I gladly took over her class.  I taught for two years.

Then one day, it was the first day of class.  I got up before the class, and I just slumped.  I couldn’t do it anymore.  It was at that moment that I realized that I sucked at teaching.  Somehow I made it through that first class.  I don’t know how.  But after class I went home and begged Mrs. Guapo to take over my class.  I would be an assistant of course.  I had to do the dishes and laundry for a year after that.  So she agreed to take over the class.  It was an exceptionally rewarding semester.  The students were extremely appreciative, and Mrs. Guapo sensed it.

Mrs. Guapo is a gifted teacher.  Unlike me she is animated, friendly, attractive and has natural people skills.  Everyone likes her: babies, toddlers, teenagers, doctors, maids, elderly.  The people that are attracted to her come from all corners of society.  She’s great with people.  One of the problems that some teachers have is attrition.  As the semester goes on, fewer and fewer students show up for class.  That’s not the case in Mrs. Guapo’s class.  She encourages and inspires the students to endeavor to learn more and more.

So after that incident I humbly accepted that my role would be to encourage the talented Mrs. Guapo to teach.  I show up.  I mingle with the students.  Immigrants appreciate that a native takes the time to stop and talk to them even if it’s just to say, “Hello.”  Some parts of the US can be frigidly cold even in the middle of summer.

Last week Mrs. Guapo called me.  She had extreme back pain.  She went to the chiropractor (big mistake), and when she got home, she called me to say that her back hurt so much that she couldn’t even get out of the car.  When I got home, I got her some happy pills.  I knew that I would have to teach the class that night.  I had to rush to get there on time.  I didn’t even have time to stop for a coke much less prepare a lesson.  I predicted that it would be a disaster.

My intention was to let the students do the work.  I would reinforce what Mrs. Guapo had been teaching in the previous few classes, and rather than me talking so much, the students would do the talking.  A practice session.  Practice pronunciation.  Take what they’ve learned and apply it.  Where is the pencil?  The pencil is under the table.  What color is Hector’s shirt?  Hector’s shirt is red, white and blue.  Show me something in the classroom that is blue.

I had known these people for about a month.  Some I knew longer.  They knew me.  We were friends.  I knew Alba from a previous class.  I held her newborn baby while sitting in her living room last year.  I knew Marisol’s brother from a previous class.  When Jimi was introducing his final number at the Monterey Pop Festival on June 18, 1967, he paused and said, “Groove, look at those beautiful people out there…”  I paused many times that night.  Most of the time I paused to think, “Uh, what am I going to do now?”  But sometimes I paused to admire the beautiful people.  And I’m not just talking about Araceli and Yesenia [although Araceli is something to behold… but I digress], but Armando and Edwin and the other students who left their home countries to come to a foreign land, work your butt off all day meanwhile sending a considerable portion to your family back home and then somehow still find the energy to attend English class in the evening.

Somehow I made it through the evening.  Miss Carmen gave me a bag for Mrs. Guapo.  Sometimes students bring in food for the teacher.  I don’t know what it was.  A couple of days later when Mrs. Guapo was back on her feet, she called Miss Carmen to thank her.  Mrs. Guapo told me that Miss Carmen, without provocation, told her that I did a good job teaching the class.

I think I learned something though.  I think that letting the students do the work is a better teaching method than just cramming information into their heads.  I wish that had occurred to me five years ago.
Last Updated ( Tuesday, 28 October 2008 )
 
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