La Profesora de Inglčs
Sara Etgen-Baker
©
Copyright 2023 by Sara Etgen-Baker
|
Photo
property of Sara.
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This is a
memoir of my experience in moving
across the state of Texas and teaching in a border community just
outside of El Paso. It highlights my reasons for making such a
drastic move and the unknown outcomes of taking such a risk.
I was
what’s called a desperation hire—a certified teacher
hired just days before the school year begins—a warm body
filling an empty slot. No matter; for I, too, was
desperate—desperate for a job and for work that impassioned me;
desperate to change my routine and surroundings; desperate for
adventure; desperate to do the uncomfortable and to risk what is safe
for the uncertain; and, for once in my life, run away from sensible
advice. So in a hasty moment in mid-August 1992, I resigned from a
comfortable college teaching position; moved across the entire state
of Texas; and now found myself inside my first public high school
classroom.
My
classroom was barren save for a small metal desk and a bookcase,
decrepit with age and peeling Formica. Dog-eared hardbacks were
strewn in ramshackle order across one of its shelves, their once
glossy dust jackets now missing. Tattered paperbacks, their corners
curled up and their pages crumbling, were thrown haphazardly on top
of each other like a game of Jenga. I walked closer
to read
their covers; their language wasn’t English. Odd.
“Are
you there?” Someone banged on my door. It was Penny, my
department chair. “I have your literature books!” She
pushed a cart toward me, parking it adjacent to my desk. “Remember.
Your freshmen must look at these each day; they must write in their
journals twice a week and…” Penny squared her
shoulders. “…one more thing. The curriculum guide’s
inside your desk. Follow it! NO exceptions! It’ll take them
where they need to go. Understand?”
“Yes
ma’am.”
Penny
marched out of my room. I placed a literature book on top of each
scarred and weary desk; slid into one of them; and opened the
monstrous volume, captivated by its contents—classic short
stories, ancient myths, Romeo and Juliet, and
excerpts from
The Odyssey. The morning bell sounded, jangling my
nerves
and jarring me from my seat. Within minutes, rambunctious freshmen
clamored past me and took their seats. The tardy bell rang; they
settled down; the school year officially began.
During
that first week, I followed the curriculum guide. Monday, I lectured
on the five elements of fiction; my students robotically copied my
notes from the chalkboard into their notebooks. Tuesday, I read
aloud from the literature book; when I turned a page, so did my
students. When I asked questions, some students raised their hands
and answered; most, though, merely nodded and smiled. During
Wednesday’s journal-writing activity, some students wrote; most
just smiled, pretending to write. Although fidgety, my students were
quiet, respectful, and compliant. Their faces, though, were full of
eagerness—the kind of eagerness a teacher yearns for.
On
Thursday even after the air-conditioner in my classroom stalled, I
continued reading aloud from the literature book. But the August sun
that perched over the Chihuahan Desert poured its hot oranges and
reds into the sky like a pot of molten lava making my classroom
beastly hot. My freshmen squirmed in their seats; so I ushered them
outside to a nearby bench where they nestled around me like eager
baby ducklings. I resumed reading. But then one of my students
stood up, pointed to the west, and shouted, “el Diablo, la
profesora! el Diablo!”
I shaded
my eyes and peered across the desert. A trio of dust devils
materialized in the distance—whirling dervishes of what looked
like columns of smoke, gnawing across the despoblado between the high
school and nearby Mexico.
“el
Diablo….” Another student tugged on my shirt sleeve,
“…trae mala suerte!”
“What?”
I shook my head in desperation. “I don’t understand!”
“el
Diablo trae mala suerte!”
I politely
nodded my head and smiled, mimicking my students’ behavior. At
that moment, I realized that I’d mistaken their smiles, nods,
and silent compliance as comprehension. The now obvious truth was: I
was teaching in a border community where most of my students spoke
no English; I spoke no Spanish. What a quandary! But my students’
eagerness tugged on my heart strings; I desperately wanted to teach
them English. But how?
Later that
afternoon while standing in line at the grocery story, I riffled
through the magazine rack and stumbled upon a comic book. I thumbed
through it, attracted to its colorful pages, action scenes, and
easy-to-read dialogue. I was about to return it to the rack when I
noticed that it contained many literary fundamentals, archetypes, and
the hero’s journey. Ah-ha! I’d found a solution to my
dilemma. But what about the literature book and curriculum? Abandoning
them wouldn’t bode well with Penny and was certainly
a risk. But I was excited and didn’t care. So before returning
to school, I purchased every comic book I could find.
I returned
to my classroom and secretly Frankensteined
concepts from the
existing curriculum and created my own using comic books as the
context for teaching simple vocabulary, simple verbs, sentence
structure, dialogue, myths, the hero archetype, and the elements of
fiction. By semester’s end, my students were confidently
reading and constructing sentences.
Despite
their progress, my freshmen still couldn’t read from the ninth
grade literature book—a fact that displeased Penny. “I
told you to use the textbook and curriculum guide. No exceptions.
Instead,” she scathed, “you undermined me with your
unconventional tactics. Why? What were you thinking?”
“I
remember your telling me that the textbook and curriculum would take
my students where they needed to go. I believed you and wanted to do
as you requested. But my students spoke and read no English. Without
English, I couldn’t take them where they needed to go
until I got them where they were supposed to be. But you’re
right,” I tried to appease her, “I was wrong in not
bringing my plan to you. Please understand, I was desperate to teach
them English. I was not ill-intentioned.”
“Ill-intentioned
or not, I’m not recommending you be rehired.” She
stormed out of my room.
Figuring I
had nothing to lose, I packed away the ninth grade literature books,
replacing them with some seventh grade readers I’d unearthed in
the bookroom. By year’s end, my students easily read at the
seventh grade level. And they were increasingly confident and
performed better in their other classes. How far they’d come! Even so,
at my end-of-the year review, I expected harsh words from my
principal followed with a non-renewed contract.
“I
don’t agree with your unorthodox methodology,” he began,
“but I admire your willingness to risk on your student’s
behalf. I’m pleased with their progress. So, I’m
renewing your contract—with one condition. You agree to teach
the same students until they graduate.”
I agreed;
during the next three years, I took my students from where they were
to where they needed to be. After their graduation, I reflected upon
the act of desperation that brought me to them. Since arriving, I
found what I’d sought: I changed my routine and surroundings;
found adventure; done the uncomfortable; risked the uncertain; and
found passionate work. But most importantly, I discovered what
matters most in a classroom is neither the curriculum nor the books.
Rather, it’s an impassioned teacher—one who’s
willing to risk and help students discover the real stuff inside
themselves.
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