Shestories

I had been teaching English as a Second language at the community college for four years when my husband was transferred to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where we were to be stationed for two years. The last day of class was a beautiful spring day, and my students had many questions about what courses they were supposed to take in the fall semester if they passed all their final exams. Using the blackboard, I went step-by-step through the sequence of classes, writing the title of each course they were required to take next. These students knew that I taught two courses; the writing course they had just completed, and the reading course for the next level up – the one to which they would be advancing. They asked if I would again be teaching that reading course in the fall.

I lied and said yes. I had practiced telling this lie the night before, in front of my bathroom mirror, just in case they asked. I feared that I could not tell my students that I was leaving without choking up. Although I was looking forward to the experience of living in Guantanamo Bay, the saying of good-bye to my students, and the community college student body that I had grown so fond of, was far too difficult for me. So I lied, and said I would see them in the fall.

They filed out of the classroom, with See you next year coming from every other one. Finally, no one was left in the room but one young man from Japan. Yoshi was about 19 years old, slim, short, shiny black hair, gold wire-rimmed glasses, and immaculate clothes. He stood by his desk in the room that was now still and quiet. He walked with purpose to where I was standing by the teacher’s desk until he was standing directly in front of me. Yoshi proceeded to scan my face, but with a softness in his jet black eyes. Then, with the same softness in his voice as I saw in his eyes, he said “You are not coming back.”

An enormous knot lodged in my throat, and all I could manage was one nod of my head in agreement. Yoshi raised his chin, straightened his back, placed his arms squarely at his sides, and paused for one moment in front of me. Then, he gracefully bent forward, lowering himself in a bow of farewell to his teacher. Before I could recover, he had walked out of the room.

I am thinking about this moment from so long ago on another beautiful spring day as I sit and watch another set of students who will file out of the classroom upon finishing the writing of their final exam. Benjamin is not here for his final exam, but I will remember him as vividly as I have Yoshi over all these years. He was tall, unusual for a male student from Taiwan, and slim almost to the point of skinny. His hair was cropped, and stood up on end just a bit – dashing, and showing a sense of style unusual among my male Asian students. Benjamin certainly had style: he also had beautiful hands with long, slender fingers. Over the course of the semester, I had come to look forward to in-class writing assignments so I could watch Benjamin write. He began by scribbling a word or two, and then flat-out dropped his pencil onto the surface of his desk. He then closed his eyes three-quarters of the way, and seemed to think about what he was trying to say. At this point, both his hands were raised out over the desk, moving in unison with his thoughts. Benjamin was shaping his ideas with his long, graceful fingers. After a few moments, he picked up his pencil, wrote down two or three lines of words, dropped the pencil back onto the desk, closing his eyes, raising his hands again.

I have found that my Asian students have a tendency to think in pictures. It stands to reason, as their first language is not communicated in letters but in characters, which are actually pictures. Yong, a Chinese physicist who works as a researcher for NASA, gave me perhaps my best confirmation of this theory. I was under contract working one-on-one with Yong because Yong’s colleagues had trouble understanding his speech. “He mumbles. Perhaps he is not confident. He does not move his lips when he talks. For an audience , he can start out speaking clearly, but then when he gets engrossed in the material he is presenting, he slips back to this mumbling.” Further down on the initial assessment form, his supervisor noted that Yong was the top scientist in the world in his field, remote sensing, and that he has great potential. But he mumbles.

His supervisor was right. Yong’s lips did not move when he spoke, but most especially his upper lip which he kept glued to his top front teeth. I explained and demonstrated to Yong that consonants are made by holding the tongue or lip against a certain part of the mouth. By using a mirror, he could compare his own lip movement with mine. As he watched himself speak, I told him that it was impressive that he could manage to enunciate most consonants with his upper lip glued to his front teeth. However, I went on to explain that vowel sounds are quite different. Vowel sounds are made by configuring your tongue a certain way in the empty space of your mouth, and then shaping your lips in one of three ways to make the sound come out right. It is similar to how sound comes out of a musical instrument in that the sound omitted depends a lot on the physical shape of the hole – as in a trumpet, a guitar, or a flute.

My Chinese physicist caught on very quickly. However, the fixing of it was something else. Over the course of the next few weeks we studied the sixteen distinct English vowels sounds listing each one under one of these three lip shapes.

We had been working for several weeks when Yong had to cancel our session due to his attending an international conference for physicists. At the start of the next lesson I asked him about the conference, and he launched into a detailed analysis of the different presentation styles of scientists from different countries. His analysis

matched research I was familiar with on this same topic, and I drew the visuals for three distinct rhetorical styles. English follows a straight line. I had drawn a straight vertical line through three boxes representing the introduction, which includes a clear thesis statement, the body, which traditionally includes three strong examples, and the conclusion, which usually offers a plan of action or some wisdom gained. Then I drew the Asian rhetorical pattern, a small dot around which is a continuous tight line of enlarging concentric circles. The thesis – or idea – is represented by the dot, but the thesis/idea itself is never addressed directly by the writer. Rather, one goes round and round it. Yong nodded in agreement, and remarked that this often leads to miscommunication with non-Asian cultures, and that miscommunication leads to confrontation, and confrontation is something that is very hard for Asians…which is why they communicate in circles rather than direct, straight lines.

I picked up my pencil and next to the three-box English rhetorical pattern, I drew another one. I suggested to Yong that with the English pattern, and so in the English-speaking mind, there can be two legitimate arguments on the same issue, yet each one reaches a different answer. People may then agree to disagree.

“Ah”, he said. “But Susan, this is the problem. In English you think there are two answers. In this approach” and he pointed to the continuous circle around the dot, “we know that there is only one answer….just different ways to look at it.”

Then he took my pencil from my hand and divided the Asian circle into six pieces, as if it were a pie. He then put a dot into each piece of pie. He drew a line to show that the dot in each piece of pie represented a person looking at the one answer from a different point of view. I am ashamed to say that I had been working with these rhetorical patterns with students for close to 15 years, but I had never thought of this in this way.

I was lost in thought about this when I realized that it was the end of the examination period, and all my students were turning in their papers. I walked back to my office to grade their essays. My office walls are covered with tokens of remembrance and appreciation which my students have given me over the years. Many of my students come from cultures which require the giving of a gift to their teacher when the class ends. Centered over my desk that day was one empty hook. A few months ago, around mid-February , I arrived to my office to find a traditional Chinese knot laying on my desk. Next to it was a yellow sticky on which was written Benjamin. The custom was to do this gift-giving at the close of the semester, so I was a bit surprised.

After class the next day, I asked Benjamin about the knot, for I knew each one had its own significance. We were both looking ahead as we walked down the hall talking, and Benjamin replied that the knot would bring me wealth. I did not expect this at all; I turned toward him and he instantly sensed my being puzzled. “No, not that kind of wealth. The other kind.” We smiled at each other in silent acknowledgement.

Later that week, I hung the knot Benjamin had given me in my office, centering it over my desk. The next time Benjamin was in my office for some help with a paper he was writing, he saw where I had placed the knot he had given to me. After we had finished going over his paper, I asked if he could tell me some more about the knot. He first explained that the stones were jade, as jade turns bad luck into good luck. The larger piece was harmony. The second in the string was bliss, or fu in Chinese. The third was thriving with exuberance, or chun in Chinese. The pattern in which they were strung together represented the idea of welfare. As he explained this to me, he wrote the Chinese characters next to each of the English words. When he finished, we were both silent. We sat that way for a while, considering harmony, bliss, and thriving exuberance woven together by welfare.

It was towards the end of the semester that he came into my office, visibly upset. He had failed an exam, and he feared he may be dropped from the program. On top of this, his girlfriend who was in Taiwan was having difficulties, and he was concerned about her. He thought, because of all of this, he would have to return to Taiwan, but maybe he’d come back. We sat there and read each other’s faces in silence. We both knew he was leaving, and we both knew he was not coming back. But neither of us spoke of it, for there was that other kind of knot in each of our throats. I stood up and took the Chinese knot off its hook and put it into his hands. Benjamin, this will bring you wealth. Then he walked out of my office.

In trying to explain something both to you and to myself, I unconsciously set out to follow the traditional rhetorical pattern of some one who speaks English as their first language as I set out with three examples of Asian male students. In fact, my working title was Three Asian Men. But I skipped the formal introduction and I failed to include any thesis statement anywhere. I wrote but I was not certain exactly what I was writing about. I felt to be writing around something. And now, I can offer no conclusion, no plan of action, no advice, no wisdom gained. I realize that I am somewhere along the line of concentric circles around that dot, the only answer, which is to just say goodbye.

There is no place I would rather be on Easter Morning than the Naval Academy Chapel for nine o’clock Mass. The splendor of the ceremony itself moves me to doubt my doubts and surrender to the mystery of my faith. But I must confess, I spend as much time surveying the people around me as I do the priests on the altar. The chapel overflows with Midshipmen alongside their parents, brothers, sisters, and sweethearts who have traveled to Annapolis for the Easter holiday. The midshipmen, who at a young age chose a course most of their peers would not, renew within me great hope for our country as their generation comes of age and takes the helm. Mass stirs my soul, the mids my heart.

However, I also think of my own students at the community college where I teach English as a Second Language. At first glance, one may see no similarities between midshipmen and the immigrants and refugees in my classroom. My students, at a young age, chose a course that left all that was known in hope of
finding something better. But first, they must learn a new language, a new culture, a new set of values. And they must make new friends, for here all they have is each other. My readers can surely see that there are more similarities than differences between the midshipmen and my ESL students.

But one student, Daniel, was heavy on my mind last Easter as I sat in Sleepy Hollow and my eyes followed the priests making their way down the center aisle. Daniel had fled the violence of his Dinka village in southern Sudan, walking through sub-Saharan heat and jungle, losing friends and brothers along the way to wild animal attacks, starvation, dehydration, and the guns of their enemies. The Red Cross provided the young refugees with food and shelter upon their arrival in Kenya, and to make a long story short, arranged to have the children, mostly boys, sponsored and settled through out the United States. This is how Daniel came to be in my classroom at Tidewater Community College.

In my composition class, Daniel could write letter-perfect essays about his native Dinka traditions, but when writing about the world around him now, he simply could not write coherently. He explained this to me one day in my office; “Dinka is clear to me. This place is not clear to me yet.” I worried a lot about Daniel; as his teacher, I saw that this lack of clarity was affecting his grades and could hold this determined student back. These thoughts of him led me to abandon the celebration of Mass to ponder the walls of the chapel, as I have done so often before. Two-thirds of the rectangular blocks have been painted a creamy white, while the remaining third are a soft camel color. One would expect there to be a symmetrical pattern

between white blocks and the camel-colored ones; everything else on the grounds of the Academy is in good symmetrical order. So I return regularly and study the walls, certain there is no pattern yet hopefully looking for one. The chapel walls bewilder me. My only guess is that so many grads who return to the chapel are moved to ask their God why they are still here, and their shipmate is not, just as Daniel may wonder about himself and his own lost brothers. Perhaps the lack of a pattern on the Chapel walls is intentional as it serves to address the mystery of how God works; this is as far as I ever get.

Last Easter morning, Daniel’s dilemma was heavy on my mind, and those randomly placed camel- colored blocks stared back at me from each of the four walls. I recalled having read somewhere that the human experience on this planet is similar to that of a dog in a library. The answers to all of our questions are right in front of us, but we just can’t read at that level yet. From my pondering of Daniel’s situation in my culture, I understood that Daniel was in my library, trying to make sense of it all, but he can’t read this place. Not
yet. I, too, am like a dog in a library. Every Easter, I return to the Naval Academy Chapel to experience the hope amid the young brigade and the faith reflected in the ancient ceremony of Mass. This enables me to doubt my own doubts and to hope that one day I will understand the pattern on those walls and be given the answers to all my questions. But I am not able to read at that level. Not yet.

When I was twenty-one, I needed a second chance. I had been living overseas for several years, after having left my own country towards the end of the sixties. I was walking along a country road on a wet day in the southwest of England and mulling over my situation. My student visa, and student life, had long come to an end; the only jobs available to me were waiting on tables or mucking out stables. I was hungry, too – not only for something more nutritious than tea and toast, but also for a job more fulfilling than mucking out stables. I walked and thought, and thought and walked, as leaving would be difficult, but finally I decided to return to the USA. I did not come into this country through Ellis Island; I entered at JFK. And no Statue of Liberty looked down on me in welcome; I walked into my own mother’s arms.

Now, some thirty years later, I have the fulfilling job teaching English as a Second Language. In my classroom, I look out on a collection of faces from around the world, many of whom are here looking for a second chance. Juan was one such student. He was also perhaps one of the hardest working students I have ever had in my classroom.

Juan’s plan was to complete a bachelor’s degree in Computer Science, but first he had to pass TOEFL, the standardized Test of English as a Foreign Language. Just as our own seniors in high school struggle for an SAT score to get into the college of their choice, international students struggle for a TOEFL score that will get them admitted to a US college. Juan’s TOEFL score, upon his arrival, fell far short of the required score, but after seven weeks of applying himself to the task at hand, he far surpassed the score he needed. However, he could not afford tuition at any local college. He did some research and discovered that he could study computer science at a technical school and have an associate’s degree in two years. And, most importantly, Juan could afford this.

But this was where his trouble started. Due to the new INS regulations, Juan’s student visa could not be transferred from the college where he studied English to the technical school until the technical school had admitted him. There was much paperwork involved before he could be admitted, as well as many questions between INS, the technical school, and the college. All institutions of higher education are struggling to understand and comply with the new regulations. While this paper chase was being run, Juan was terrified that the INS would declare him “out of status.” The INS limits how much time students can remain in the United States without attending classes. In waiting for his transfer to be completed, he might overrun this limit. In this case, he would be deported back to Columbia.

I saw him several times on campus with papers to be signed, duplicated, and faxed. But what I really remember is the sense of anxiety on this Juan’s face. Here was an honest, hard-working young man so close to his second chance, but terrified that he might not make it through the paper chase.

Unfortunately, this war on terrorism requires us to be more careful with whom we let into our country and our classrooms. The previous lenient policy for international students has already been changed, and I understand the necessity for that. However, in the process of implementing those changes, we must ensure that we do not let young men and woman like Juan slip away from us. He got his second chance, and this is to our advantage as much as it is to his. The energy of this country relies on the steady flow of people such as him to fuel not only the engine of our economy but also the integrity of our democracy.

I suppose that most of the nominations for The 2006 Nursing Excellence Awards will talk about an experience that the writer had with an exceptional nurse in a hospital, an outpatient center, or a doctor’s office. My experience with an exceptional nurse, however, happened in my classroom. I teach English as a Second Language at Tidewater Community College, and Marilou Fajardo is in my advanced level writing class. Marilou works at the Virginia Beach Rehabilitation Center as a nurse’s aide. My students must write a composition on a weekly basis, and often Marilou has chosen to write about her experiences at work. I presently teach three writing courses, and often have over 60 papers to read and grade in the course of one week. And, yes, sometimes I am jaded. But whenever I get to one of Marilou’s accounts of her on-the-job experiences, I am touched, renewed, and humbled.

I will give you an example. One week Marilou chose to write about medical research, which is not surprising as my students often write on topics associated with work. Marilou stated that if she had control of all medical research in the world, “I will choose a cure for Alzheimer’s disease.” She wrote that she can feel what these patients’ family members feel when they come to visit their loved ones. Marilou explained that even though she sees these patients everyday, they usually do not remember who she is from one day to the next. “Working in a nursing home is hard, but in spite of everything, I am still happy to see my patients because sometimes some of them think that I am one of the family members.”

Although this composition gave me an idea of Marilou’s devotion to her work, her next composition was even more revealing of her character. She told the story of a patient, a woman, who could not get to sleep one night, and kept asking to be home in her own bed. Marilou slipped her hand into this woman’s hand, and told her patient that she was in her own bed. Then, she did a lovely thing. She asked this woman if she could tell Marilou all about her life. This elderly woman told Marilou about her education, the jobs she had, the traveling she had done, and how strong and independent she had always been. Marilou sat quietly and listened to every word, for her composition was full of not only the details of this woman’s life, but peppered with Marilou’s admiration for what this woman had accomplished in her life. Marilou’s essay ended with her patient falling gently to sleep.

Surely each of us has had at least one dearly-loved person who has had to spend time in a nursing home for one reason or another. My own mother spent the last year of her life in a nursing home. I can only hope that some one as devoted as my student, Marilou Fajardo, was there to hold her hand on a lonely night.

 I  recently accompanied one of my ESL students to traffic court. He had been ticketed for doing 84 mph in a 55 mph zone . This is reckless driving and can carry a jail sentence.  He intended to go alone, as he did not want his parents to know about this. He explained to me that  his parents, his sister,  and himself had only recently arrived to the United States, and he felt  his parents – who were each working two jobs – were already dealing with enough. However, his English  was not near where it should be for court, so I thought it best to go with him. We met at  the courthouse at nine in the morning, and after finding our way to the courtroom, saw that it was crowded with people who were being called up in alphabetical order. My student did not approach the bench until 2:45, as his surname begins with N.

So from nine in the morning until  the lunch break,  the two of us sat together in the courtroom and listened. Some people who were charged with reckless driving walked out of the courtroom smiling, their case dismissed. From what I could hear, there seemed to be an issue the with the police officer’s calibration records. Other people with the same charge were being given a fine and 120 days in jail, with 110 of those days suspended and the choice to serve the ten days immediately or over the next five weekends. The judge patiently explained to each violator that the suspended 110 days would be hanging over their head for the next two years, so if they got into any more trouble, they would have to serve the remaining 110 days. One young girl who would spend the next five weekends in jail walked back to her father’s side with tears streaming down her face.

So my student became increasingly anxious as the day wore on. When court broke  for lunch,  I was able to explain a few things, like suspended sentences, waiving a right to a lawyer, dismissed, and calibration records. I explained that many of the reckless drivers whom he saw walk out of the courtroom – dismissed – had their own lawyer, and that he could ask to return on another day with his own lawyer, too. This would not guarantee no jail time, I explained, but it might help. We returned to the courtroom after lunch. When it was my student’s turn to approach the bench, the judge explained to my student his right to a lawyer, and my student said  – as clearly as he could -  “I need a lawyer.” He is to return to court  in a month’s time with his own lawyer.

The judge and I both deal with young people, but I have it easy compared to him. On my community college campus, I am surrounded with hard-working young people who are trying to better themselves. The toughest thing we instructors have to do is fail a student. I have one colleague who always stops by my office when she has to fail a student. She goes through everything she did during the semester to help the student be successful. Then it is my turn to console her for she feels so bad about it, still thinking it was some failure of hers in teaching her class that gave this student such poor results. About that time, I bring up the 19 students in her class who passed, and she sighs, going back to her office to enter the grade into the computer. Teachers do not like to fail students.

And judges do not like to send kids to jail. And when they do, they don’t get to deliver the news through a computer. They have to do it face-to-face in a courtroom with the kid’s parents watching him be such a brute. But I think we all understand what this man is doing. The judge – more than anybody- wants these kids to turn their lives around and he is doing what he can to make that happen. After ten days in prison, they may never break a law again in their lives. But being the one to impose this lesson is not an easy job.

When I was growing up, my father arrived home from work every night just before dinner was served. If my brother and I had a cop show on TV, he would always say “Turn that crap off.” Dad never discussed his day at work over dinner, but talked of his various hobbies and interests or the book he was currently reading. My father died when I was twenty one, but my day in traffic court helped me understand him that much more, for my father was a judge. He had been dealing with that ‘crap’ all day, and it was not a TV show for him. It was as real and as difficult as it was for the judge I watched in traffic court last week.

My day at the courthouse made one thing very clear to me. We owe all the people working in law enforcement and our court systems an incredible debt for theirs is not an easy job.

_______________________

(My student returned with his own lawyer. His reckless driving charge was reduced to a normal speeding ticket with a fine, which he paid at the cashier’s office. After he did this, the two of us walked out of the courthouse  and into the brilliant sunshine of a  beautiful spring day. He told me that  the next time he is  in court  will be the day he becomes a citizen. I hope to be a witness.)

I always have to laugh the first day of classes. While other instructors scurry around the halls looking for their classrooms, I am able to walk directly to mine, for it is always the room from which the most noise is coming.  There is no need for the get-to-know-your- classmates exercises that my colleagues  who do not teach ESL contrive  at the start of every  semester.  ESL students talk – loudly – to one another from day one.

Talk about different worlds.

Last summer I attended the NACADA Summer Institute (SI) as a team member from my community college. There were about 130 participants in this SI; about twenty were faculty members. Of those twenty faculty members, I was the sole ESL teacher. I asked a lot of questions, and I did a lot of listening. Once again, I was struck with the dissimilarities when it comes to ESL students.

Academic advisors, I was told, repeatedly pose this question to the student sitting across from their desk: “What do you want to do here?” The usual reply is “I don’t know.” But, when I address this question with my students, I have to preface it with this statement: “We are now going to have a discussion. I am going to ask the whole class a question. Do not shout out what you want to say. Raise your hand and I will call on you, one by one.”

ESL students have BIG plans. This semester I am teaching everyone from a future heart surgeon to a future auto mechanic. I have no doubt that these students have the ability and determination to make their dreams come true, but they will need an academic advisor to help them find their way.

Some of us may recall our own experiences with academic advising as a professor who helped put our schedules together and ensured that we took the right courses in order to graduate. Academic advisors do much more than that; my academic advisor helped me make one of the biggest decisions of my life.

After completing my freshman year, I did not feel connected to the college I was attending. I decided, as an English major, to do my sophomore year at a university in England. I felt connected there; in fact, I felt so connected that I remained in England for my junior year as well. At the close of my junior year abroad, I found a university stateside that would accept my freshman credits as well as the 60 credits I accumulated during my two years abroad – every one in English Literature.

Upon my arrival back in the states, I was scheduled to meet with an academic advisor to review my transcript and set up my schedule for my final year. The advisor asked me several questions: what were my plans after graduation? I don’t know. He pursued his line of questioning: when I graduated, would I be going back to England or staying in the States? I don’t know. There was a long hmmmm, as he considered my circumstances. He then wisely advised that I take some courses with the word “American” in the title. Together, we came up with Early American Literature, American Political Thought, and another A – Anthropology – because clearly I had an interest in different cultures.

That semester I read James Fennimore Cooper’s tale of pioneers immersed in the uniquely American experience of the Adirondacks in the early 1800s. As I worked my way through The Federalist Papers for my American Political Thought class, I began to understand the Constitution. This was all stitched together in Anthropology, which allowed me to step back and understand the origins and development of culture, and how cultural values are manifested in things like the Constitution. After graduation, I did not go back to England. Instead, I remained stateside and went on to become an ESL teacher.

My academic advisor saw that much more was at stake than just the completion of a degree. He saw a young woman who was lost between two shores; with his guiding wisdom I found the tools to make a decision that would impact the rest of my life.

Our students will make similar life-defining decisions as they transition from ESL classes into programs in which they will learn the skills that will enable them to reach their goals. This can be a complicated progression through the labyrinth of an institution of higher education as well as through the, at-times-impossible, challenge of crossing cultures. As their ESL teachers, we want them to be prepared. Academic advisors will not only assure that these students take the right courses; they also will be on stand-by to assist these students in making decisions that must be faced on this difficult road.

As much as there are dissimilarities between student groups, there are similarities between ESL teachers and academic advisors. As I watched these good people at Summer Institute devise Action Plans to take back to their campuses, I witnessed the same passion that I witness whenever I get together with my ESL colleagues. The critical role of academic advising is not understood nor appreciated enough by institutions of higher education. Academic advisors are trained professionals; they are ready. Trust me, academic advisors CAN and DO help our students solve some of life’s more complicated dilemmas.

I grew up in the Northeast, and attended a Catholic grammar school, high school, and even did one year at a Catholic college. When I married a sailor and became a Navy wife, I moved to the south. I had my first taste of being a member of the distinct majority to one of the minority when, at my first job in the south, the group of women I was talking to actually took a step back from me after my mentioning I had been to Mass over the  weekend. In unison, they declared, in disbelief, You’re CATH-o-lic? I felt like I had two noses or something. Upon regaining my composure, I recall thinking to myself – “Oh, so THAT’s what that feels like.”

Over the years I have had a string of similar experiences. A single woman from one circle of friends became pregnant, but asked others not to tell me, as she feared my reaction – “Susan is a practicing Catholic, you know.” One fall, I joined a book discussion group that gathered on Wednesday evenings. When I arrived for the meeting in February, I had ashes on my forehead, as it was Ash Wednesday. The greeting that evening was “You mean some people still really DO that?” I was deeply humiliated that evening as I was asked to hold up my bangs so they could all have a good look.

Recently, I was shocked again while attending in a meeting of a professional organization a frustrated member complained that frequently she was unable to reach anyone by phone at their office. The meeting chairman  responsed with an apology for this inconvenience, at which time the complaining party interrupted her to say “Now, it is not your fault: you don’t have to say you’re sorry. You’re not Catholic.” This, I believe, was a reference to the holy sacrament of confession where if one has sincere sorrow for one’s sins, one can be forgiven.

I teach international students at Old Dominion University. A couple of weeks ago, one of my students came  into my office on a quiet afternoon. She is a practicing Muslim who is not completely robed, but she does cover her head. She explained that one of her teachers had used her prophet’s name, Mohammed, in a way that made her uneasy. She told me what a great teacher this professor was and that she had much respect for him. She explained, as best she could in her second language, that she knew in her heart that he would want to know if he had offended her, and he would also not want to offend any one else.

As I sat beside her and helped her edit the letter she had composed to this professor explaining her unease, I realized that this covered woman wears her ashes every day. Most certainly, this is not an easy task for a young woman in today’s world – and so far away from her own home. I understood then that the experiences I have had over the years regarding my faith had served me quite well. I knew right where my student was coming from, and because of this, I was able to help her.

And so I have come to realize that it is not necessarily a bad thing to get bashed around once in a while. Actually, I would have to say that it is important to know what that feels like, for it helps one to avoid –as best one can – the awful temptation to bash back. For it only needs to happen to you once to know that you wouldn’t want to put your worst enemy where that basher put you – and your faith – for that miserable moment.

Photo courtesy of Rosebud Baker

The first time I was in F 128 was the day that I interviewed for my job. After the committee had asked me a set of 20 questions in a conference room, we moved to this classroom where I was to give a teaching demonstration. I had to pretend that the committee were ESL students, to whom I was to teach a lesson on thought pauses, one aspect of English pronunciation taught to ESL students. I remember liking the room that day because as I stood in the front of the class facing the “students “, behind them was a row of floor to ceiling rectangular windows that faced a large stretch of green grass and picnic tables scattered under several towering shade trees.

I have grown to love this classroom, having taught at least one class every semester in F 128. Sometimes, but not very often, I am in there alone. All the students have left after a class and I am putting my textbook and notes into my briefcase. Before I walk out the door, I take a long look at the empty desks and I remember students who have sat at those desks. I remember the blackboard covered with my handwriting, teaching them one thing or another. I remember their laughter, I remember their problems, their sadness. I remember students who always sat together, inseparable friends. I remember the romances between students, resentments between students, the look on their faces when they passed a test they thought they had failed, and vice versa. I remember the young man who always fell asleep in that last desk in the first row. He was a cab driver… all night, every night.

From time to time I try to explain to an acquaintance about my students. I have learned over the years that it is difficult for someone who is not in my field to understand these students whom I have come to love and cherish. Over the years, I have written several stories about them in further attempts to explain them to others and, at times, to myself, if truth be told. However, I have never felt I did them justice.

Recently, in an advanced reading class which met in F 128, my students read a short story written by a man who was raised as a migrant worker, with his family moving from farm to farm, and the memories of both the good and the bad of this experience which in retrospect he cherished. The author was especially fond of the one cooking pot his mother had to feed her large family, explaining it in great detail to his readers. After reading this story, and discussing it in class, the students were asked to write a paragraph about an item that they remembered from their childhood or a memory from their childhood that they feel shaped them into who they are today.

Any teacher will tell you that the same assignment given to two classes will yield two very different results. This assignment with this class yielded wondrous results. After reading and rereading what my students  had written, I realized why all my attempts to explain them was in vain. Here, in these short stories, they had done it themselves in their own words. My intent in sharing them with you is that in reading their stories, they can touch your life as they have mine over the years in F 128.

My family and I have kept a video tape player for 17 years. My father bought it brand new. Since then, we have collected all the Disney VHS tapes, movies of all kind and even our own life in tape. Thirteen years ago, my family and I moved to Montreal. We took about ten suitcases, some bags and a box with the VHS. Three years after, we moved back to Venezuela. We took back our VHS to show family back home how was Canada. Our family did not have a VHS, so it was really helpful for us to have one. When we were there the video player started to have problems with the recording and also each time the tape was playing the player burned the plastic inside the tape. My sisters and I felt sad knowing that the VHS was not working well and that we would not probably see more movies or record any movies ever again. My father knew that we loved it and he decided to send it to a friend to fix it. I remember going with him. I felt so happy that we would finally have our VHS back to enjoy more movies and memories. My father’s friend fixed it cheaply and taught him how to fix it incase it breaks down in the future. Three months passed, when we finally left Venezuela to United States and I remember carrying that same box with the VHS that have brought us many memories. Not too long ago, we start seeing DVD and Blue Ray, but for my family and I our VHS will always be the best.

Loida Dongarra Venezuela

When I see oranges it remains me of Christmas. I would get them only in December because it was the harvest time for this fruit in Southern Russia. Parents would stay in line a long time so they could buy some for their children. I do not know why but oranges were sold outside of the stores all time. The streets were covered with snow and oranges looked so shiny. This fruit was a part of Christmas presents and a symbol of celebration. The smell of oranges was everywhere and it reminded people about vacation. The day before Christmas parents let us open our presents. We ran out on the street and compared our oranges. Who had the biggest became queen or king of the street. I was queen all time because my uncle sent me oranges from Moscow. Boys and girls never had been in my position because they had actually a mandarin that much smaller than orange. But I had a REAL ORANGE which was sent by my uncle who bought it in Greece. Only one time I had been beaten by a new girl but she brought a grapefruit. Later we discovered this fake, and we dethroned her from the queen position. We were allowed to eat our oranges, but we had to return the skin to our mothers. They dried the skin and used it for cooking some cakes. I live in America now, but I give my neighbor’s children oranges each year making their parents confused. I just explain that it is a Ukrainian tradition and the parents smile and I am happy.

PS Mrs. Boland If it ever snows in Virginia, put oranges on snow, it will look amazing.

Natalya Robinson Ukraine

One of the most memorable memories that I have from my childhood is when in my country, the Dominican Republic, we would have blackouts. Most nights all you would see were the stars and the moon. All of the children from the neighborhood would come out from their houses and gather up in the park that was across the street from my house. We would tell stories and riddles. We would laugh so hard that our stomachs would hurt. We would also light a fire and keep ourselves warm. Some of the older children would scare the smaller ones saying myths like the “chupra cabra’ would eat us if we misbehaved. I was part of the smaller children and that was scary when they would say that. We also had times when we would all gather and play hide and seek. Around Christmas time when everyone was asleep one family would wake up and take their instruments and go from one house to another singing Christmas songs and playing their instruments. They would stay there in front of your house until you came out or until you turned on the lights. Then you would join the group until everyone gathered together. We would go to the park in front of my house and light a camp fire and make ginger tea. We would stay there till morning and then from there we would go to church. I really miss those moments from my childhood.

Roxanny Monegro Dominican Republic

My childhood was not bad, but it was not great either. Both my mother and father worked, and they made just a little money. My family lived in the city. The children went to school on weekdays. They did not need to work for money. Also, there weren’t jobs for the children. So we helped our parents doing the housework at home. There were six people in my family. Because I was taller and stronger then my older sister, my parents assigned me to work on the yard all the time. It was easy in the summer, but it was very hard in the winter because the temperature reached -15C at daytime. We used coal and wood for heat. Every weekend I had to make the wood and coal from big pieces into small pieces so it could be fitted in the firepot. I wore a very long winter coat, thick gloves, a hat, a scarf, and a pair of big boots while I was working. After an hour, my feet were numb, but my body was already sweating. We had about twenty chickens. We sold eggs for a little extra money for our family. It was my job to go to a very far place to buy chicken food. I used a sledge to carry the food home. It was not easy for a twelve year old girl. We couldn’t have eggs every day. So two eggs would be my reward for the hard work.

Zhe Wang China

I am the last child of my parents. My dad was a farmer. When I grew up my older brothers had got a job and they were moved to the city. In our culture men work outdoors jobs only. After my eight years birthday I started working outside to hold the cattle. We had a lot of cows, ox, sheep, goats, donkeys, and horses. I was responsible to protect them to wild animals like hyenas and fox. It was very dangerous especially nighttime. After my ages of ten, I started working the farm with my dad and his employee. Farm work can be very hard hours and long, often sunrise to sunset. I rarely had a day off. For all the the workdays I went to the farm early, my lunch and my book bag was with me because I went to school straight from the farm. I washed my hands and foot on my way with running water. There was no transportation from my village to the school. I walked one hour and half every day. I slept in class and I felt so tired at the time. Most of the time Sunday I washed my clothes in the river. My family they don’t know about homework and assignments. Sometimes it was hard to explain for them. I always woke up early with my mom’s hand clapping sound and I always remember that was the time to breakfast. I miss it.

Dawit Habtemariam Morrocco

When I see a chocolate which is shaped like an egg it reminds me of my childhood. The egg chocolate was little treats from my father. A little toy was inside the chocolates, and I used to collect the toys for treasure. My father was a very busy man. He used to come home from work after I went to sleep, and he left the house before I woke up. So, I did not have a chance to see him on weekdays. However, I did not miss him not much because every night he putted the chocolate on my bedside when he came home. When I woke up every morning, he was gone, but I received treats from him told “Good Morning”. My mother told me “Your father loves you very much, and if you are a good girl, he will give you a treat.” I always tried to be a good girl because I wanted to show my father how much I love him too. I also anticipated receiving the treats from him. When I was a child, I don’t have much memory of him, but I felt much of my father’s love because of the chocolates.

Sachiyo Browning Japan

I have an unforgettable memory that occurred when I was 7 years old. My hometown is a snowy area. However, that year was an extremely heavy snow. It was Tuesday or Wednesday in January. I went to school as usual. Because many snow tracks worked to remove the snow, the road was clean. However, I noticed that snow did not stop at all while I was taking the morning classes. At the lunchtime, the teacher informed that the afternoon class was cancelled. Therefore, I left the school. First I walked with 100 students. I was still comfortable although bad weather. After walked 30 minutes, half of students had already reached their home. When I reached my village, only several students were with me. Then I reached quarter miles from my home, but I was alone. I became fear because I could not see any footprints on the road. I attempted to walk several steps, but the snow was higher than my waist, and I stopped the snowstorm. I cried aloud, but no one through the road. However, the old woman who lived near the road noticed me. Then she invited me in the warm room. While I was eating mandarin orange, the old woman called my home. Then my grandmother came to pick me up. After that, I walked again the snowy road with my grandmother. There were strong snowstorms, but I was comfortable because I was not alone. Even though it occurred a long time ago, I remember when I walk on the snowy road.

Yuki Takashima Japan