Emily, a vivacious 11th year student with flawless English, ushers me up and down hallways, in and out of the classrooms and library and stops in a spacious lobby adorned with a row of lovely stained glass windows. She is my tour guide this morning on my first day at the Scheiber Sandor School in Budapest where I have come to teach English along with six of my colleagues from Beth Tfiloh Dahan Community School. With her long curly hair and denim jeans, Emily could easily have been one of my own American students, I think, a moment before she reveals that she is, in fact, “half American” on her father’s side and has lived in Virginia, DC and Connecticut. I greet this news with the same sense of pleased familiarity that I might greet a stranger wearing an Orioles cap on the subway in Manhattan. We chat about the schools she has attended in the States and her hopes to go to university in the U.K., and the ease of our conversation fills me with confidence before I face my first class.
Moments later, I stand before my sixth year students, who regard me with curiosity – the American teacher has arrived, and they are not sure what to expect. I share their uncertainty, but my Hungarian co-teacher, Violetta, brings into her classroom energy and enthusiasm, and soon I am introducing myself in slow and precise English and listening as each student attempts to do the same. I ask them to share something about themselves, and I learn who has a pet, a sibling, a hobby. I meet several “football” (soccer) players, a swimmer, video gamers, a dancer, and many who like to read and spend time with their family and friends. I hand out writing journals that I have made for them – former Blue Examination Books redesigned as journals through the magic of bright blue and white BT stickers.
Violetta and I circulate around the room and help students with their writing prompt: what things do you surround yourself with and how do those things reflect who you are? The students regard their task with a great deal of seriousness; they want to please the American teacher, particularly since I have revealed that for each response they can earn a few of the Hershey kisses that I have pulled from my bag. They ask questions, concentrate as they read, raise their hands with enthusiasm, and receive their chocolate with gratitude. Their energy and enthusiasm feeds my own, and at the end of class I leave, eager for my next group — 12th year students.
As a college counselor and 12th grade College Writing teacher at BT, I feel like I know this group, and in many ways I do; confident and articulate, they smile at me with warmth, welcoming me the way I would expect my own students to welcome a guest teacher. I talk to them about stereotypes and ask them to write about something that they had once believed to be true but have learned to see in a different way. One student writes that she used to hold homeless people responsible for their own misfortunes, but she now sees that sometimes circumstances can conspire against anyone. Humbled, I think of the streets in Baltimore and resolve not to judge the people living on them.
In my 10th year class I discover that exploring one’s feelings in a journal may be a particularly American construct. No one here has ever written their thoughts in a journal; my prompt asking them to describe an ordinary event that defines who they are is met with blank stares. We define the concept of brainstorming, and I model it for them, using my own experiences. I describe to them a “Gratitude Journal” and confess that I sometimes write in an “Anger Journal” that I keep for those times when I need a safe and acceptable place for those feelings. Their eyes reveal their bemusement; who is this American teacher with a journal for each category of feelings? But I persist and assign to them a journal entry for tomorrow, determined to teach them to use their writing as a tool for reflection and understanding. And I am asking them to do this in English. Yes, the American teacher has arrived.
