Teaching crosses language gaps

Jess Lee - rock.socks.jess@gmail.com Mast Op-ED Columnist

I am standing in a classroom with sixteen boys, ages 10 and 11. Three are climbing on the couches, four are playing dead-arm ninja, two are under the tables, two are flipping each other off as they scratch their noses, and the other five are having a heated discussion about macaroni.

The task they have to complete in the next 20 minutes is to organize a series of pictures I will give them and then tell me a story that goes along with the pictures. This is the second time we have split the class, and the first time I have gotten the male half. I am a little scared, but one of the tricks I have learned about teaching is to show no fear.

I heard about the teaching internship before I came to Austria from a former student. I had been interested in teaching English abroad for some time and saw this as an opportunity to figure out if it was something I was seriously interested in.

I was assigned to a teacher named Ingrid. From the name alone I assumed she would be older and formal. I was wrong. Ingrid is about 30 years old and a ski instructor in her spare time. She broke her finger playing volleyball with the other teachers and stayed out dancing last weekend until 4 a.m. What I am trying to say is that she is cooler than me.

With her I teach three different classes a week in a Gymnasium, which is basically 6th grade to 12th grade in the Austrian education system. The second years, known throughout the school as the crazy class, have recently taken to shouting explicit American rap lyrics to see which words I react to, and then repeating those same words loudly.

The sixth years are teenagers. They know everything. They are cooler than you and me. And they think the drinking age should be lowered to 14. Then there are the first years. Normally quiet, well-behaved and engaged in the learning process, they have been the bright spot in my Monday mornings.

But today is different. The little balls of joy are currently exhibiting characteristics of demonic monkeys who just figured out that their zoo-keeper (that would be me) cannot speak their language and hasn’t figured out which key goes to which lock. Just as I am considering running away to a cozy janitorial room until the next bell rings, I remember something. Monkeys are monkeys. People are people. And, please forgive me for this horribly cliché comment, but boys will be boys.

“Butts in chairs! Now! If your butt is not in a chair in the next five seconds, you will be sent back to class with a bad note. Butt. Chair. Now.” The language does not matter. The tone says it all. In five seconds I have sixteen angels sitting in groups of four staring intently at pictures of Mr. Parker and his cat. While I know that the calm will only last for two minutes, at which point I will be forced to use my commander volume voice again, it is comforting to know that at any given age, people are people, wherever you are.