Are you bilingual?

There's that joke that haunts every American attempting to expand h/er borders beyond the narrow continent:

Q: What do you call someone who speaks two languages?
A: Bilingual

Q: Three languages?
A: Trilingual

Q: One?
A: American.

Hardly encouraging when living within these borders and attempting to break the stereotype. Still, how often do I see this stereotype confirmed in the attitudes of most members in this society, even those who'd I expect otherwise. It is far too convenient to remain monolingual on this island... er, wait, we have neighbors to the north and south, and might boast of the most diverse communities--at least on the coasts, that is.

While English is the unofficial language of this nation, somehow we fear that learning a little of another language might topple this lingua domināns. Though this fear may be a bit unwarranted, I expect. No matter how hard we try to preserve English, it continues to be the global language most often learned as a second/other/foreign language in other countries. Experts suspect that before too long the number of non-native (proficient) English speakers in the world will trump the native English speakers. Before taking a collective sigh, all you linguistic imperialists, let us consider what this says about language ownership, representation, and how this corresponds to outdated nationhood identities, in general. Sure, we are clan creatures by nature and consequently need to latch on to that which distinguishes us from the other. But perhaps we might consider softening our grip on something so fluid as language. As a teacher, I understand the desire to try to keep English in place with a prescriptive grammar. But who really owns it anyway? The French and their ministry provide a definitive answer to this, believing that the one crucial way to preserve the culture is to preserve the language. I suppose every nation needs a narrative to highlight the lines of demarcation.

I don't know whether I agree entirely with the French on this point, but it seems far less vulgar coming from a country that embraces other languages more freely (or do they?). European countries may consider it a matter of political and economic survival, or simply, on a personal level, a reality that one is faced with on a daily basis: I am surrounded by other languages; I must conform. For those who remain monolingual, bilingualism is often viewed as a commodity, a sum of two languages, and, with some strange, vague way, that which is obtained along with an official certificate somewhere denoting fluency. There is little thought on the ever-present struggle: finding the vocabulary, the ideational, imaginative, or interpersonal functions; there is the constant battle for proficiency in every domain (writing, reading, speaking, and listening); and, of course, there is the fight to be authentic (i.e., correct). There is never enough with language, only a sense of adequate, and even that can topple.

Anyone who has attempted really learning a language beyond a college semester or two knows that second language competence is more than mere spewing of polished phrases to impress your friends. I cringe when a friend remarks at my ability to say a few phrases in Japanese. They express amazement at my ability to, say order when at an authentic restaurant. I can only imagine they have this false sense of what it means to be bilingual. They see the end, but do not fathom the process. There is no end, only struggle.

wait, there's more...


Image source: From Babel to Esperanto (Ben Heine)

Back at It

I dare not call my hiatus brief. What an embarrassment that a year has nearly passed since posting once more. Oh, well. Such is the outcome of living the charmed, wild life of a high school English teacher. Just a notch below rock star and slightly above mortician. (Are they even on the same spectrum?)

So here is my challenge for the summer. I'm full of promises unkept, but summer is a whole other beast--less rough, less the slouching toward... you get the picture.

My challenge to self: Read, read, read, write, read, write then blog! In addition to planning for next year, I am playing good little graduate student by doing my fall semester reading this summer. The topics: Bilingualism and language acquisition, first and second. Plenty of material to discuss here. I will also be reading other texts either connected to the Mayfair book club or my own list of books I've been salivating over as they look pretty on my bookshelf at home. Such teases!

Let's hope I stay true to my word this summer. I have plenty of poopy diapers to distract me. Still, the owner of said diapers, I must admit, holds the highest priority this summer. It's about time my baby girl--eight months old as of last Sunday--and I spend some quality time minus the teacher tussle.

Image source: book tower

Just a little hero worship to get 'em through

Let me first begin by saying that while I believe that it is impossible to completely remove politics from the act of teaching (those who claim otherwise are deluding themselves) I make a conscious effort to stay mute when it comes to my political choices. I realize what an impact a teacher's political leanings can make on his/her students. My role is not to influence students to adopt my position. Rather, I want them to question why candidate X or Y (or Z?) is the right choice. The miniature political rallies that boil up in class are more the product of the political rants students have heard from the adults at home and less motivated by a student's well-developed, reasonable consideration of who's the best person for the job. Idealistic, I know, to think that most people in the United States would ever make such an important decision with such criterion in mind.

When the students asked me who I'll vote for this coming November I told them that I'll share my decision on November 5th (unless there's a repeat of 2000, of course). They're dying to know--I realize that.

But here's the crux of my rambling: After the side conversations and comments overheard in class and general observation, it's clear that most of the students in my classes would choose Obama. But it's more than that. Obama is not a celebrity, he's a hero to many of the students. He's not just a choice, the lesser of two evils, he's salvation from the same. He's a ticket to opportunity. There's no wonder why. We as educators understand that students, especially students of color, need role models to identify with. Race, ethnicity, class--these are realities for many of the students at Mayfair, and no talk of the universalities of character, the rhetoric of getting beyond the surface of skin color can change the reality that many of the students face on a daily basis. That is the currency with which they negotiate their identities. There is no wonder why Barack Obama wouldn't be embraced by people of color. He's the entire package--at least when seen through the lens offered.

How could any educator not be inspired by the passion students share for a political figure? As out of touch as we teachers become from students' lives, all the undecipherable chatter that foments on the periphery of our daily classroom discussions, all those objects of desire students plaster on student notebooks--same ol' objects different names--they belong to the students' lives and exist as their own. But when I see pictures of Barack plastered among those pictures of models, bands, or pop idols, I wonder how detached students' lives really are from ours. To a teacher, we may take a cynical tone when attempting to make sense of the latest cultural shift (perhaps our attempt to stay relevant?) yet how could any teacher dismiss the students' passionate support for Obama with cynicism? This is certainly something that we haven't seen in a while, such passionate support for a political figure. Sure, there were the popular presidents such as JFK, Reagan, and Clinton. As popular as they were, they were still part of the establishment. But with Barack, it feels different. And while he may be just as much part of the establishment, it still feels as though so much more is riding on the line with him.

Before dismissing this as pure messianic politics, consider the dark side of this passion. Many of the students hope for Obama in '08, but many of these supporters are just as certain that he is a marked man, a prime target for assassination. Does this say something about one's understanding of our country's politics? Maybe. What's shocking may also be what it says about those who view Barack as their hero while still being so certain of assassination. Perhaps their belief in what's even possible for a person of color in America? Do they see the American Dream propagated for so many generations as no longer possible, nor deferred, but a shriveled bag of rhetoric? If so, I don't know how I feel about any of it. It tells me that so many in this country have accepted the belief that hope can only live so long in this place before it must die. So sad.

Or is it human to sacrifice our heroes? Martyrs are so more convenient, fixed to a grave and fixed to a single vital image, to a single passion, to a single speech, or even phrase. Heroes will eventually let us down, won't they? But a martyr is much less complex, much easier to understand and, thereby, apotheosized. Jesus, el commandante, MLK, JFK.

I tell my students that I don't want to hear such conspiracy theories--they are filled with hopelessness and despair. That's not what we need now. I will wait till November 5th, but I wonder if I should even tell them at all who I'm voting for. Perhaps I should something like, "I voted Green", or "Sorry, I couldn't find my voting site." Bad faith, yes. But I don't want them to rely on me for validation on this matter. This isn't about the leaders, this is about them: the people.

image source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/spcoon/2552184350/

Underway...

The madness has begun. I've promised myself to stay ahead of it this time around. But how could even the best of them--the teachers who have learned to rise above the fray--breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and come away unaffected. Does September fool every teacher into thinking that this time everything will be under control? Are all of these conveniences I've accrued an attempt to appear in control when in reality there's no stopping the madness from taking hold? I suppose smothering oneself in the crusty, organize mess that is human interaction is what it's all about, but the armchair psychotherapist in me wonders if the role of teacher becomes misappropriated by the system, by the students in need of more than an education, by the teachers in need of more than fulfillment, for a desire for purpose in life, and society's need for control. Bell to bell, Foucault's Panopticon is in full effect.

Let the optimism reign for at least a little while. Let there be smiles on every face on campus. September: the honeymoon is meant to end.

image source: I could just scream!

"What would you say to yourself? Write an imaginary scene between you at your current age and you at a younger age. If you don't want to use dialogue, you don't have to."

"Hey, Erich, the twelve-year-old: give those day dreams some legs and point them in the right direct. Speak more German to Omi and Opi. Avoid taking vegetarians girls to Tony Roma's, no matter how shy you are. You're a good kid--remember that."

Arrows of Chance

"When did you feel the most free? Write about it."

San Sebastian. A night train into the city left me with a traveler's hangover. You go through the motions after a while, just like everything else, except when you're backpacking a stranger in more than one strange land, you must remember how vulnerable you really are once you step off that train. This is not what the travel guides described. This is not what I thought I'd write home about. I suppose this is where I shed the romantic hue to it all. The beginning of the end. There are always fellow backpackers to befriend along the way, but it was somewhere along the transfer of trains on course to San Sebastian that the feeling of solitary existence hit me. Everyone had their separate destination, taking another train to another site. I tried best to avoid the worn backpacker's trails through these destinations, which often led me to the mundane. Definitely not what my family expected to hear about. 'Not all who are wandering are lost' was the axiom that repeated through my head as I scraped the most out of those traveler's mistakes I frequently made. That's what you get when you opt for the road not taken. There's no romanticism to latch onto when you're out of money and still feeling unsatisfied.

But San Sebastian lay there. I tumbled out of the train like a drunkard looking for the next den of indemnity. There was nothing that this morning in this sleepy port town could offer a weary traveler. I sought refuge much the same way I had always done as a runner: look for high ground and conquer it. I found the highest point, Urgull, and cut through every small alley to reach it. A stranger wandering through Basque neighborhoods at 6:30 in the morning hardly seemed the image I wanted to send the locals. Still, the doors remained closed as I passed through, climbing higher.

I finally reached the peak as the sun began its mark on the day. It was then that I had that Whitman-esque connection with it all. The quiet of the earth, the vastness of the sea, the arch of the rainbow--all left me feeling that it was all worth it. My sense of freedom was born from initial feelings of loneliness and despair. No matter how hard I tried to break away from the beaten backpacker's path, there were always fellow travelers with me headed in the same direction. Not on this day. Not a traveler's soul in sight. I was the only creature awake up on that mountain as I looked over the bay of San Sebastian. This was freedom, even for a moment until the world around me awoke, until the others caught up with me, until I decided to return to the mortal minutia below.

Ten old tricks I can't touch

"When did you realize you couldn't still do it? List ten things you could do when you were younger but can't do anymore. Put one, some, or all of them together in one piece of writing."

I've yet to find a legitimate gray hair on my head. They must be there, hidden between all of the sandy blonds, laughing at me with every abrupt step and awkward bow I take. It must all be so amusing to them, watching this shell of a thirty-two year old attempt that which is more fit for someone ten years his junior. I've never wanted to be "that guy" who doesn't catch on to the fact that he looks about as out of place as an Eskimo luau.

Yet with age shame has less of a tinge. I know my limitations, perhaps to the extent that it may stifle any great experiences I may consider venturing on, but I still recognize what qualifies as folly. However, it's more than stuff of mere embarrassment. There are some on the list that cannot be done, or at least done as well, because of physical or mental limitations. Ten sounds nice, but here's my list of five.

1. 16 x 400-meter sessions
Really, I'm not the monster on the track I once was. Sixteen miles, mostly at breakneck speed, was once something I could do without even blinking. All of my grueling ventures as a runner are now unfathomable. It's not that I necessarily think my body is incapable (though, I'm sure that I can't recover like I used to) it's just that other responsibilities in life have left little time to regain my physical prowess.

2. Bilking The Man
I suppose there was justification for this when I was a starving college student. I certainly found enough reason to rationalize my choices that involved paying as little or nothing at all. It certainly depends on who you ask when defining stealing. However, I would never consider thievery in the classic sense. Just the typical slacker behavior. You know, theater hopping, lounging at Soup Plantation for hours, pirating software, DVDs, and/or music. Softcore Abbie Hoffman. I could never really steal this book. Hell, I bought the thing from Barnes and Noble for crying out loud. I'm a little more understanding of the fact that others are trying to survive too. I just choose my businesses more carefully rather than patronizing the big corps (No more McDonald's, never Walmart).

3. Lateness
I don't know how my first boss put up with me habitually arriving five minutes late to work. Hell, I would fire me. I guess I had other redeemable qualities. Still, it's not that I don't still arrive late now and again, but I've learned to be considerate of other people's time as well as my own. It is the commodity worth more than money. A lucrative salary can never compensate for lost youth (i.e., physical prowess lost is never gained in retirement).

4. Three days on nothing but Coke and red vines
Man, I was a machine in my youth. Six years of never missing a day of school and never even missing a day of practice. My body could withstand most anything. I never really had my first major illness until coming down with Mono while surviving in Japan (I say "surviving" because I believe it was in Japan that my body first was thrown for a loop). Now, I can no longer consider ventures such as "Three Day", the nebulous agreement in college to go without sleep for three days straight in order to see the psychological effects. Less a tank, more a trembling temple, my body cannot withstand another typhoon.

5. Subverting the dominant paradigm
The daydreams of revolutionary upheaval of the system have even greater relevance now that I've become a working stiff, but I also recognize the repercussions of such ventures. This is not to say that questioning authority is not out of the question. But now I am the authority. To adhere to such a philosophy would lead to things falling apart, the center being unable hold, et. al. Perhaps I took a page from Tyler Durden's destructive approach. Now I must work with the broken shards, the mangled pieces to build something worth keeping. Less about me, more about those who come after me. Still, there are the little battles of subversion worth fighting. I can work incognito. Project Cage Rattle. Cue the Madagascar penguins: "You didn't see anything."