Seeing Things from the Other Side, Part II: On Being a Linguistic Minority

Waterfall at El Parque Nacionál in Uruapan

I have loved the Spanish language, and the culture and people of Latin America, almost since the very first day I walked into Ms. Britton's Spanish classroom on the first day of ninth grade. As little by little I grew in my ability to communicate in Spanish, I marveled at the idea that an entire world--hundreds of millions of paths of communication--were being opened to me. Until that time, there had existed an invisible and seemingly impermeable barrier between myself and the majority of the human race: now, it seemed I had the opportunity to chip away at a slight sliver in that barrier.

I listened carefully; I spoke with native speakers whenever possible; I practiced the language to the point that I'm sure I drove friends and family to the point of exasperation. I learned to place the tip of my tongue ever so slightly between my teeth when pronouncing "t" and "d"; I learned to ever-so-gently bounce the tip of my tongue off the roof of my mouth in pronouncing the single "r", and struggled (as I still do, sometimes,) to properly pronounce the double "r". I studied the grammar, I looked up vocabulary words, I began reading books in Spanish, and listening to Spanish-language radio stations. But I went even further: I learned to love the food of Mexico that was so readily available in my Southern California hometown, built friendships with and learned to love the culture of classmates and fellow Church-members of Latino and Chicano heritage, and I took great joy in the multitude of human connections I saw opening before me.

So it was that when, several years later, I began teaching, I had a special place in my heart for "English language learners," those students for whom English is not their first language--and especially for those students whose native language was Spanish. I did what I felt I could to connect with them, to support them, to help ease the cultural and linguistic transition. I thought that my knowledge of Spanish, and my experience in learning a second language, would help me to relate to them in some small way.

Now, after spending nearly a month in Uruapan, Mexico, I am starting to realize how little I understood (and how little I still understand) the emotional, psychological, and social experience of being a linguistic minority, especially in an academic setting.

The realization first hit me as I was attending a professional development workshop taught by my host on using collaborative games in the classroom. Even though my Spanish comprehension is decent, and I understood most of the main ideas of the workshop, there were still lapses in communication and moments in which I felt isolated because of my language. And, I had a new sympathy for those students who consistently shy away from participating in class when the instructor called on me (without warning) to comment on the activity we had just participated in. I understood what he was saying, I knew what I wanted to say, and I was even relatively sure I could find most of the words I needed to say it in Spanish. Somehow, though, in this room full of people for whom Spanish is not just a means of communication, but an integral part of their cultural and interpersonal identity, I felt like an interloper--somehow unqualified to try to express my thoughts in their language. This was different from speaking to a group of native Spanish speakers in California, or even casual one-on-one conversation with my host or my students; it was a formal, institutional setting in which Spanish was the accepted, expected form of communication. I did the best I could to express myself anyway, and I think I was successful, but I came away with a new understanding of the anxiety that comes with using a language other than one's own in such a setting.

I have also learned how easy it is to make unfounded assumptions about the intelligence of those who speak another language. I've always tried to remember, when working with students who are just learning English, that it isn't necessarily understanding they lack, but the vocabulary to express that understanding in a way I am able to understand. I think of myself as an intelligent, well-educated person, and I am working with some very intelligent, well-educated people here in Mexico--my host, for example, has two Master's Degrees, as well as a Medical Doctorate. While all of the people I have met have been incredibly kind, and have welcomed me with open arms, it is interesting how sometimes certain people seem to assume I lack much understanding of anything other than English--the subject I am teaching while I'm here. Of course it's not surprising--when I ask what must seem to them like an obvious question, I'm sure it is difficult to remember that I understand the underlying concept, it's the linguistic or cultural clothing the concept wears that needs explaining.

For example--recently, I took note, with some puzzlement, that many people here in Uruapan refer to this region as being a part of Central America. Now, while it's true that schools in the United States could probably do better in teaching geography, I definitely remember learning my continents. As I was taught, Canada, The United States, and Mexico comprised the North American Continental Plate, the nations of Central America (from Guatemala to Panama) sit on the Caribbean Plate, and the nations of South America (from Colombia and Venezuela Southward) sit on the South American Continental Plate. Thus, Mexico is the southern-most part of North America, as shown here. When I asked someone why they called this Central America, and what they defined as Central America, I had explained to me the existence of the equator, of latitude and longitude lines, and of the particular latitude lines that constitute the boundaries of the tropics. When I mentioned that we define the boundaries of North, Central, and South America a bit differently, I was told that "you North Americans are wrong, because you don't study geography." Rather than recognizing a linguistic and cultural difference, he assumed that my problem was simply a lack of knowledge or understanding--even attributing that lack of knowledge to an entire nation.

It may sound like a small issue, and it was, but I think it illustrates the larger barrier that still seems to exist as I try to understand and too be understood. The experience gave me pause--made me wonder how often I have unwittingly done the same thing to educated, intelligent individuals who happen to clothe their thoughts and understandings in a language other than my own.

It is frustrating, sometimes, as we struggle to understand each other, and as we wonder if we are really being understood--if the words into which we translate our thoughts really convey the sentiments we want to express. Even between to people who ostensibly speak the same language, such difficulties exist--how much more between those whose native languages separate them from one another. Language is indeed a fascinating phenomenon--so integral to our identities, yet so elusive to our understanding; both a bridge and a barrier; the journey I started in ninth grade continues, as I seek a more authentic connection with a wider portion of humanity.

Also, to be fair, only a few of my interactions here have been of the nature of the above described interchange; rather, for the most part I have been amazed and enthralled at the opportunities I have had, through the medium of the Spanish language, to connect with and understand facets of the human experience otherwise unavailable to me--hearing from a local perspective the struggles of the P'urhépecha--the people indigenous to Michoacán, or the first-hand account of an older gentleman who remembers the eruption of the Volcano of Paricutín in 1943 that destroyed two villages but somehow avoided the crucifix in the local church, not to mention the rich friendships I have already begun to build across linguistic and cultural boundaries. I am continually amazed at the doors language opens, and yet still I long for the time when I will see as I am seen, and know as I am known.

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart 

by Jack Gilbert

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

Banana Trees in Patuán, 

My Teaching Space for the Summer

Seeing Things from the Other Side

As a history teacher, naturally I'm always intrigued by an opportunity to view social interactions from multiple angles and various points of view. As a teacher in a primarily Chicano and Latino community, the idea of teaching in Mexico has also long held significant attraction for me. So it should come as no surprise that I now find myself in Uruapan, Michoacán, Mexico for the summer, teaching an English Course from primary and secondary English teachers here, as a volunteer with the program "Sueños Compartidos."

I have been in Mexico for nearly two weeks now, and in Uruapan for about a week and a half. Aside from the breathtaking central Mexican countryside, the unparalleled gustatory opportunities, and the plethora of Colonial-Era historic sites (all of which have been remarkable), I have found the experience so far not only rewarding but surprisingly eye-opening. The program with which I volunteer partners with PROBEM (Programa Binacional de Educación Migrante) here in Michoacán--a division of the Department of Education tasked with meeting the needs of students who have returned to Michoacán after living in the United States for an extended period of time. Thus, the needs of these students as they make an sometimes difficult--and often unexpected--cultural transition, has provided a rich topic of discussion in my English class.

I never really imagined, as I worked to make my lessons accessible to English language learners and to make sure my classroom was a welcoming, inclusive environment for students of all cultural backgrounds, that teachers down here in Michoacán, on the other side of what has become a sort of migratory loop, were dealing with many of the same issues in reverse--supporting students who, upon returning from the United States, have limited academic skills in Spanish even though they may have done well in school in the United States--supporting the development of academic language, helping them integrate into what is, to them, a foreign school system, instilling in them a new set of social and cultural expectations, and so forth--not to mention the administrative obstacles that come with trying to transfer school records from one nation's school system to that of another.

Coming to understand this reality has not only created a sense of common bond with my counterparts here in Mexico, but has also caused me to re-evaluate the philosophy which underlies my support of migrant students in my own classroom. I have always tried to honor the diverse contributions my students bring to the classroom with them, whatever their background; I work especially hard to help students who do not see themselves as "American" to see that they can indeed become a part of the American mosaic without having to let go of their own cultural identity. However, as I reflect on the discussions I have had with teachers here, I realize that perhaps my task is a bit broader.than that. Generally, when a student from Mexico returns there, I have little or no warning; it doesn't occur with great frequency, but it does occur. I see now that, beyond helping students to find their place in the American mosaic, there is much I can do to help foster skills in dealing with novel situations, variety of culture, and differing expectations, that will help them to be more successful wherever they may find themselves.

I didn't realize until now that any kind of movement or effort existed to facilitate any kind of transnational collaboration in an effort to support these students in their transitions--and I get to sense that there is more happening on the Mexican side than on the United States side--but I want to be a part of it. My priority is that these students learn, and that they be prepared for a successful future. That is something I have in common with these teachers, and I feel like there is a lot more we can do to support each other in supporting the kids.

The Building Blocks of Historical Thinking

My most fundamental goals as an 8th grade United States history teacher do not include that my students should memorize the names and parties of all the presidents of the United States, or that they be able to rattle of the dates and locations of all the major Civil War battles, or any other such laundry-list of information. Not that I'm opposed to students accumulating historical date; indeed, they will doubtless find such data quite useful a few short months from now as they take the California Standards Test in History/Social Science.

Rather, my primary goal as a history teacher is to cultivate within my students a certain mode of thinking--historical thinking. In other words, thinking about history, and, on a larger scale, all the information they consume, in the thoughtful and critical way historians do--to understand that all historical narratives are created within a social, cultural, and political context, for some overt or tacit purpose; to comprehend that the way we perceive the world in 2011 is not how the world was perceived in 1911, 1811, or 1711; to see that the set of narratives we call "history" is not something passively transmitted to us by the past, but rather actively constructed in the present.

All this toward the dual ends of being more responsible consumers of information and more compassionate participants in the diverse world in which they live. As Sam Wineburg articulates in his article "Historical Thinking and Other Unnatural Acts" (Phi Delta Kappan December 2010/January 2011 92 (4): 81-94):

"Mature historical knowing teaches us to .... go beyond our own image, to go beyond our brief life, and to go beyond the fleeting moment in human history into which we've been born. History educates ("leads outward" in the Latin) in the deepest sense. Of the subjects in the secular curriculum, it does the best in teaching us those virtues once reserved for theology -- the virtue of humility in the face of limits to our knowledge and the virtue of awe in the face of the expanse of human history."

(For a more thorough, and quite eye-opening, discussion of the nature of historical thinking, I recommend Dr. Wineburg's book of the same title as the above-cited article, available here).

Such lofty aspirations inspired me as I left my credential program--and they still do--but as I embarked on my first teaching assignment, teaching Ancient Civilizations to sixth graders in a district where test scores have historically been lower than the State of California would like, and in which English is, for most students, a second language, I realized just how lofty these aspirations were.

My students, in general, were so unaccustomed to being asked to think in this way about history--especially about historical topics as removed from their lives in time, culture, and geography as Ancient Egypt and Classical Rome. They entered my classroom expecting a "fill-in-the-blank" sort of social studies class. Even the following year, as I began teaching U.S. history to eighth graders, I found so many of them simply wanting to know "the right answer" so they could write it down and be done with it. Sam Wineburg was absolutely right, it turned out, when he described historical thinking as an "unnatural act." My students were so unaccustomed to being asked to think about identifying and evaluating sources, contextualizing historical information, and constructing their own historical narratives, that most of my efforts that first year seemed to yield little more than confusion and frustration--for both me and the students. For a time, I even all but abandoned my efforts to teach historical thinking, and resigned myself to the tedious textbook-and-workbook curriculum provided by the district. And I was miserable.


It wasn't until the summer after my second year, as I worked for the National History Education Clearinghouse searching out curricula that would foster historical thinking skills in students of all ages, that I realized my mistake: I was focusing too much on where I wanted my students to be, and paying too little attention to where they were. I needed to break this complex and often counterintuitive process of historical thinking into its elemental building blocks, and then introduce those building blocks one or two at a time, rather than all at once. 


This week, I had perhaps my most successful experience yet in teaching what I believe is one of the most fundamental building blocks of historical (and higher-level) thinking--the ability to acknowledge more than one point of view as reasonable and potentially valid. We've been studying the westward expansion of the United States during the 19th century, and this week we discussed the Mexican War--a hot button issue among my students, the majority of whom are of Mexican heritage. After reading the textbook's description of the war, a section of James K. Polk's speech asking Congress to declare war, and a statement by a group of Mexican leaders published in 1850 condemning the actions of the United States, I was overjoyed to witness a series of  lively, thoughtful discussions among my students over who exactly was to blame for the commencement of hostilities between the two nations in 1846. 


I concluded the week by having my students write (heavily scaffolded) essays in which they articulated the two opposing points of view from the historical sources we read, and then stated their own opinions. As part of the scaffolding for the assignment, I provided topic sentences for both body paragraphs--one supporting each point of view--and required students to select pieces of evidence from the textbook and the primary sources that would support each topic sentence. Below is an example of the resulting essays, probably one of the finest:

As I graded these essays, I felt I was seeing clear evidence of budding historical thinking, but perhaps even more exciting to me was the engagement with which my students approached the entire process. I feel I've seldom seen such engagement in my classroom since I started teaching, and it feels good.