Negativityisms

When it comes right down to it, I just hate being negative.

And I hate other people who are negative and bring me down. I work in an industry that requires its participants to be outgoing and outspoken and if one is not so then no amount of care, consideration and/or instruction will have any effect. Students who lack confidence, who are generally negative about their own ability to use English as a tool for communication, annoy me to no end.

"How can that be, Lance? Teachers aren't supposed to think like that!" some may say.

Well, maybe so, but these students pay their own way. They come here of their own volition (though possibly of their parent's volition, too). Why do they endure such torture every week, paying handsomely all the while? Why, indeed.

But it is this negativity that drives me up the wall. I have lost my patience with students who make no effort to make any progress. I dread their classes, knowing that they probably have some far-fetched idea that this one block of 60 minutes each week will magically transform their otherwise dense brain matter into a language learning device ripe for reprogramming, that stepping foot into this small office space will award them smooth acquisition of English.

The funny thing I noticed the other day, as I thought about these students and their rather hopeless situations, is that I have become negative, too. Their ignorant refusal to use in class the English they already know, to spend some time outside of class pursuing language opportunities, to engage in conversations longer than one syllable -- all of this has just pushed me over the edge.

I have simply run out of patience for these types of students. I suppose you could say I have been blessed with a very few number of honest-to-goodness students intent on learning and acquiring English. I can see Purpose in their twinkling eyes, can feel their growth in the conversations they have with me, can literally see their progress as they compose longer journal entries, read more complicated texts, maintain personal dictionaries. Indeed, it's these students that have turned me off from the rest.

But at the end of the day, I am still the teacher for ALL of my students, even the ones that should not be wasting their parents' hard earned money. Though despite my myriad efforts to motivate them and their equally countless ways in which they have managed to escape learning something, I am bound by my private little oath as an educator not to give up on them as long as they are willing to try.

But when do I know if they have given up? How do I know when they have succumbed to their own relentless negative growth?

When is enough enough?

Suggestions

At the suggestion of my wife, I am starting up this blog again. Our sister-in-law has been keeping one about her son, mainly for the grandparents and friends, so this has evidently spurned my wife into a sudden interest in blogs. Okay, maybe not a real interest, but after I told her that I had one she gave me this look like "What ELSE are you keeping from me...?" She suggested I start it up again. So, here I am.

And that's the funny thing about suggestions: lots of people give them, but maybe only about half follow them. As a EFL teacher, I have first hand experience of this. I have suggested and still do continue to suggest a variety of ways in which my students can improve their English proficiency. Living in Japan does not afford many opportunities to naturally use English outside of a classroom, so I would assume that any suggestion I give would be taken to heart.

Alas, I am sadly mistaken.

Out of the 15 or 16 high school to adult EFL students I teach, only four or five have followed my advice, and only one or two do so regularly. My question is, why?

Why, if they are paying about $90 a month to visit my class once a week, do they not invest an equal amount of time outside of class to develop their skills? Why do they come to class with sheepish grins on their faces saying, "No, I did not do any vocabulary study this week?"

It baffles me, but only to a certain point. If I worried too much over it, like I did when I first started working in this English Conversation industry, I would probably drive myself crazy. I have come to the conclusion that many of these older learners are not really pursuing English to fully master the language - it is merely a fun and slightly expensive hobby where they can meet up with similarly aged people to exchange a few words in a foreign language. Research studies I have heard about seem to suggest that learning a foreign language keeps the brain active and stems the oncoming tide of senility. Maybe that is what they are hoping for. If that is the case, then I guess they are at least following SOMEONE'S suggestion, albeit not mine.

No worries, though. They keep coming each week, smiling either because they are happy or because they didn't do any work, but smiling nonetheless. And they pay. And that's the bottom line, I guess. It SHOULD be whether or not they are really gaining anything from their experience in the class but come on... At the end of the day, we all know that money walks, even if my students can't talk.

... but because of his persistence...

When I come across obstinate people, I am always drawn back to Jesus' parable of the annoying neighbor. I am pretty sure JC wouldn't label the parable in that way, but I use that term only so that you can know exactly which neighbor I mean. He and His Father talked a lot about neighbors: treat your neighbor as you'd like to be treated, don't eat or steal your neighbor's food or family. You know - the neighbor rules.

I'm talking about the annoying guy who kept ringing the door in the middle of the night to ask for some bread cause he, like the diligent grasshopper, didn't prepare well enough. Yeah, that's the guy.

Just recently, one of these neighbors came a-knocking on my door, not begging for bread but begging for my time.

A student of mine called my phone this past Sunday afternoon, one of my two days off this week. He's been trying to finalize an application to become a resident scholar at Berkeley this coming school year. In any spare moment before and after class he's asking me to check this letter and translate that resume and offer suggestions as to what to say on the phone. Sure. I can help. I'm still on the clock and you're my student.

This is every week, before and after our class.

Sometimes, he comes during my other classes unannounced... and waits until I'm finished. And I know he's there, silently ringing my door, pleading for a loaf.

So this last Sunday was the proverbial straw that made me drop a steel girder on the camel's back. He wanted to meet me so I could go over a letter he wanted to send. I debated whether or not to call back, but my kind and caring wife convinced me to. So I did, about 5 hours later. He asked me what I was doing and I said "About to take a shower. And you?"

Still he wanted to know if I had time to meet!

I told him I'd call on Monday afternoon after my packages from Amazon had arrived. He sounded happy. In the morning, I called my boss and explained the situation. He agreed that it was outrageous to be expected to work on my day off - which Monday is, by the way - and I should direct any inquiries to him.

After my books arrive, I wait a few more hours then call my student back. I explained to him that it was my holiday and if he really needed help he should visit my boss at our school between 4:30 and 5:30 in the afternoon.

He then asked me for my address!

I stood in my apartment speechless, staring at the distant mountains, wondering how long it would take me to run up to the top and hide. Thankfully, he lost interest when I told him that Yes, I do live far away from the station.

Maybe he got the picture. He said see you on Wednesday for our class and I said goodbye.

Persistence.

It works both ways.

How does this work?

No writing yesterday. I try to write a little everyday, but I was a little hung-over from Saturday night’s open-mic night at Caramel Mama’s. I didn’t think I drank that much. I didn’t in fact. Not at the concert, anyhow. I could have driven home, but then I don’t really like lying to Akiko, and if she had asked how I got home, I would have had to say that I drove. Not that I condone drinking and driving. I abhor it, in fact. But when it’s cold and you don’t want to get up in the morning to get your car, and you can see without closing one eye, you tend to forget where your morals are located. They go the way of the suicidal sock.

When I arrived to Harashin to get some snacks for my post-live celebration, I was doing just fine. No double vision or incontrollable desire to vomit on the unpacked boxes of instant ramen cluttering the aisles. I paid for my wares and hopped back into the taxi. I got home, went up stairs and proceeded to watch Lost and Battlestar Galactica. I had two beers – a tall one and a short one – as well as some cheese and crackers. Average for a night party. I even drank some Ukon no Chikara, hoping that the turmeric would work its magic on my liver. In retrospect, probably should have had more than one. So, as you can see, not a terribly crazy night.

The problem was that I didn’t drink ANY water, save for the little I downed with the turmeric powder, and I stayed up until nearly 4 am. Bad combinations. Bad things. Bad times the next morning when I woke up and Akiko had a plate of egg salad staring me in the face. It looked delicious, for an instant. After the first bite, however, my appetite vanished and I couldn’t even look at the plate. Akiko worried about me, and rightfully she should have. I wasn’t feeling well, but I thought it was mainly from my headache. So, after breakfast, I took some Bufferin and lay back down. Around 10:30 the doorbell rang and a representative from post office was standing there with a package, probably the one from my folks. I received it, speaking only the most necessary amount of words to nice man in glasses and standard issue blue suit. The box made its way up to the living room couch table and I somehow made my way back to bed. With nothing in my stomach, I knew I couldn’t risk taking another dose of Bufferin without doing some real damage to my insides. So I just went back to sleep. Akiko returned about an hour later, shocked that I still was sleeping. With my wily charm, though, I coaxed her back into bed, where we slept until about 1:30. We woke, and I felt hungry. My stomach growled, even though my head still pounded its deep South African rhythms. Why South African, I couldn’t tell you. But as it beat, images of my SA friends flashed through my mind. Really, not sure why.

I suggested Ocean Terrace for lunch and she seemed excited. So we changed, and left for a late lunch. Exiting the car, a wave of fried garlic abused my nose and my head pounded even harder, sending its pulses to my stomach which started to gurgle and bounce around with nasty intentions. But because of my love for my wife, I pressed onward. We waited in the foyer, she deciding what to order and my trying to make the pain in my head and sour feeling in my stomach subside. The gig was up. She knew. I honestly did feel better right after my nap, but the smell from the restaurant did not help. We ordered. She got seafood curry and I a demi-gras hamburg loaf atop white rice. Normally a delicious meal, but today tasted like sickly sweet wet cardboard.

Akiko finished her meal, all but licking the huge bowl, and she tackled some of my leftovers. More power to you, honey! We shopped for groceries at the Harashin next door, went to the 100 yen shop and bought some black Q-tips, and finally ended our outing with a trip to the video store.

Juno. Rented it. Watched it. Quite a fine film. We both laughed and teared up a little. She then went to sleep but I checked my classes online, eating more of the infamous cheese and crackers. Sans beer of course. I know when I’ve reached my limit for a weekend. Watched more BG and Whedon’s new Dollhouse.

All this to say what? Aren’t I supposed to say something? Make some monumental insight into the meaning of life and our existence here. What do people do on blog’s anyway? And how many times has someone asked that question on a blog, especially those that just start out blogging? If there is nothing new under the sun, how can this text be anything but repetition? Stories are repetition.

The stories we tell, the one about the girlfriend who slammed us or the boyfriend who cheated on you with your mother… these are the stories we all have, we all share, we all know and hate to admit to have experienced. But when we share these mundane moments of everydayness, some spark of recognition flashes and we can connect to another person. For a sliver of a second, we can look into someone’s eyes and honestly say, “I know what it means to be you.”

Or, maybe I'm still a little hung-over

Hello, World.