Flying by the seat of my pantalones
I’m taking a class at the University of Oregon called Be the Change, and basically it encourages students to do just that. In 10 short weeks we, the students, have the opportunity to make a difference in our community by coupling our passion for the social issue of our choice with our academic focus. There are about 30 kids in the class who range from women’s studies majors to future architectural designers. Students speak of their love for children and the environment, their concerns for race relations and fair and equal voting, and all the places that violence, poverty, and greed raise their ugly heads. It’s an inspiring class with weekly speakers from the community as well as a thought-provoking textbook called The Transformative Way that has us mining our minds and souls for ways to be more effective and get involved.
You might have thought from reading my blog (okay – two former entries but they do make the point) that I would have chosen to focus my class project on something that had to do with animals – maybe the no-kill shelter, or our local Humane Society. But frankly, I know myself too well. I can tell you without a doubt that I am not the one who can face the cold, hard, sad facts of daily animal life in America and not either have a nervous breakdown or climb the nearest watchtower with a shiny, new, semi-automatic assault riffle strapped to my back. Suffice it to say its just not a good fit. So, after listening one morning to a guest speaker named Elke who worked for a shelter that served homeless families, I decided to work with them.
First Place Family Center is, I guess, a sort of typical homeless shelter, in what is in fact a better than typical, small sized American city (Eugene). It’s in a not so perfect part of town, in an older than necessary three-story, cinderblock building lovingly painted cheery yellow. The parking lot is deeply rutted and unpaved, which means muddy, water filled potholes the size of small ponds here in the Pacific Northwest, and there’s a semi-truck trailer permanently parked out in front by the street where people drop off donations. First Place only serves families with children under 18, and each time I’ve been there there’s been a gaggle of moms and kids, sometimes dads too, hanging out in the family room just to the back of the front office. The kids play and scream and cry like kids do, and the moms gossip, and scold, do laundry, fix food, check email, and watch TV like moms do with the only difference being that none of them has anywhere else to go. But then really, First Place is a nice place to be. There are mens’ and women’s shower rooms, washers and dryers, a food pantry, and a supply room filled with donated diapers, clothes and house-type items (when available). They run a night shelter, and with the help of local churches in the area, find safe places for families to get short term housing while they figure out what to do next. There’s even housing for the “vehicular homeless families” in the area (yes, it’s legal to raise kids in cars in Oregon).
But what really got me interested in donating my time to First Place was the work they do with low-income and homeless immigrant families. The day that Elke came to talk to our class she mentioned that from last year to this, the shelter’s immigrant population had risen over 35%. 35%! What’s more, she is the shelter’s only Spanish speaking employee and often the only one to help troubleshoot housing problems, medical needs, and education for this group. Here was my link! While I only speak a little Spanish, I am (hopefully) entering a Masters program in the Fall for Second Language Teaching. Sure, I don’t have much experience teaching English officially, but I’ve been a volunteer English tutor with the community college for the past six months, and I’m completing a certification in Second Language Acquisition Training with my undergrad degree. Good enough, I thought. And in fact it was. After a brief conversation with Elke, I was good to go. Almost immediately I began to put together my free English class, and Elke let as many of her Spanish speaking clients know about it as she could.
As of this writing I’ve completed one month of classes, two times a week. Classes are held in the employee break room upstairs, which also serves as the supply cabinet and computer area. My largest class has been three students. My typical class 1.5 (three of my somewhat regular students bring their children who range in age from 18 months to 4 years). The proficiency level runs from very, very beginners to very, very beginning/intermediates, and I never know who’s going to be there. For the first four classes Isabela was always there. She’s a beginning/intermediate student who understands quite a bit of English, but can’t quite speak it (reminds me of my Spanish, actually). But her car broke down, and I haven’t seen her for more than a week. Caramina a very, very (enthusiastic) beginner showed up only once with her two-year old daughter Roberta, and Maria, her friend who’s at an intermediate level. Maria was quieter and older than the rest of the students I’d had, and she explained that her understanding of English comes from working as a maid for the last 5 years. Both women said they’d be back if Elizabeth, the one with the car, wasn’t offered double shifts. I haven’t seen either one of them since. Today was only Gloria, my newest student, who arrives early by bus with her son, Angelo, an 18 month-old baby boy who looks as delicious as any cream puff I’ve ever seen. Gloria is a twenty-four year old mother of two from Mexico. She attacks each lesson and worksheet I give her with total and complete concentration, correcting herself again and again until she gets things right. She asks questions, writes herself notes in Spanish, and keeps all of her work from class so she can practice. She, like the rest of my students, amazes me. They are hard working, polite, and kind. It doesn’t seem to matter to them that my Spanish is often terrible, that my lessons are unorganized or hard to follow, or that sometimes I have no idea how to answer their questions or explain why something is as it is. Each time they arrive they are ready to learn, and each time they leave they say “Thank you” in English. It’s a pretty sweet set-up.
But teaching English is difficult, especially when you have almost no idea what you’re doing like I do. I am continually (sometimes desperately) searching the web for free, usable ESL materials, or creating my own, only to find they work a whole lot better in my mind than in the classroom. Sometimes my lessons are so lacking in structure and coherency that I think I ought to be ashamed to be doing what I’m doing. But then not really, because basically as far as I can tell, I am the only one doing what I’m doing. There are no other free English classes offered in Eugene. I guess you might say, I have cornered el mercado. Yippee and yikes come to mind.
