I No Speak English Good

I'm teaching intermediate English, which should be easy considering that I was born and reared in North America surrounded by eloquent and educated adults.

Problem is, I'm already loosing my mother tongue. I'm the only native English speaker for what could be hundreds of kilometers around. My other foreign companions hail from Germany, Poland, Estonia, Finland, Hong Kong, and France. Which means that in the course of an hour I adapt to 7 different accents in a sometimes failed effort to communicate meaning. My father will be thrilled to hear that this means I've had to drop the California race-paced talking. He will be not so thrilled so hear that the eloquence has been replaced by what one can only be termed "broken English."

I'm starting to think somehow I got the better deal out of this whole gig. I take a 10 minute bus ride from S. to D., drop on the corner and then cross the "highway"---strewn with men on bikes and walking women and racing motorbikes and honking open-windowed buses--to the development center. Essentially it's a large blue garage. And, with the power cuts in the afternoon and no real ventilation, it's also a cooking house.

My students stream in just before 3:30, always asking permission before they enter the class. It begins with grammar, an attempt to explain "good" versus "well," and slowly over the course of two hours it falls into my learning time. To them I am "mame." But in truth I am the overly-eager girl in the front of the classroom, deciphering and hanging on their every word. It is a private education in the ways of these villages, the perspective and experiences of these twenty-somethings who know not how they are opening my eyes. Yesterday it was about Gandhi, a man they felt was undeservingly exalted over the forgotten freedom fighters. Today it was arranged marriage, unfolding after their unique considerations of what life in America entails.

And as they speak I catch glimpses of the world through their eyes. Some are wistful, some hopefully, some grounded in the realities of the space around them. A few wish to go abroad, to discover riches in London or employment in Sydney. Others want to stay here, surrounded by the rice patties and open market stalls and green surroundings they know to be home.

When they leave they smile and say "thank you mame," parting in different directions on foot, moto, and bike.

And I ride back home on the bus with windows open wide, a happy and ever-thirsty sponge.