Thank a Teacher

I learned more in middle school during two, non-consecutive years of Spanish class than I did in any of the other six years of Spanish instruction I had throughout my life (most of which were at either the high school or college level). I have never looked forward to schooling in the way I did to Ms. M’s class—the walls of her classroom were papered with bright maps of Central and South America and her desk overflowed with knick-nacks from her travels; things like plastic bobbleheads and small wooden sculptures of palm trees. My teacher, Ms. M, was a wonderfully eccentric woman. She was tall with salt and pepper hair that fell loosely to each side, like the leaves of a palm tree and always smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. She prided herself in each class putting on a show. On the first day of class, she barely spoke a word of English, instead describing all the different countries we were going to learn about by gesticulating at the globe and using as many cognates as possible, demonstrating how much could actually be communicated through tone and physicality.

A view from a family run rooftop restaurant in Havana

But although the lessons were delivered through performance, interaction, and expressions of joy, she was also transparent with us about what it took from her. I remember one day she ended class with drained eyes. That day she spoke in English—something extremely rare for her—about how many hours of lesson planning she put into each 50 minute session, and how, sometimes, she left class deflated, confused, even angry. How hurtful it was when our tween posturing to be clownish or cool came at the expense of appreciating her careful preparation. How she needed our attention to match her effort. She let us behind the curtain of the show, which felt like a demonstration of trust, and thus, respect, that very few adults were showing us at that time in our lives.

From the first class, she made clear her emphasis as a teacher was on supporting us to become conversational in Spanish. This might sound like an obvious goal, but many Spanish teachers emphasize, vocabulary, grammar, spelling, and reading comprehension as isolated appendages. She recognized that each of these was only useful when viewed in conjunction with the others, that the goal of being able to communicate oneself is achieved through fluency: that indescribable, tacit ability for connections and overlaps between “parts” of language to move as one. In other words, to speak in the way a hand moves, rather than five individual fingers. This recognition manifested in her classroom techniques— lots of “Simon Says,” games where we’d race to ask and answer questions to our partner in Spanish, explicitly introducing idioms and extensive use of mnemonics: all these things transcended the typical segregation and division of linguistic concepts.  

While I didn’t realize it at the time, there was a marvelously transgressive ethos not only to her style and technique of teaching, but the content too. We were quizzed on the geography and culture of Latin America. This meant we all knew every capital in Central and South America, and we were made to know that the main languages in Brazil, Suriname, Guyana, and French Guiana are not Spanish. There was no glorifying of Cortéz or other conquistadors--we understood that colonizers from Europe came and slaughtered indigenous people of the Americas and that is why English, French, Portuguese, and Spanish are spoken throughout. Moreover we learned about the differences between arepas and empanadas and Mexican Spanish and Castellano—all of this was integrated into our regular vocab and grammar work as well. It sounds small, but it helped disrupt the everyday, racist flattening of the very distinct cultures across Central and South America.

Ms. M had a real faith in us too. I was a bright student but also loud and attention-seeking. It would have been easy for her to embrace this fully; I was, after all, participating in a setting that demanded active participation. But that could come at the expense of space for other, quieter learners. On the other hand, she could have stamped out my enthusiasm, shamed me into toning it down and conforming to a dull equilibrium. She skillfully managed the classroom to do neither of these things. She encouraged all kinds of learners while pushing us gently in the ways each of us needed.

There are so many examples of how learning Spanish in her class transformed the course of my life. I’ve been blessed to travel in Latin America, including 5 months studying in Argentina, a heritage journey to Ecuador, and a breathtaking 10 days in Cuba. My study abroad program in Buenos Aires was filled with other Americans, many majoring in Spanish, whose reading and writing was far superior to mine, but their ability to communicate themselves varied considerably. Even after taking almost two years off from being in classes or speaking regularly, my oral Spanish was some of the best on the program. It allowed me to play soccer at Universidad Di Tella, my teammates all Argentinean. The relationships I built gave me a far wider door to step into another culture than I would’ve been able to otherwise. By the end of my time there, I had genuine Argentine friends and though I wouldn’t call myself fluent, I was never afraid my language skills would be a barrier to anything I wanted to do. I credit this not to some natural predisposition to language (there were many students who I think were more talented with language than me) but to Ms. M’s teaching.

Years later, when I travelled to Cuba, friends who had visited before told me that, even more so than other places in Latin America, Cuban’s are friendly and I should be open to striking up conversation and learning from locals. On my first day in Havana I was travelling with a friend who spoke no Spanish. As we wandered amongst the colorful buildings of Habana Vieja we approached a group of men sitting on a stoop outside an apartment. Tentatively, I interrupted their conversation to ask for a recommendation for lunch, somewhere not touristy or too expensive. One of the men, very dark skinned with blinding white teeth and hair in short locs, looked up at us with an ambivalent and curious stare. He stood, and then motioned to us with a flick of his hand, “sígueme.” We followed him with a childish helplessness, weaving between alleys with no idea where we were headed. After a few minutes, he ducked into an unmarked door of an unremarkable apartment building. We followed him, with some hesitation, but without another clear option other than abandoning our unexpected guide in this unknown part of the city. After skipping up four flights of stairs we exited onto the top of the building, greeted by a stunning view and a small, family-run rooftop restaurant.

We learned then that our guide’s name was Barbaro, and he flashed a smile as we sat down at a small circular table with him. For a moment, I was struck with a peculiar strand of American cynicism—did this guy bring us here just to get a free lunch out of it? The thought was a flash, just an instant, and a moment later I was embarrassed to have had it. I tried to let it melt away. Even if he did want a free lunch, so what? He was providing a service by showing us around, and, due to the decades of U.S embargo, the exchange rate meant my dollars went very far here.

My suspicion, however, proved wholly unfounded. I offered to buy Barbaro lunch but he declined— he’d already eaten, and simply wanted to talk— it’s not so often that Americans come through looking to connect. We spent two hours on that rooftop, sharing laughter, talking politics, exchanging questions about each others’ countries. This is the kind of experience that feels nearly impossible in the United States—the level of alienation and distrust between strangers runs too high. In my darker moments I try to return to my experiences in Cuba, which repeated themselves in this similar fashion day after day, complete strangers showing me grace and kindness. The level of interdependence and frankly, public love I witnessed points towards the world I want to see, one that feels more pressing and necessary every day. It also could not have happened had I not spent two years under the care of Ms. M as a teacher, learning how to make myself known in Spanish.  

Since then I have had the privilege to learn from immigrant organizers in Boston and, though not much in the pandemic, have found other moments here and there to speak Spanish. All these seemingly disparate moments of connection, learning, and growth can ultimately be sourced to the foundation of, not only skills I developed, but love for language and learning that I received from being in class with Ms. M. If you have a teacher like this in your life, consider sending them a note. We owe them so much.

The view from a family run rooftop restaurant in Havana