Being fresh in the public education sector, I naturally began comparing my on-the-field observations with my own 12 years of experience as a public-schooled, standardized-tested student. What's on my mind today: how students learn the English language.
While my rather "extreme" personal experiences might be more indicative of the education system in Singapore, but I see clear parallels here in Chicago.
I loved English. Or more accurately, I loved English as a tested subject. Because I was great at it.
The year was 1998. Fresh off the proverbial boat in Singapore, I was blessed to be able to pick up the English language quite naturally (yup, English is one of Singapore's official languages). Before I knew it, I was getting nothing less than an A and bagging the top prize for English each year. Thus began by tempestuous love affair with the language.
I graduated from a now-defunct primary (elementary) school, and moved on to a reasonably reputable secondary school (grades 7-10). This school was reputable because it consistently produced high scorers in the O Levels, the national examination that served to rank all 10th-graders in the country to determine which junior colleges (grades 11-12) are within their reach. As you can imagine, what made a secondary school elite, then, was its ability to prepare students to outsmart this system.
The concept of "good words" was again and again drilled in us. What made a word "good"? This nebulous concept was never explicitly defined, but what I understood was that these were the big and/or unusual words that would earn us little check marks in our essays. And the more check marks there are on our manuscripts, the more impressed the grader will be, and the more likely they are to bestow a high grade.
Writing became, to me, an exercise in showing off my vocabulary. Preparing for the English essay exam meant poring over the thesaurus. Don't write "beautiful butterflies" if you can say "beauteous butterflies", or "blue skies" when there's the superior "azure blue"! No one told me that, and I don't think anyone meant to. I internalized it myself.
Don't get me wrong -- I have nothing against big words. As we get older, we experience more and feel more, and we'd need words with more nuance and precision to articulate thoughts with greater accuracy. But at the middle school age, did I really need to be saying "I was surrounded by gargantuan trees" and "the math problem obfuscated me"? And what good comes out of "my mother harangued me with a barrage of errands"?
I wrote like that, blogged like that, and was proud of it. My peers would validate my false confidence in the English language by telling me how "good" my English was. Once, a classmate introduced me to his father this way: "Pa, this is Karen. Her English is very good."
In 10th grade, I was once ill-prepared for a big, end-of-year essay-writing exam. So I had "no choice" but to write a "simple" and "plain" essay about why homemade gifts will always be superior to store-bought gifts. My grader thought it was "lovely", and made copies for the entire class. I was honest-to-God mortified. I didn't want that essay to be read by everyone! There weren't enough "good words" in there! Not an accurate representation of my language ability! I was forced to conclude that this particular grader had unusually and patronizingly low standards for writing.
A few years later, I left Singapore to go to college at The University of Chicago. At some point, I found myself in a Creative Writing class with a bunch of snobbish/well-intentioned (I can't decide) English majors. One of the critiques was particularly brutal. "It's clear that you've read a lot," she wrote, "but it's also clear that English is not your first language." Ouch. For so many years I was confident that apart from my accent, I exhibited no other tell-tale sign of English being a second language. Thus began the deconstruction of everything I thought I knew about having a good grasp of a language.
What I learned a little late (but better late than never): a language is a tool of communication, not a subject matter in and of itself (unless we're talking about linguistics). It's not about the "quality" of the words you use (as if there were even any objective measure of the relative superiority of words...), but the quality of your message. It is our thoughts and our ideas that are valuable, not the words we use. The words we use, therefore, should convey our message, not obscure it.
I currently teach Math. But I don't have a single student who likes their English class, and it makes me wonder why. I loved it because I happened to be an obnoxious little linguaphile. The way English classes are (often) run would surely turn off any kid who isn't one.
If I were to venture into teaching English in the future, I'd be sure to tell my students every day that the true value of writing lies in their ideas. And their ideas are so valuable that the words they pick to communicate them have no business stealing the spotlight. And maybe, just maybe, if they also come to see how valuable their ideas and opinions are, they'd be willing to put in the effort to pick up the vocabulary and grammar skills that would help them better convey them.
This post originally appeared on Under Reconstruction. You can follow the blog on Facebook.