I am talking to a student in my office. She's a fourth year student telling me that she will not be able to finish her senior graduation paper.
"It's OK," I tell her in a calm voice. "You worked hard for four years, and now, you couldn't finish one paper. Don't worry about it."
"Yes, I know," she says, looking down at her hands in her lap, "But I really wanted to finish this. It's important to me, but I just started too late. I know not to start late, but I did it anyway." Her face starts to draw up tight, far from her usually pleasant look. She starts to explain why and I listen to her extremely good English try to wrap itself around the bulky shape of excuses and self-criticisms.
She starts to list the reasons: her father got sick so she had to go back to her hometown; she had to look for a job, which didn't go well at first; she got really sick and went to the doctor; and of course, she started too late and chose too big a topic.
"I know," I tell her. "It's OK. You don't need the credit to graduate, so why worry so much?" But, of course, as often happens, I'm missing the point.
Then, she tears start pouring out. She talks as she cries: "It's like I didn't learn anything at all in four years!" she moans, wiping her ties and trying to keep it in. "I wanted to write this graduation paper, but I just couldn't finish it. I couldn’t even start. I tried many times, and wrote some, but I couldn't get it to come together!" Then, she crumples into sobs and I reach for the tissues that I keep on my desk for just these moments.
Another weeping student, I think to myself. I pull out tissue after tissue for her, and pull the wastepaper can over so she can throw out the sopping-wet used ones without having to apologize for handing them to me. I sit quietly to let her cry it out for a few minutes, but she just continues, in wave after wave of loud, uncontrollable sobs. As the pile of tissues grows and she finally, finally slows to catch her breath, I begin to explain a few points to her about studying, language, writing and life. She's listening, as if for the first time.
"You know, I failed quite a few classes myself," I tell her. "You did?" she asks, looking up from behind a handful of tissues with wet, red eyes. "Sure. And I survived. Once, I even walked out of one writing class right in the middle, I got so sick of the teacher." I confess. "At least, you have better reasons than I did!"
She nods and starts to come back to herself. And after another big breath or two, she becomes a little recomposed. Of course, what I tell her is nothing different than what I have said in classes, in meetings in my office, and also no different than what I do in the classroom. But of course, after her weeping, my tone of voice is different. She's changed MY attitude and now we can really talk, even if it's repeating what's been said and done before.
This same scene repeats itself in my office every year. Most students do not cry in the teacher's office, but those that do are ones that trust me, or need to share their feelings, or just need to cry. What they are really asking is whether it is OK to feel so strongly about studying English. I assure them it is OK. Sometimes, they have other problems in their life, of course, but always English is what they take pride in and what they feel bad about when they fail to do it just right. I know that many more cry at home, alone, than in my office.
Most classes allow no time for feeling and emotion, though learning English is an extremely emotional undertaking. Most students have to store up all their feelings in some hidden part of themselves, sealed away from the intellectual and academic approach to studying English inside schools. However, from time to time, all those suppressed feelings explode and come pouring out in a rush of tears. Students all over the world, of course, cry, but for Japanese students, studying English is a powerful, deeply felt experience.
Of course, much of the reason for crying is frustration, and a bit of anger, though the anger is not always directed at some one thing. Some students get disappointed in themselves, with a strong sense of failure at not having done things perfectly, of reaching some limit without succeeding in going farther. However, underlying all of these reasons is the constant suppression of their real feelings about studying English.
Learning a language, like any other human relationship, involves emotional sacrifice and feelings of both pleasure and pain. Psychic energy is bound up with the many, different activities that studying a language demands from learners. Teachers and learners both try to look away from the messy, emotional side of learning, because it is a little embarrassing. It is easier to focus on drills, skills, tasks, homework, and tests, which are more clear-cut.
The true learning of a language always involves a great deal of emotional investment. Classes in language, maybe more than any other subject, need an environment where emotions are tapped as a source of energy and accepted as a natural part of the process, rather than being shunted aside and ignored. Below the surface of every great language learner is a huge storehouse of deeply felt and intimate feelings. It is not the bad students who cry in my office; it is the good ones.
The students who collapse in cascades of tears always apologize profusely. They feel slightly ashamed that they were unable to control themselves, but I tell them it's OK. I tell them their crying is a positive thing. I tell them it is OK to get angry and frustrated. That is a sign of being intimately involved and of being a human being doing something that is difficult. It is a sign that they care deeply.
Frankly, I am always amazed at their emotional depths and slightly envious of their tears, as they come from such depths. I admire their capacity for profound feelings. I feel always re-humanized after these crying sessions. They reveal how seriously students take their studies, even if they are very good at feigning indifference most of the time. As a teacher, it is easy to hide behind intellectual and rational fronts, to construct a defense against the anxiety of dealing with so many people all day every day. It is common to overlook the emotional side of education, but it should not be. Their caring makes me care all the more.
Whether studying language or really any subject, learning is life. Learning goes to the very core of our human nature. That is a truth worth crying over, one that my students teach me about again and again with their tears.
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