I couldn't feel any more fulfilled right now as a teacher.
Like any academic pursuit, acquiring a second language demands a lot of study, dedication, and perseverance; however, there's an additional, frustratingly unique skill required, a skill that's completely beyond the control of the learner — the awareness that no matter how hard one works the brain will make sense of a language when and only when the brain is ready and not a moment sooner.
When I lived in Guatemala, I conjugated verbs and memorized vocabulary each day for several hours. That's what overachievers do, and it normally leads to success, but no matter what I tried I found my progress with Spanish to be slow. What does any overachiever do in this situation? He works even more, of course. Still, no success.
It was at this point that my polyglot friend told me I needed to put down the books, take a deep breath, and allow the mystery of language acquisition to unfold without my pushing it.
Having gone through the ordeal, I possess a tremendous amount of patience with students trying to learn English, which is why I wasn't overly worried when my school feared that a Chinese boy wasn't going to make it academically.
The boy, who I'll call Cheng, was withdrawn, never spoke in class, lacked enthusiasm for his studies, and performed poorly on tests. Normally, that would be a formula for failure but not in the case of a second-language learner.
Most students go through a "silent period" when they appear to be confused and might not be saying anything in class but are still processing the new language. Eventually, sometimes months later, the child sorts it out and blossoms.
Teachers also tend to forget that foreign students often are hundreds or thousands of miles from home; living, in many cases, with extended family or no family; don't understand the culture; lack friends; and have been thrown into classes taught in another language.
Frequently, I ask my colleagues to imagine how they'd feel if, as adults, they were shipped abroad and thrust into a rigorous, Chinese academic program or Swahili or anything else other than English.
Under the circumstances, I'm amazed how quickly our kids adapt, but that wasn't happening with Cheng, even though the 14-year-old had just been in Singapore for six months.
Earlier this week, I spoke to a veteran administrator who's run schools around the world. He told me the secret for any child to be successful is to find a way for the student to make some sort of connection within the school community. It could be a club or a sport or a study group or any other activity that gives the new student a feeling of belonging.
In this case, the teacher assigned to work individually with Cheng just happens to be American, and Cheng just happens to love everything about America. During our second meeting, he asked me how much the newly-released iPhone6 would cost in my country. At that point, I knew the battle had already been won.
I'd like to take credit for Cheng's success over these past six months, but really I just fed him a steady diet of American literature, American conversation, and got out of the way, allowing the brain to work its magic.
And so last week I found myself sitting with Cheng in front of his geography class, waiting to listen to him talk about a deadly earthquake he lived through years ago in China that killed 70,000 people and left five million homeless. I decided to interview him to reduce the pressure.
The 7th grader, who had arrived 10 months earlier speaking little to no English, now held the floor and held his classmates spellbound as he described his ordeal in almost flawless English.
Teaching isn't a financially lucrative profession, but I can't imagine any greater reward than watching a child, who I fear might not have lasted much longer in Singapore, excelling at the highest level.
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