Years ago, I enrolled at a local community college after graduated from high school. I took English composition classes in hoping to learn more about the language, and it was also required for an Associate degree. I had only live in the United States for three years, but prior to the United States, I took Languages-French and English-as my major in my country. Thus, I had some basic knowledge about English. I came across two distinctive teachers: kind-hearted, and thick-headed ones.
The kind-hearted teacher
I passed all my ESL tests, and was so ready for new adventures. My first composition class was a joy. My English teacher commented on how well I described a certain situation. He encouraged me to pay attention on my verbs usage, and tutored me after school. He gave me the extra help that I needed because he knew I can handle the challenge. He provided me with books, encouraging words, and gave me positive spirit to deal with the transition.
Mr. Lou Baltman became my first hero in the early days of my college life. He was the only kind-hearted teacher that I had a chance to meet. Without a genuine caring person like him, I would not have learn to love the English language, nor would I want to try to be a better student. What I learned from Mr. Baltman was that to be opened to different cultures and ethnics group with your kindest heart.
The thick-headed instructor
I went on taking composition two with confident. The first day the instructor gave us an assignment to write our own biography. I worked hard on my writing. I checked on my spelling and grammar. I thought it was good enough to meet his requirements. To my surprise, he handed my paper back without grade or marks, and he told me: “I am sorry I don’t know how to teach a foreigner.” I looked at him and knew what he wanted.
I dropped out of that class. What could I accomplish once the instructor said that? How would he feel if I keep coming back? Above all, could I stay and look at him day after day? I told him that if he didn’t know how to teach, then I had nothing to learn from him. I was hurt, but I walked out with my head high. What I observed from this man was that not to be shallow in the mind.
Learning another language was hard enough. Meeting an instructor who had discrimination toward you was even more awful. It shattered my confident, discouraging my learning, and terrifying to take another class. However, facing challenges all my life, I decided not to give up, or let that bad experience control my life, or damage my future.
All through my college years, I had met more than my fair shares of bad instructors. I can’t call them teachers, because they are simply not teachers. Teachers know how to teach, despite the color of skin, language, or nationality. I don’t remember their names, but that one kind-hearted teacher, his name, I can’t never forget.
