Posts tagged Soviet teacher

Encounters with Soviet People (Part IV)

p. 229 “No doubt Tatyana believed what she was saying.  Nearly all the teachers I had met in Soviet schools insisted that their students knew more about America than American students knew about the Soviet Union – despite outdated texts and slanting media reporting.  Few accepted my contention that neither of them knew much about the other, though most agree that glasnost has opened the way for better understanding on both sides.

 

Everyone expressed fascination with the comparative informality of American classrooms, especially in the social studies… “Now let me talk about the informal atmosphere of lessons.  I like it!  It’s good for both teachers and students.  Of course, it has nothing to do with familiarity…And the students are not afraid of making mistakes! They can be right and wrong, but they are free!  I like this atmosphere.”

 

p. 230 – “I no longer have a perfect idea of your American system of education!…Everything in the Soviet Union is so centralized, so organized…Our system is not very good, of course, but it is easier to grasp the idea of our system of education.”

 

p. 165 – “We have known each other now for more than a month,” I began with Valentina’s first group.  “As you no doubt realize, I am interested in what you think and how you see yourselves from your point of view…”

“I do not really know who you are,” Igor told me after the lesson…At the break, Valentina strode up to me.  “The children will not give you honest answers,” she asserted.  “They do not know you well enough.  It takes years before you can learn about such things from them—years.” No comments or questions about what I was attempting to do.  No queries about my methods.  Just this comment.  That was all.  By now I felt ill, as my heart was thumping and my ears were becoming warm.  I had gone too far.  And, what was worse, I had offended Valentina with my presumptive behavior.

 

p. 154 – “I wonder again what would have happened if I had challenged her [Valentina] at that time half-way through my two-months in her school.  No doubt, she would have been polite.  She always was.  But it would have been that Soviet politeness that comes with a knowledge that hers was a superior position.  Such politeness feels worse than disdain.  She would have listened to my rage.  But nothing would have changed.  Valentina and her students would have tasted my American feistiness, and for that I would have been proud.  We are the land of democracy, after all, and I would have been its momentary champion.

And they might have acknowledged my viewpoint as well.  But understood it?  Probably not.  How could the students have understood when they had grown up in a society where alternative sources of information did not exist?  Every subject had its own textbook where learning meant to memorize its contents.  In English classes to retell the text meant to memorize its contents.  In English classes to retell the text meant to repeat it verbatim.  Any hesitation invited prompting from classmates or words and phrases from the teacher.  When students shared their opinions, teachers corrected their thoughts as well as their grammar and usage.

I wonder, too, if a challenge to Valentina at that moment would have put me more on the outside and isolated me more than I already felt.  I was teaching in the school, after all, on borrowed time.  And I was a teacher without my own students.  Shortly I would have to leave.  Whatever impact I might have made would be absorbed by the routine of the weeks and months to follow, as the endless treadmill of memorized information smoldered thought and squelched memories and hopes.

 

p. 167 – “Perhaps Valentina had a point.  I was a foreigner, after all, an interloper who had been assigned to the school for two-months to teach groups of children for five or six lessons each – mere moments in the scheme of their lives.  What chance did I have to win their respect?  Their confidence? Their trust? How could I enter their lives and belong to their collective world, even for a while? …Had I been fooling myself during all those years as a teacher at home when I taught students for only a year, sometimes two?  Could we have touched each others’ lives in such a short time?

 

…She preferred to be consistent, to perform the known, the expected.  She was, after all, the product of an educational system that had created its own womb—and now she was one of its caretakers.  It was her bread and butter.  She had always done what was expected and done it well…and she understood the basic premises underlying Soviet education:  its conformity, consistency and continuity.

 

 

 

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Encounters with Soviet People (Part II)

Perhaps some of my readers may think it odd to write about Soviet people when the Soviet Union was dissolved 17-18 years ago but the Soviet mentality still exists.  I know, because I will be teaching English this fall semester once again in Almaty, Kazakhstan at a “westernized” university. The following quotes I typed up ring true even today in Kazakhstan.  My guest writer, Frank R. Thoms, for this series on “Encounters with Soviet People” was maybe a Fulbright Scholar for several months in Alma Ata (as it was known back during Soviet times).  I have never met this writer but appreciate his unpublished document he left behind with my friend Tatyana about his experiences in secondary schools, specialized schools of English in Almaty.  Maybe some of my Kazakhstani teaching colleagues knew of Frank R. Thoms.  I would love to meet Zoya of whom he writes about.

p. 99 – “It was not many years ago, however, when the evaluation of Soviet teachers was based on the performance of their students.  Though this practice has been abolished, its residue remained.  National Teachers Day aside, teachers do not receive much respect from students or parents.”

 

p. 108 – “I preferred to teach from the curriculum, to mingle with the texts of their lives, their daily fare, rather than to use my own material.  It was enough difference that I was an American.  Though I enjoyed addressing larger groups, I preferred the classroom where I could mix with the students and their textbooks.  Somehow I felt that the texts would be a bond between us after I left.  As the same texts are used in all schools, the lessons become a shared memory within the school and throughout the city and the country.  Mention “What is More Useful” or “The Black Cat” and all students of English in special schools will remember.”

 

p. 110 – “I then labeled the Stages of History, putting each one higher and to the right of the other.  Everyone recognized what I was doing.  I then wrote ‘Socialist” slightly higher and to the right of “Capitalist”, and put “Communist” higher than that.  I added another live above “Communist” and put a question mark.

“Marx said the dialectical process is inevitable,” I continued.  “Do you agree?” Everyone nodded.  “It must go on and on.  If that is true, how can the end of history be Communism?”…The students were perplexed.  I think it was more than my American dialect, as they had met American teachers before.  But it might have been the first time in their schooling that they had been asked to evaluate Marx’s theoretical realities.  School learning required that they memorize texts or at least be able to retell it.  With so much to cover at each lesson there was no time for discussion, for reflection.  By the eighth year many students became numb to the disparity between the texts and their own realities; some were already cynical and most were bored.  In asking them to consider the implications of what they had read was another matter.”

 

p. 111 – “In the classroom, after all, a teacher is a teacher and students are students, adults and children teaching each other, learning from each other—at least that’s the way I have always done it.  I cannot see myself as “the teacher,” the one who knows, and “the students,” the ones who must learn from me.  It has never worked that way…

Zoya was fascinated with my teaching methods.  After the lesson on Marx, she said she wished she had been one of my students.  “You teach them to think.”

 

p. 112 – “The ebullient feeling that had permeated the room during the break vanished.  Her [Zoya] voice took on another rhythm.  The structure of the lesson in the text seemed to absorb her personality.  It was as if an Inspector had walked in, an Inspector who looked for the lesson to be performed as designed in the teacher’s text with each question, each explanation, each step to be carried out exactly as written.  I had heard that Inspectors could be that precise.  Zoya became “Soviet teacher” and her students become “Soviet students.”  The lesson materialized as if it had come from the book I read about Soviet education.  The children responded to her as if they were automatons, and she spoke to them as if she were on a language-lab tape.  When in pairs practicing dialogues, her students spoke to each other – back and forth, back and forth—without feelings, without emotion.  Nobody was having fun.  Nobody was charged with energy.  Nobody was thinking.  Everybody appeared bored.  They acted bored.  Yet everyone was involved.

 

…the lessons were more methodical than mine as teachers asked predictable questions, and students responded with predictable answers.  Because they were speaking from memory and retelling the texts, participation was guaranteed.  Besides, Soviet teachers can not tolerate silence as there is too much to cover.  Nor do they allow for mistakes as students are subject to being graded every day.  Therefore, methodical routines improve chances for success.  Success is better for everyone.  For students, good grades mean better choices after graduation; for teachers, they mean better evaluations.

 

…They spoke when asked and presented dialogues—retold, repeated, regurgitated without hesitation.  The voices were robotic—Zoya’s as well.  And the rhythm of the lesson, a relentless pattern: a question, hands raised at the elbow, standing, speaking, sitting; another question, hands raised at the elbow, standing, speaking, sitting.  If a student hesitated, the rhythm paused…No time for silence, no allowance for patience.  Too much to cover, too much to do.”

 

 

 

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