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COMMUNITY RHETORICS:

Writing in the Service-Learning "Contact Zone"

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Matthew Truong

PWR 3 Ross

Final Draft

10/7/02

  “St. Joseph the Worker Center,” read the sign.  When I entered the almost dilapidated building for the first time, I felt like a preschooler on his first day of school.  The room was filled with buffed and tough Hispanic men, who, for the moment, took their attention from the television and placed their eyes upon me.  “You’re only sixteen?” said the clerk, “I think you have to be at least eighteen.  Just a minute.  Lemme check.”  For a second, I had the urge to dart for the door before the clerk could notice, but I didn’t have the guts to do that.  Minutes later, I had officially become a volunteer English teacher for St. Joseph the Worker Center.

The center, sponsored by the Society of St. Vincent de Paul in Santa Clara County, provided a meeting place for employers and workers, so that the workers wouldn’t have to hang around street corners looking for jobs.  These workers, who were mostly mejicano, were “illegals” who did not carry documents and were, for the most part, homeless.  Everyday, the workers would sit in front of the T.V. and wait for employers to come and pick them up.  Some of the workers were not fortunate enough to be selected for work that day, and were often disappointed.  Those that did get jobs performed such tasks as yard work, concrete, and lifting for $10-$12 per hour.  Employers usually preferred workers who were familiar with English, so the center was always in need of volunteers who could teach English to the workers.  I only hoped that I could connect well with the workers with whom I had have never come into contact before.

Standing before the workers in the small decrepit classroom, I could feel the warm, damp air cling to my skin as my anxiety heightened.  The workers’ piercing glances made me feel as if I were a drowning man, searching for something to cling to for dear life.  With a sudden burst of confidence, I introduced myself as the new teacher, “Hola.  Me llamo Matt.  Soy professor nuevo.  Voy a enseñar inglés.”  The silence that followed only made me fear that everything I said had been completely unintelligible and esoteric to the workers.  I scanned their faces, hoping for some sign of approval, but found none.   I then proceeded cautiously, addressing them in the “usted” form, hoping to convey my respect for them as elders.  As I wrote on the board, I spoke aloud so the workers could learn the pronunciations:

What is your name? ¿Cuál es su nombre?

My name is ______. Mi nobre es _______.

How are you? ¿Cómo está usted?

Fine, thanks. Bien, gracias.

How old are you?

¿Cuántos años tiene usted?

I am ___ years old. Tengo ___ años.

Some workers studiously took notes while others made attempts to pronounce the phrases.  Everything went smoothly until one of the workers asked me question.  As I strained to listen to his rapid Spanish, I became conscious of my own heartbeat as I futilely searched for an answer.  Fortunately, eye contact—and some educated guessing—compensated for my unskilled ear.  After the lesson, I shook hands with each student as they expressed their gratitude and complimented me.

From that point on, teaching to the workers became my passion.  I felt the need to teach them as much as possible.  The morning before the next lesson, I scrambled through my Spanish binder, gathering as many vocabulary lists as possible, and as my dad drove me to the center, I sat at the edge of my seat in anticipation.  At the beginning of class, I selected the list labeled “nacionalidades” and began transcribing the list onto the board:

French                         francés

Greek                          griego

Chinese                       chino

Mexican                      mejicano

German                       alemán

Vietnamese                  vietnamita

Unexpectedly, one of the workers interrupted me, “Teacher.  No necitamos estudiar esto.  Necitamos aprender hablar en una conversación.”  A feeling of utter dread and embarrassment swept over me as I came to realize my own vanity.  Why was I teaching such useless materials to the workers since their sustenance depended on their ability to speak to employers?  In “Arts of the Contact Zone,” Mary Louise Pratt describes the Spanish’s failure to interact productively with the Andeans.  Guaman Poma wrote a letter to King Phillip to inform him about Andean culture hoping to make contact, but the letter never reached its destination (611).  The workers at St. Joseph’s were similar to Andeans because my misunderstanding of the workers caused me to neglect their most important needs.  Gradually, teaching became second nature to me—I taught only the materials most important to the workers as well as occasionally spicing up my lecture with corny jokes.

The job of teacher came with a measure of authority.  “Ustedes deben tomar apuntes,” I would command the workers as they compliantly grabbed a pencil and paper to take down everything I was going to write on the board.  Each time I gave an order, a feeling of guilt would creep over me because my authority directly conflicted with my cultural values.  In Vietnamese culture, addressing elders as if they were your equals is rude and intolerable, much less ordering them to do something.  I was astonished at how easy-going the workers were in taking orders from a high school kid.  I began to view the workers as friendly, cooperative individuals who were motivated to learn English.  However, by thinking so, I was setting up a trap for myself. 

One day, as I came into the classroom, there were several “troublemakers” in the room who were playing checkers and talking boisterously.  I assumed that those workers were waiting for class to begin, so I cheerfully greeted them and asked them to clear the tables and prepare for class, but one of them looked at me unwelcomingly and confronted me with rapid bursts of Spanish.  Although I was unable to discern every word, I recognized that he said, “We don’t want to learn English.  I don’t see anyone here who wants to learn.  If you want to have a class, bring a group a people who want to learn.  Then, we will get out of your way.”  Suddenly, I realized that my friendly smile was completely out of place.  Afterwards, I found a group of willing students and the “troublemakers” complacently gave up the room.  In “Arts of the Contact Zone,” Mary Louise Pratt explains that we “commonly assume that principles of cooperation and shared understanding are normally in effect,” but in reality, participants might not agree to play by the rules, especially when they “are from different classes or cultures, or one party is exercising authority and another is submitting to it or questioning it” (615).  My authority as a teacher (a sixteen-year-old one for that matter) was apparently inconsequential in the eyes of those “troublemakers.”  Nevertheless, most of workers appreciated me and were eager to learn.

Through my questions and their answers, I learned more about their lives, families, and obstacles.  I began to notice some of the values we had in common as well as differences in our situations.  For me, growing up in a Vietnamese family meant focusing on my education so that someday I may attain success and please my parents.  The workers, too, had a high assessment of education and admired me for my studiousness.  In their homeland, they did not have the benefit of good learning facilities and knew that only with a good education could they truly improve economically.  The greatest challenge that the workers faced as they came to America was choosing either to get educated or to find work.  Most chose the latter, particularly because they did not actually have a choice.  If they did go to school, how could they buy food to feed themselves?  Since they would never become educated, they would have to continue a life of manual labor with little improvement and inevitably accept that frustration.  I realized how fortunate I was to grow up having an education and not have to worry about finding a place to bus tables, mow lawns, or mix concrete.

The workers also seemed interested in my life and background, so I was often placed in the spotlight.  “You Chinese?” the workers would ask me in English.  “No, soy vietnamita.  Hablo tres lenguas: inglés, español, y vietnamita.”  I would reply in Spanish.  My being Asian always fascinated the workers who had expected Hispanic or gringo volunteers.  They welcomed me with open arms and were interested in learning more about my background.  The questions I asked about their lives were sometimes redirected back at me.  “What is your family like?  ¿Cómo es su familia?” I would ask them.  I learned that, in their native country, most of the workers had large families, some with of over ten children.  The workers, in turn, asked me about my own background and family.  They were very intrigued by the story of my parents’ immigration, but were even more amused upon discovering that I was an only child.

Not until I had a one-on-one conversation with one of the workers did I come to understand some of the struggles the workers had to face.  My high school Spanish teacher assigned a project in which I had to interview a native Spanish speaker about living in America.  My connection with St. Joseph the Worker Center helped me to find a subject for the interview instantly.  I was introduced to Francisco Reyes, an immigrant from Guanajuato, Mexico.  He immigrated to Los Angeles, where he worked as a dish washer.  He then moved to Chicago, where he met his wife, a Puerto Rican.  It was common for immigrants to marry American citizens in order to gain permanent residence here.  For this very reason, his marriage ended up in divorce, but he had three children who were all attending college.  Knowing that the workers were often denied social security and sometimes the privilege of driving, I asked him for his opinion about discrimination in the U.S.  He told me that although he had faced discrimination in the United States, he recognized that discrimination exists everywhere, whether in the United States, in Mexico, or in any other place in the world.  Through this contact zone, I was introduced to a perspective from the real world.

I soon realized that this new culture to which I was exposed conflicted with the one in which I had been raised.  In “The Achievement of Desire,” Richard Rodriguez describes how his exposure to the “scholarship” world has placed a wedge between him and his family.  He recognizes that the “scholarship boy must move between environments, his home and the classroom, which are at cultural extremes, opposed” (654).  As I learned more about the workers, I come to identify more with their lives and perspectives. Consequently, I became increasingly bitter about my parents’ stereotypical view of Hispanics.  Just as Rodriguez experienced separation from his family as he became more educated, so I became embarrassed with my parents’ prejudices as I got to know the workers better.  The workers were also similar to Rodriguez because they had to face a new environment and a new way of life that contradicted the life they previously had.  They observed that in America almost everyone works full time, unlike in their native country.  Like Rodriguez, they were slowly beginning to adopt the American way of life as they began to focus more and more on finding jobs and making money.

By just wandering around the center, I reached many other important realizations.  Walking past the waiting area, I noticed a crucifix on the wall and a statue of Mary.  The center’s religious affiliation seemed to bring me closer to the workers because I, too, was Catholic.  One time, I observed one of the workers enter the classroom, pick the Bible, sit down, remove his hat, cross himself, and begin reading.  At that moment, I was struck by his religiousness and was shocked by my own neglect of religion.  Then I realized that in America, our focus on work and success has taken our mind away from greater values in life. 

Searching the center for learning tools, I found a filing cabinet filled with English language and work training videos.  I intended to view one of the tapes, but the VCR was no where in sight.  The director of the center informed me that people often break into the center to steal small devices and appliances.  I was deeply troubled that the people I came to identify with would commit such an act.  How could they steal from the place that was helping them to find jobs and providing them with food?  I convinced myself not to make judgments about the workers but to continue to teach them with an open mind.

After months of teaching, I still saw myself performing the simple task of passing on my knowledge to the students.  “Ustedes necesitan memorizer todas las phrases en los apuntes,” I would tell the workers, urging them to memorize the notes taken in class.  I assumed, at the time, that as long as I was teaching the workers, they were learning English, but there were so many factors that impeded this idealization:

·      I volunteered only on Saturdays.

·      Different people showed up to class each time.

·      English fluency varied from person to person. 

·      The workers sometimes left their notes behind in the classroom.

·      My method of teaching (giving translations for important phrases and emphasizing memorization) was not effective in developing proficiency.

What impeded them most from learning English effectively was that I was using the ineffectual banking system of education.  Paulo Freire describes that in this system, “instead of communicating, the teacher issues communiqués and makes deposits which the students patiently receive, memorize, and repeat” (260).  Language could not be learned by merely memorizing vocabulary words.  I had to accept the fact that both my teaching abilities and the workers’ learning capacities were limited.  However, we were productive in that we were able to step out of our own separate “spaces,” and learn from each other through the sharing of cultural and life experiences.  Although the workers addressed me as “teacher,” I knew that I had learned just as much from them as they had from me. 

Pratt best summarizes my experiences in the contact zone when she says, “Along with rage, incomprehension, and pain, there were exhilarating moments of wonder and revelation, mutual understanding, and new wisdom” (617-8).  The realizations I came upon were at times embarrassing and painful, but the knowledge I gained was invaluable.  My contact with the workers at St. Joseph’s brought our cultures together, allowing an exchange of ideas and improving our understanding of separate cultural spheres.