by Sherri

In walked in three Korean girls. They were my students: brilliant, funny, and wonderful to talk to.
However, today when they walked into my college preparation classroom they were a great wall of
frowns, a unified front, a testament to cohesiveness that for some strange reason reminded me of a
cross-cultural game of Red Rover. They stared straight ahead, shoulders evenly spaced, and in a manner
reminiscent of an unusually dour group of synchronized swimmers.

I began teaching in my usual style: all smiles and involvement. At the beginning of each course, I share
how important it is that we become a family, and I share how it was my goal to teach them that college
was like a separate nation, with its own customs and traditions. I tell them I will be their tour guide as
we explore the boundaries of this new, undiscovered country. This day I was in fine teaching form,
getting students to participate, asking them to elaborate on their own fears and understanding of
college, and attempting to open them up to a new world.

But the three Korean students approached me shortly after class, single file.

"We don't need," spoke the shortest. "We only need TOEFL." The others nodded in assent. They were
referring to the college entrance test, the TOEFL, given to non-native English speakers. This was a typical
complaint, that my class wasn't preparing students for their most immediate need. Many students, not
just from Korea, get so worried about passing the test that it often replaces the skills I am trying to
teach.

"Oh?" I said, "Well, I will be teaching you a lot of TOEFL techniques that will definitely help you."

They didn't budge. "Only TOEFL."

For the next few weeks I insisted how my class would indeed help them for the test and beyond, but
these three women (whom I grew to love, by the way), would sit in the back, arms often crossed, and
refused to participate. A short time later, they began bringing TOEFL books to class, and they would
quietly study. A time after that, they sat outside my classroom and studied their books during class time.
I did my best to teach them, but they were adamant. The test is what mattered. All other considerations
were secondary. Their logic was simple and overpowering.
 That isn't to say they were mean spirited. They even invited me over to their apartment once. Up the
steps, past dozens of American apartments, I walked into a door and was immediately struck by the
smell of kimchi and the sounds of k-pop. I was in Little Korea. I asked them if they were going to the
American party downstairs. I asked them if they had met any American friends. No, only TOEFL was the
reply. I believe they shared this as an attempt to brag about their focus. I nodded.

I learned that they had each studied anywhere from 10 to 12 hours daily, pouring themselves into their
books like ascetics would the Dead Sea Scrolls. They had put in the work. I was so impressed with them. I
still am.

About a month later they came to me with triumph in their eyes. They were holding sheets of paper.
Their TOEFL scores. They announced to me that they had understood all along what path would lead
them to victory.

"Teacher," said one, "We were right. And you were wrong." Such directness from certain students used
to offend me, but it doesn't anymore. And anyway, in their celebratory mood, I didn't argue the point.
And anyway, I am a trained TOEFL teacher. I love teaching the TOEFL, it is simply that I believe that it
should never be a replacement for the skills necessary to succeed once you get to college. I believe that
a few students from every and any culture can lose sight of the fact that a focus on a test is not the same
as a focus on life. All these thoughts ran through my mind. But you can't argue with smiles. I
congratulated them and told them good luck. They all left for the university shortly thereafter.

What happened after is something I'll always remember. One of the students described it like this:

I went to the university class the first day. The teacher began talking and like you, really, with all the
Americans talking back. I couldn't understand the teacher and I couldn't understand anything. When I
did understand, I couldn't share my understanding. Five page papers? How could I? What could I do? I
went home and I cried. This place is not for me. It is a place I do not know.

My heart broke for them when they told me. They had attained a level of linguistic competence that
was well suited for tests, but not suited for the American classroom. It isn't that they weren't capable, it
isn't that the TOEFL test was something that shouldn't be studied. It was that they had put, figuratively,
all of their eggs in one collective basket. They relied on only one strategy, and they paid a high cost for
it. All three of them dropped out of school within weeks. They arrived at my tiny school shortly after. It
was a privilege to have them back in my class, and I loved having them there and listen to them begin to
participate in classroom discussions. Like I said, they were brilliant. They soon finished my college
preparation course and went back to the university. But they came one more time to visit me.
Three Korean girls came to my office. Several of them began speaking at once, telling me their stories
and sharing their experiences at the university for the second time. This time the stories were good.

"Teacher," one smiled wryly, perhaps recognizing the symmetry of her remark, and said, "We were
wrong, and you were right."

Questions to Think About

1. Why do you think the Korean girls don’t listen to their teacher?

2. What do the Korean girls think a good teacher should do?

3. What does the American teacher think the students should do?