"Una donna sulla testa" Alberto Moravia (translation)

Alberto Moravia “Una donna sulla testa” 
'Woman on My Head'

Translated by Joan Taber

( because someone had to do it)

Determined to do any sort of work at all, I finally accepted a job as a messenger in the service of a Signor Crostarosa who owned a travel agency up around Via Veneto. Crostarosa was a handsome man with a pink face, silver hair, and black eyes under two bushy little eyebrows black as coal.

Crostarosa had had his share of troubles, and he had done a lot of things in life. The travel agency was only the latest. He knew, for example, how to speak many languages to perfection—French, English, German, Spanish, and even, as I was stunned to discover one day when a guy came into the agency wearing a long robe and a kind of scarf on his head, also Arabic. He never talked about his life, but, as I said, he been through a lot. Every once in a while, it would suddenly come out that he had been in India or Brazil, in England or in Australia. But it came out so modestly—it was like me saying something like, “I’ve been in Ladispoli” or “I’ve been in Frascati.”

He had had his share of troubles, and even though he always dressed in light colors—usually black and white plaids and always with a splashy tie and handkerchief—he wasn’t young anymore; in fact, he was almost old. Crostarosa was kind—you couldn’t believe how kind he was. He never lost his temper, never got irritated, never said too much, in any language, never once lost that tone of his, that sweet, paternal, ingratiating, obliging, affable voice.

He had a kind word for everyone—for the dense, nit-picking German who wanted everything written, everything footnoted, everything detailed; for the ball-breaking, suspicious American always afraid of being cheated out of his dollars; for totally insulting boss-of-the-world Frenchman; for the tight-lipped, stubborn-as-a-mule Scandinavian.

Crostarosa kept two or three telephones on the counter, and he’d always be talking into one of them, his shoulder propping the receiver against his ear, and taking notes the whole time. These phone calls were all the same—he spoke about taking trips, he answered questions about taking trips, and that was the extent of it.

But four or five times a day, on average, there’d be a different sort of telephone call that had nothing to do with taking a trip. For these calls, Crostarosa would listen and respond very seriously. Putting his pencil and papers aside, he’d neglect the agency and sometimes even his customers. These calls were long, and you could see Crostarosa getting really agitated. But, like I said, he was kind. He never did anything to put it to a stop to the phone call or, even less, to speed it up. He would just listen, and every now and then, he’d say a few words. And the whole time he’d be looking at the glass door. If a customer entered, he would smile—as if to say, “Please, only one moment”—a big smile full of false teeth, because Crostarosa’s were dazzling white like he was a young man of twenty.

Finally, the person on the other end of the phone would finish speaking, and Crostarosa would hang up the receiver; however, not without giving it an almost scolding look and not without sighing sadly—not spitefully, but kindly, sweetly, like his usual self.

There were three of us in the office, which was narrow and long, more like a place that sells ice-cream cones than a travel agency. There was one ugly middle-aged lady with frizzy dyed hair, glasses, and a nasty growth on the end of her sharp little nose, who worked on the typewriter; and there was Crostarosa, who did everything himself, and there was me.

The lady, whose name was Peverelli, must have known very well who the person was who called Crostarosa, because, every time that phone call began, she would stop typing and sit there at her little desk, enjoying Crostarosa’s show of patience, with an attitude somewhere between cruelty and compassion, which was a show in itself.

Maybe Signorina Peverelli was in love with Crostarosa. For sure, she certainly liked him very much; and every time he hung up the telephone she would sigh and shake her head in a certain way, like she was saying, “Poor thing. I pity him. But he really goes overboard with his patience. If I were answering that phone, it would be a very different story.” Well, there are faces that speak and say many things, even though they never open their mouths. Signorina Peverelli had one of those faces.

I didn’t understand anything; but, finally, one day I suddenly understood everything. Crostarosa had left to get some tickets at an airline office; since it wasn’t yet four o’clock, Signorina Peverelli wasn’t there yet. I was sitting at the counter on that hot June day in a daze, watching the few people who passed by the window.

The telephone rang and I answered it. A sweet little voice, really beautiful, the voice of an angel, asked, “Is Mr. Crostarosa there?

I answered right away, as I had been instructed to do: “No, he’s not. He’s gone to the airline office. He’ll be back in a minute.”

“But, who am I speaking with?”

“With Luigi, the messenger. And, excuse me, who are you? ” Mr. Crostarosa had instructed me to take down the names of everyone who called.

“I’m Mrs. Crostarosa… Luigi, are you bored?”

To tell the truth, the question left me with my jaw hanging. I stammered, “Uhm, well, not really, Signora.”

And she: “Luigi, I’m bored. I’m suffocating. I can’t take it anymore. When Signor Crostarosa returns, tell him it’s no use trying to telephone me, because I’m going to throw myself out the window.”

And, click. She hung up.

I wasn’t used to this sort of thing; so, after this very decisive statement, I felt really terrible. She was throwing herself out the window, and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t telephone her, because I didn’t know the Crostarosas’ phone number; and I couldn’t go there either, because I didn’t know their address.

A half hour went by, and Crostarosa finally came back to the office. I ran to him, “Quick, Signor Crostarosa, quick! You wife called just a little while ago… said she was throwing herself out the window.”

He looked at me without saying a word, without getting upset. He took the tickets he was carrying and put them neatly into a drawer; and he calmly picked up the phone and dialed a number. Someone answered right away, and after a little while, he said, “Dearest, why did you say such a terrible thing to Luigi. You really scared him badly.”

There was a pause. Then, “But, no, dearest angel, no, you mustn’t do it if you really love me as you say you do. And the baby. Don’t you think about the baby? Instead, why don’t you go out to some restaurant and have some tea? Or why not call Alice for a game of canasta?”

And so on and so forth.

Then, after many other phone calls, I knew how she was answering this kind man’s pleas and advice: “I’m jumping out the window, yes, I’m jumping, I’m jumping.” It was an obsession, this jumping out the window.

And the whole time, he was patient, sweet, trying to calm her, to console her. In the end, he succeeded, because, she didn’t jump out the window after all.

Okay, enough.

July came around, and Crostarosa made a big sacrifice, because he wasn’t rich, when he sent his wife with the governess and the little girl to Cortina d’Ampezzo to say in one of the best hotels there. Would you believe it? She continued to call him saying the same old things; only now, instead of calling from Via Caroncini in Rome where they lived, she made the calls from Cortina, which cost a bundle of lire for every three minutes. And he, poor guy, who knew the telephone bill was soaring higher and higher, sweated and boiled. But, still, he was the same—always afraid that she really would jump out the window. Doing nothing to cut short the communication, he consoled her and pleaded with her.

From Cortina d’Ampezzo, she went to Lido di Venezia. And also from there, since she was still bored and the windows were high, she threatened, by long-distance, to jump. And Crostarosa, from the office in Rome, would insist that she not jump and that she should think of him and the baby.

He was becoming nervous, and when he spoke to her on the phone, he’d even forget to smile at the customers who came in. One day when he was busy going over an international itinerary for an American who wanted to go to Persia, she called again as usual. Crostarosa answered the phone and said, “Look, darling, I really don’t have time right now. I’m sending Luigi with a letter for you.”

He took a letter, which he’d already written, from a drawer, handed it to me, and told me to bring it to his wife in Via Caroncini.

I went there. I found a beautiful modern building, took the elevator to the second floor, and went into an apartment so elegant and luxurious that I thought, “If I had an apartment like this, for sure I would never think about jumping out a window.”

The maid, who was young and pretty, with a starched apron and cap, led me to a huge living room. Sitting on the floor, playing with a doll and a stuffed bear, was a little girl, blond, maybe four years old, with a beautiful round face, healthy red cheeks, and blue eyes that reminded me of two flowers. Sitting in an armchair in front of the open window was Mrs. Crostarosa. I have to admit that despite her sweet voice, I had imagined someone very different—someone disheveled, high-strung. A witch.

Instead, I saw a very young woman, maybe 24 years old, with a delicate face, a mouth like a rose, and big dark, beautiful eyes, but with an anguished expression. She got up as I entered, and I noticed that she was tall, elegant, thin. She had long white hands, with a diamond ring on one of her fingers.

She said, “You’re Luigi, right? I had imagined you.”

Then, taking the letter from me, she sat down again in the armchair, urging me not to go away: first, she wanted to read it.

As she was reading, I saw the pupils of her eyes cross from one side of the page to the other, moving rapidly under her half-closed eyelids; and then I understood that she wasn’t normal because those pupils sparkled in a very strange way. In fact, when she finished reading, she had like a nervous breakdown. She ripped up the letter and threw it on the floor. Then she put her face in her hands, crying hysterically and saying I don’t know what. All this without worrying one bit about me or the child, who must have been used to these scenes, because she continued, very quietly, to play with her doll and her bear.

Finally, she began to say the same things she had said on the telephone: “I’m bored, I’m bored, I can’t go on anymore, I’m going to jump out the window, yes, I’m going to jump, I’m going to jump.”

Not knowing what to do, I went over and sat on the stool near her, and I said, “Signora, don’t say this. You don’t have to jump.”

“And why not, Luigi?” she asked, ready, taking her hands from her face, and looking at me with those magnificent eyes.

I said, “Because, life is beautiful, Signora. Look at me. I sleep under a staircase, I eat terrible food, I have broken-down shoes; but, I’m not bored, and I don’t think about jumping out a window.”

“But you’re different, you common people. At least you have your poverty to think about. I have nothing, nothing, nothing.”

“But, Signora, you have a child who is a darling, you have a husband who has eyes only for you, you have a beautiful house, you travel, you have good times. Why do you want to jump out the window?”

Meanwhile, just by talking like this, I don’t know how, I had taken her hand, and she had let me do it, and, to tell the truth, I felt all of a sudden completely ruffled, because she was a very beautiful woman, and until then I had only seen women like that in the movies. Therefore, holding her hand, I continued, full of ardor. “Signora, you say that at least we poor have our poverty to think about. But do you know what poverty is? Do you know, for example, what it means to be unemployed?”

And she, all of a sudden, with a scream: “But who is more unemployed than I? All day long with nothing to do. I don’t know what to do with myself; I don’t know where to put myself. Ahhh! I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to jump out the window. Yes! I’m going to jump!”

“Signora, you should try to work. You’ll see that you won’t be bored anymore.”

Another scream. “Work! But I tried to work. My husband hired me in his office. I was the typist… I had the same job as that odious Signorina Paverelli…but I was still going crazy from boredom. I would have murdered every single one of those imbeciles who kept coming in asking for information about taking trips… I said to my husband, ‘Get yourself another secretary, otherwise I’ll go crazy, and one of these days I’ll go up to the top floor and jump out the window!’”

And I thought, “And also from this window.” Therefore, still holding her hand, I said: “But, love, Signora. Haven’t you ever known love?” And for a moment I almost hoped she would throw her arms around my neck and say, “Luigi, I love you. I won’t jump out the window ever again.”

But, that never happened.

Instead, she let out a scream. “For God’s sake, love… Love! It makes me sick! All those men chasing after women, every one of them saying the same things. It’s enough to make you crazy. I’m better off working as a secretary for my husband. Ah, ah, love. Don’t talk to me about love, Luigi.”

Luckily, at this point, the phone rang; she went over to answer it and right away, she said, “Ah, it’s you, Gaetano.”

It was her husband. And, thinking now he would take over the job of convincing her, I backed up as far as the door and then I left. I went down the staircase thinking, “What a character! You could pay someone your weight in gold, and they’d never be able to find another character like her.”

I went out through the front entrance door, which was right under the Crostarosas’ windows two floors above. Just as I was stepping outside, all of a sudden, I heard a scream and then, crash, and a terrible blow; an enormous weight was falling on me and I tumbled to the ground and passed out and didn’t feel anything else.

I came to in the hospital in a bed—one among so many beds lined up in two rows, one on each side of a large white room. My entire body was bandaged. I felt terrible. In short, the good nurse who was sitting next to me explained what had happened.

Signora Crostarosa had said, as usual, “I’m jumping out the window, yes, I’m jumping, I’m jumping.” And Crostarosa—either he had finally lost his patience or he was agitated on account of the hot wind—said, for the very first time, “Go ahead and jump.”

Then she, with the greatest simplicity, hung up the phone, went to the window, and jumped. Fortunately for her, she fell on top of me just as I was leaving the building.

Moral: I had two or three broken ribs, and nothing had happened to her except, of course, the nervous breakdown, because I had been a sort of cushion for her. And now I was in the hospital, and she was at home.

A little later the doctor came in followed by his assistants and a retinue of nurses. As he saw me, maybe because there weren’t many sick people there, he said, “We’re doing fine, young man. You were lucky. Ah, you young guys… you never have anything but women on your mind.”

Then someone observed, in a low voice, that the doctor was mistaken. The suicide for love was hospitalized on the floor above me.

And I: “Doctor, don’t say I’ve had women on my mind. Instead, you should say I’ve had a woman on my head.”

Teaching English to Absolute Beginners

This article was a guest-blog entry on http://www.jobs.ac.uk/blogs/my-tefl-journey/

Do check out this website if you're interested in any aspect of English-language instruction and jobs.

Teaching English to Absolute Beginners

Today’s blog is a guest entry by Joan Taber, a highly experienced educator, and someone with a lot of worthwhile things to say. Have a look at her entertaining and informative blog here. Joan also maintains a fascinating series of academic papers on ESL, language, and translation that is well worth reading. Today, she’s talking to us about teaching English to students who have no ability in the language whatsoever. How do you start? How can you help them to improve? Take it away, Joan Taber.

Teaching the basics

People often ask me how I go about teaching English to students who have no English-language background. For me, the best place to begin is on a trusty page of commonality--that is, the world map. Here, north and south are in the same position in any language, the equator always runs through Ecuador, the poles are “frrreeeeeezing” (at least for now), “the ocean is blue,” but Greenland isn’t always green.

With the help of the map, “Where do you come from?” is transformed into a real place. Students are invited to “come to the map,” point to their country of birth, announce whether it’s north or south of the equator, east or west of the Prime Meridian. I show them where I’m from, where my mother was from, where one finds the most beautiful people (Italy, of course), where the climate is “sooooo hot,” where ordinal and cardinal directions lead to every part of the globe.

Using the map

So, during the first forty-minute lesson, students can distinguish directions, indicate “near” and “far,” acquire the lexicons of map study-continent, country, city, river, ocean, color-and travel-airplane, airport, train, taxi. They get a feel for syntax: “On this map, Europe is red and Africa is green.”

They learn idiomatic expressions related to climate--it’s hot, it’s cold--and feelings: “I sad I go from El Salvador.”

“Yes, you were sad when you left El Salvador.”

Joan on textbooks

I’m fortunate to work in a school district that gives me the liberty to teach without prescribed texts. However, I have been stuck in teaching positions where I’ve been handed a “textbook” of sorts and forced to use it as the sole teaching prop. If that happens to you, you’ve just got to shut the classroom door and cheat.

If you’re nervous about keeping your job, then search the text for ways to transform phony dialogue into real situations. ”I see the yellow bus” can become a virtual bus ride. Have your students “board” the bus, ask if a seat is free, ask the driver where to get off, bump into someone and say “Excuse me.” At the very beginning, you can provide students with written prompts in the form of cloze dialogues or a few cue cards.

Joan on grammar

I think it’s against current academic law to utter words such as “adjective” or “verb.” In fact, just whispering the word “grammar” might incite a mob of theoretical academics to throw rocks through your classroom windows.

If you’re just starting out your teaching career, please remember that some of us need to understand structure. If we’re over the age of eight or nine, we’re simply not equipped to learn language the way we did as babies. We need it all-reading, listening, speaking, writing, acting, repetition, and grammatical explanation, yes, even at the beginning.

There’s nothing wrong in saying, “In English, the adjective comes before the noun” or “In English we don’t have our years; we are our years.” (Babelfish or IGoogle translators can be helpful with this, but never assume they’re completely accurate.)

Conclusion

That world map is your springboard into language acquisition. You can rearrange and group desks into continents or countries, create cultural and culinary feasts with your students, conduct “map Olympics” and dole out gold and silver medals made of chocolate. You can turn your classroom into a solar system, a theatrical stage, or an airplane. Or, you can follow the text, and your students will be able to say: “The big yellow bus goes to the little red-brick school.” (Okay, I admit to hyperbole, but I think you get it.)

A Brief History of ESL Instruction: Theories, Methodologies, Upheavals

Since the 1940s, the definitive solution to successful ESL instruction has been discovered many times. Like bestsellers, pop stars, and ice-cream flavors, second-language theories and methodologies enjoy a few afternoons or years in the spotlight and then stumble into the dusk of old age. There is always another tried-and-true methodology from yet another expert theorist who may or may not have had first-hand experience learning a second language. Before the late nineteenth century, second-language instruction mirrored the so-called Classical Method of teaching Latin and Greek; lessons were based on mental-aerobics exercises—repetition drills and out-of-context vocabulary drills as well as lots of reading and translations of ancient texts. Brown notes that languages were “not being taught primarily to learn oral/aural communication, but to learn for the sake of being ‘scholarly’ or…for reading proficiency” (15). Theories of second-language acquisition didn’t start to pop up until the instructional objective became oral competence.

THEORY-FREE METHODOLOGY
According to T. Rogers, the very concept of method involves “the notion of a systematic set of teaching practices based on a particular theory of language and language learning…” (paragraph 1). However, it is possible to develop a set of teaching practices and then go in search of a theory. It’s called having an agenda. But, for the sake of classification, let us include non-theory-based practices under the heading of methods.

Grammar-Translation
From the turn of the nineteenth century until the late 1940s, the grammar-translation method ruled. In the few instances of attempted coups, it lost some ground, but academia always beckoned it back. Despite its antiquity, or because of it, the grammar-translation method is still alive and well in language classrooms throughout Europe, Asia, and even in the Americas. It is easy to teach; it requires no more than the ability to memorize lists of isolated vocabulary words; and it aims low in terms of oral communication and aural comprehension—no one teaching or learning a target language is required to speak, pronounce, or even understand the spoken language. Because the target language is taught in the students’ native language, it is possible for students to have studied it for years without having been required to participate in the most elementary conversation. Indeed, the only real challenge confronting students and teachers in the grammar-translation classroom is overcoming boredom.
A typical one-hour class might begin with ten minutes of synchronized verb declensions. This might be followed by the instructor’s explanation of a particular grammatical feature of the target language. The instructor might then assign students a series of fill-in-the-blank exercises or sentence constructions that demonstrate the grammar point. Other features of the grammar-translation class include translations of literary passages from the target language into the native language, identifying antonyms and synonyms, drilling vocabulary words, memorizing vocabulary lists, creating sentences with the new vocabulary words, and writing compositions in the target language. Except for the repetition drills, most of the above work is written.

One might wonder why this obviously antiquated method is still used. Aside from the aforementioned virtue of being easy for both teacher and student, some claim it is the most effective way to introduce literature in the target language. That is, in learning how to read in the target language, students are exposed to a variety of grammatical structures, thousands of vocabulary words in context, and they learn to translate across linguistic borders. It does not

Most ESL instructors have witnessed the results of the grammar-translation method in students who have studied English as a foreign language in their native countries. They are often able to read and write English—sometimes better than native speakers—but they have had no experience listening to or speaking the language. In fact, ESL teachers face the challenge of defossilizing incomprehensible deviations in students’ pronunciation and inflections. Furthermore, grammar-translation students are accustomed to doing fill-in-the-blank exercises, learning grammar rules before applying them, memorizing lists of vocabulary words, and creating artificial sentences to prove their mastery of the lexicon and syntax. When they are exposed to more creative methods of language instruction, they often find it difficult to perform and, as a result, lament the ostensible lack of structure.

Some theorists maintain that because the grammar-translation method is not research-based, it has no academic status. But, as we know, one can always find a matching theory. Grammar-translation’s theoretical base might be called behavioristic—that is, habit formation via repetition and reinforcement. This is a stretch in the sense that the method is really centuries old, having been employed long before Pavlov began torturing dogs to measure their saliva output.

PRE-BEHAVIORISM
The first theory-based methods of second-language instruction started with François Gouin in the mid-nineteenth century. And even though his work did not win universal and lasting recognition, it set the stage for later theorists.

The Series Method
As the story goes, Gouin’s theory of language acquisition rose out of the ashes of his own failure to learn German. The modern observer can only wonder why he bothered spending a year in Germany sequestered in his study, memorizing thousands of verb declensions and vocabulary words, and all the while, avoiding conversation with native speakers of German. Imagine trying to learn a foreign language by shunning interaction with the very people who speak it. Well, it was the nineteenth century. Discouraged and effectively monolingual, he returned to his native France and discovered that during his twelve-month absence, his three-year-old nephew had become miraculously fluent in French. Wondering how a toddler could so easily out-perform his own considerable intellect, he decided to observe his nephew and other children who were in the process of acquiring language. As a consequence, he was able to theorize that the language one uses is related to one’s actions at the time of the utterance. On these bases, he developed the Series Method, which sought to teach second language by recreating conditions in which children learn a first language. Specifically, the teacher does an activity—walking to the door—and simultaneously verbalizes the process of walking to the door: “I walk toward the door. I draw near to the door. I draw nearer to the door. I get to the door. I stop at the door” (Brown 44). The student then mimics the instructor. As time goes on, the student is able to expand his/her linguistic skills: “Am I walking to the door?” “Did I walk to the door?” “I am thinking about walking to the door. “I am walking to the window.”

Although the method was deemed successful, it faded after a brief hour of glory and the good old grammar-translation method returned in full-dress regalia. Nonetheless, as shall see, the Series Method was gone, but would one day enjoy a resurrection of sorts. Gouin, if seems, was born in the wrong century.

The Direct Method
Second-language theorists maintain that the first real method of language teaching was the Direct Method, which was developed as a reaction against the monotony and ineffectiveness of grammar-translation classes. The Direct Method was the brainchild of Charles Berlitz, a nineteenth-century linguist whose schools of language learning are famous throughout the world. It borrowed and applied Gouin’s findings of the previous generation, seeking to imitate his naturalistic approach. In light of Gouin’s miserable failure in German, Berlitz wanted to immerse students in the target language. He believed, as did Gouin, that one could learn a second language by imitating the way children learn their first language; that is, directly and without explanations of grammatical points and using only the target language. Therefore, grammar was taught inductively. The objectives were speaking and listening comprehension, not translation; for this reason, vocabulary was introduced in context and through demonstrations and pictures; and an emphasis was placed on correct usage and pronunciation. Students learned to write by taking dictation in the target language.

A typical Direct Method class had few students. Students might first take turns reading aloud, preferably a dialogue or anecdotal passage. To test for understanding, the teacher would then ask questions in the target language and students would have to respond appropriately in the target language. Following the question-response session, the instructor might dictate the passage to the students three times. Students would then read the dictation back to the class.

The Direct Method was popular in Europe and the United States, especially during the first quarter of the twentieth century. Nevertheless, its very intensity and necessarily small class sizes made the method impossible for public schools. In addition, it was considered a weak method because it was not supported by heavy-duty theories and it depended too much on teachers’ ability to teach—God forbid—as well as their fluency in the target language. So, it was back to the old reliable grammar-translation method until behaviorism began to shine its light on the field of second-language teaching.

BEHAVIORISM
We can thank researchers such as Pavlov, Skinner, and Watson for behaviorism-based techniques employed in US classrooms as well as the Audiolingual Method of second-language instruction. Skinner’s theory of operant conditioning is based on the concept that learning results from a change in overt behavior. Applied to language acquisition, one learns language by emitting an utterance (operant), which is reinforced by a response by another (consequence). If the consequence of the imitated behavior is negative, one does not repeat the behavior; if the response is positive, one repeats the behavior. Repetition then leads to habit formation. Thus, behaviorists agree with the likes of Francis Bacon and John Locke that one is born a tabula rasa, a blank slate, and all learning is the result of outside stimuli. From this thinking sprang the popular Audiolingual Method, which left grammar-translation by the wayside.

The Audiolingual Method (ALM)The Audiolingual Method was first known as the Army Method because it had been adopted by the military during the Second World War when it became evident that most Americans were hopelessly monolingual. ALM is not unlike the Direct Method in that its purpose is to teach students to communicate in the target language. The Audiolingual Method is a purely behavioristic approach to language teaching. It is based on drill work that aims to form good language habits, and it makes use of extensive conversation practice in the target language. Students enter the target-language classroom with their cognitive slates entirely blank—at least in theory—and they receive various linguistic stimuli and respond to them. If they respond correctly, they enjoy a reward and repeat the response, which promotes good habit formation. If they respond incorrectly, they receive no reward and therefore repress the response, which represses the response. Voila! Fluency.

Its theoretical support also comes from post-war structural linguists. Structural linguists analyze how language is formed, not in a historical-descriptive, or diachronic, sense, but as it is “currently spoken in the speech community” (Stafford paragraph 3). Language was now seen as a set of abstract linguistic units that made up a whole language system. The realization that all languages are complex, unique systems allowed linguists to understand the multifaceted, singular structure of English without comparing it to Latin, which had long been the paragon of excellence among prescriptive grammarians. This led to new thinking in terms of how language should be taught. Individual structures should be presented one at a time and practiced via repetition drills. Grammar explanations should be minimal or nonexistent, for students will learn grammatical structures by inductive analogy.

A typical ALM class consists of ten-minute drill periods interspersed with activities such as the reading and memorization of a dialogue. The instructor then examines a grammar point by contrasting it with a similar point in the students’ native language. (The teacher speaks in the native language, but discourages its use among students.) This is followed by more drills—chain drills, repetition drills, substitution drills. Target language vocabulary is introduced and learned in context, and teachers make abundant use of visual aids. Like its predecessors, ALM focuses on the surface forms of language and rote learning.
While some students, especially those who could memorize dialogues, did well in the classroom, they still were not able to use the target language with any proficiency.

UNIVERSAL GRAMMAR
The 1960s shook up traditional thinking about the need to avoid errors and the idea that language learning was a matter of developing good habits by mimicry, repetition, and over-learning. Noam Chomsky entered the scene with a brand new view of first-language acquisition, which had a resounding effect on theories and methods of second-language acquisition. No longer did babies begin life with a tabula rasa; in fact, it was just the opposite—they are born with an innate system of grammar already fired up and ready to go. Behaviorism went right out the window. Humanistic thinkers such as Carl Rogers insisted that people are—well—people. Everyone is a unique individual who responds in her/his unique way to any given situation. No wonder no one had been able to learn a second language! Victims of grammar-translation, the Direct Method, and ALM had been tormented long enough. It was time to compensate for their suffering and devise kinder, gentler teaching methodologies.

David Ausubel was there to help. Influenced by Piaget and other cognitive psychologists, Ausubel theorized that the most important factor influencing learners is what the learner already knows (cf Bowen paragraph 3). He repudiated the old rote-learning methods in favor of meaningful, or relevant, methods of instruction. When material is meaningful, students are able to relate, or subsume, the new information to elements in their cognitive structure (Brown 84). Consequently, a new series of so-called “designer” methods of second-language teaching was developed during the 1970s (Brown 103). Their initial popularity was short-lived; but many linger on the periphery of current methodologies, and some still make cameo appearances in classroom mini-lessons. The underlying message in cognitive language learning is that individual learners must be gently guided toward their own comprehension of prescriptive rules.

Community Language Learning
Developed by Charles Curan in 1972, Community Language Learning dispensed with the hierarchical student-teacher relationship and adopted a counselor-client relationship. The idea was to eliminate any sense of challenge or risk-taking from the emotionally delicate client, which theoretically would free him/her to learn a second language without really trying. The counselor would translate and gently facilitate all learning activity. Community Language Learning was inspired by Rogers’ theory that all living creatures are motivated to live up to their potential; but, human beings are often blocked by environmental and personal problems. Once the problems are eliminated, the individual can live up to his/her potential. We will see that this thinking was further developed during the 1980s by Stephen Krashen in his examination of affective filters. In terms of second-language acquisition, certain affective factors—elements in the environment or in the student’s psyche—may cause a mental block that prevents input (target language) from reaching the language acquisition device” (cf Cook paragraph 5).
In a typical session, ‘clients’ (AKA students) and ‘counselor’ (AKA teacher) are seated in a circle. The counselor begins by explaining what the clients will be doing. When moved by the spirit, one client will raise his/her hand, a signal for the counselor to approach. The client then says a phrase in her/his native language, which the counselor repeats in the target language. The client then repeats the phrase in the target language. The target-language portion of this “conversation” is recorded. The class listens to the recording. The counselor then writes the client’s portion of the conversation on the board and the most courageous fellow clients volunteer to translate the sentences into their native language. All the while, clients receive tender reassurance from the counselor.

Suggestopedia
Yet another you-don’t-have-to-work-for-anything theory was developed by Georgi Lozanov in 1979. It states that when the mind and body are relaxed, the brain absorbs knowledge without effort. Thus, another academic panacea was applied in the language classroom, producing yet another group of graduates who couldn’t speak the target language. The Suggestopedia classroom uses music—particularly Baroque music with its ideal sixty beats per minute—to help soothe students as teachers employ various language-learning activities. In this classroom, even adult learners are encouraged to behave as pliable, suggestible children, and to regard their teacher as a super-mentor parental figure. Imagery, music, suggestion, relaxation, comfy armchairs, and dim lighting are the essential ingredients of the Suggestopedia classroom. With soft music playing in the background, students role-play and learn vocabulary under the guidance of the all-powerful teacher.

In a typical lesson—or concert—the teacher plays a piece of music, preferably Baroque, but any emotionally charged music will do. S/he then reads a passage from a text in the target language, trying to harmonize with the music while maintaining a slow, rhythmic pace. Students follow along with their own texts and translation. Students then return their translations to the teacher, close their eyes and settle back to listen to a replay of the music and reading performance.


The Silent Way
The Silent Way found its way into classrooms following the publication of Gattegno’s text, also called The Silent Way. According to Sidhakara, the Silent Way “is based on a theory of learning and teaching rather than on a theory of language” (paragraph 1). The objective is to make learning automatic by encouraging students to discover, rather than memorize, the lexicon and prescriptive rules of the target language. This is achieved by teaching students to associate physical objects—specifically, color-coded rods—with phonemes. The teacher is supposed to be a facilitator who only intervenes in students’ learning if they are wandering hopelessly off course. In addition to the colored rods, classroom materials include a sound/color wall chart, with each color representing a phoneme; a 500-word color-coded word chart; a spelling chart, or Fidel, that color-codes all possible spellings for every phoneme; and wall pictures that represent everyday scenes.

While the Silent Way encourages students to become active discoverers, it also leaves them to their own limited communicative devices. Once the uniqueness of the phonemic rods wears off, “the [Silent Way classroom] resembles any other language classroom” (Brown 106).

Total Physical Response (TPR)
In the nothing-is-gone-forever category, Total Physical Response harkens back to Gouin’s Direct Method of the mid-nineteenth century. James Asher reasoned that since children in the process of acquiring their native language seem to listen more than they speak and often react physically to speech, second-language learners might learn a target language in the same way. In addition, he felt that language classes were too stressful for learners, and he wanted to create an atmosphere in which learners didn’t have to do anything other than respond to imperatives such as “Go to the door!” or “Walk slowly to the chalkboard!” Students could absorb other linguistic forms, such as questions by watching and imitating the teacher shrug his/her shoulders, look confused, and ask, “Where is the book?” In these ways, students magically begin asking questions and creating their own commands. In theory, this process guides them to fluency in the target language.

TPR can be an effective methodology in small doses when language learners have no knowledge of the target language. It has the advantage of getting students out of their seats, which alleviates boredom and allows students to associate specific actions with specific language.

ALONG CAME KRASHEN
In 1983, Stephen Krashen and Tracy Terrell published The Natural Approach, which set forth both the theory and application of the Natural Approach to language teaching. They had the unique idea that the purpose of language is to communicate meanings and messages (Kiymazarslan II.1), which can be achieved simply by learning the lexicon of the target language. Krashen and Terrell felt that the initial “silent period” should be honored until students begin to speak naturally; that is, when speech in the target language emerges of its own accord. This is supposed to occur when teachers create a non-risky environment by incorporating TPR at the beginning level, and by aiming low in terms of communicative skills; that is, by limiting learning objectives to basic interpersonal communicative skills.

The Natural Approach is supported by Krashen’s famous Monitor Model of Language Acquisition, a set of five hypotheses:
The Acquisition vs. Learning Hypothesis distinguishes the subconscious process of first-language acquisition in children from the conscious process language learning in adults.
The Natural Order Hypothesis states that morphemes are acquired in a predictable order ([-ing] is the first acquired morpheme in English).
The Monitor Hypothesis maintains that acquisition, not learning, is responsible for fluency. Learning—for example, knowledge of grammar and other linguistic structures—functions as a monitor, or editor during and after the acquisition process.
The Input Hypothesis asserts that language is acquired when students receive comprehensible input that is a tad beyond their level of competence.
The Affective Filter Hypothesis claims that one cannot acquire a language unless one feels confident, relaxed, and diverted.

The typical Natural Approach classroom is teacher-centered. Textbooks are not used and it is the teacher’s responsibility to make the classroom experience enjoyable and unchallenging. Students are not expected to be responsible for their own learning. Their role is to absorb the input provided by teachers. The trick is not to tell the students they are learning or to suggest they are capable of making an error. The order of business is to give students a steady flow of comprehensible input and just enough extra information to help them acquire, rather than consciously learn, the target language.

In the Natural Approach classroom, the teacher plays the role of actor and prop person and students play the role of “guessers and immersers” (Rogers fig. 2). The teacher/actor is called upon to create a comfortable, welcoming atmosphere and to develop units of study—or, guessing—based on topics that interest the students (Reynor paragraph 3). Students are encouraged to express their thoughts, opinions, and feelings in the target language. The teacher speaks only in the target language; but, in keeping with the no-pressure approach, students are permitted to use their native language. Theoretically, in this way, students acquire language without effort.

THE COMMUNICATIVE METHOD (CLT)
In perusing the literature regarding second-language methodologies and their supporting theories, it is almost impossible to make sense out of the discrepancies in terminology and theoretical bases. For some, the Direct Method is without theoretical basis; for others, it belongs to behaviorism. For some, the grammar-translation method is not a method, but a non-theory-based approach; for others, it is indeed theory-based, because it teaches by rote and assumes that repetition will lead to the formation of correct linguistic habits. For some, the Communicative Method was developed during the 1960s; for others it is a more recent phenomenon that comprises all sorts of methodologies; and still others consider it another name for the Natural Approach. In my own experience as an instructor of foreign language, the only difference between the Natural Approach and the Communicative Method is that in the Communicative classroom, students are expected to avoid using their native language.

The Communicative Method was the flavor of the decade during the 1990s, at least when classroom doors were open. CLT does not teach about language; rather, it teaches language. It is often associated with the Functional-Notional Approach; that is, the emphasis is on functions such as time, location, travel, measurements. In short, it seeks to recreate real-life social and functional situations in the classroom to guide students toward communicative competence. The linguistic accuracy that was deemed so essential in grammar-translation, the Direct Method, and other approaches is a mere trifle in the Communicative classroom. Ideally, grammar is not taught at all. Teachers avoid upsetting their students by requiring them to identify or recognize nouns, verbs, or direct objects; instead, they guide them to second-language proficiency by employing “the three Ps”— presentation, practice, and production. Teachers present the target language via everyday situations; they give students time to practice the language via structured situational dialogues; and, finally, they step aside for students’ production of the language—the phase in which they are able to function independently in the target language.

In truth, many teachers—especially those whose school administrators or university chairs insist that CLT is the heaven-sent panacea for second-language teaching—find the method excessively superficial, uninspiring, and hopelessly without structure. Many close the classroom door and support their teaching units with mini-grammar lessons. Because theorists and administrators—some of whom have never taught or achieved fluency in a second language—support the Communicative Method, in terms of theory years, it has enjoyed a relatively long life. But, it is hardly the superhighway to linguistic competence or proficiency.

CONCLUSION
Second-language instruction has come a long way since the bad old days of rote learning. Still, it has a long way to go. The trend since the late 1990s has been toward eclecticism, and this is probably the healthiest approach for it accommodates many styles of learning and endeavors to do more than elicit monosyllabic utterances from students. Furthermore, an eclectic approach allows teachers to glean the effective elements from many methods that really work in the classroom. A little TPR is a great warm-up activity; a little prose translation is often a welcome relief from guided conversation in the target language; and a five-minute session of target-language only can give students a sense of true accomplishment.

Language learning methodologies certainly mirror the times in which they thrive; but some have claimed to have virtues that are not evident beyond their theoretical framework. I have attended many faculty meetings in which the chair insisted that teachers “make sure the kids are having fun in language class”—as though having fun were the one and only criterion for success. On the other end of the spectrum, I have observed language classes whose professors demean learners who don’t respond to their textbook approach to language instruction. Neither extreme—fun or misery—is laudable or effective.

The eclectic approach takes the best that theorists have to offer and incorporates it with techniques that work. Language learning is difficult business. Students’ attitudes about school and authority, their home situations, literacy, self-confidence, academic level, identification with their native language and country are only a few factors that affect their ability to learn or acquire a new language. In the end, teachers have a tremendous challenge in trying to give their students the tools with which to function on all levels in the target language.


WORKS CITED

Bowen, Barbara. “Educational Psychology: David Ausubel.” <http://web.csuchico/.edu/~ah24/ausubel.htm>.

Brown, H. Douglas. Principles of Language Learning and Teaching 4th edition. New
York: Addison, Wesley, Longman, 2000.

Cook, Vivian. “Krashen’s Input Model of L2 Learning.” Http://privatewww.essexac.uk~vcook/Krashen.htm>.

Reyhner, Jon “Language Immersion for Indigenous Language Revitalization.” Teaching
Indigenous Languages. December 2002.

Rogers, Theodore. “Language Teaching Methodology.” ERIC Digest Sept. 2001 Issue Paper

Sidhakarya, I. Wayan. “The Silent Way Plus: The Search of a Method and Curriculum.”

Stafford, Amy. “Structural Linguistics: Its History, Contributions and Relevance.”

Vedat Kiymazarslan “The Natural Approach: What is it?” 1995.

The Road to Phonemic Awareness (or) Wel’kum ta Kin'rgar'n: Lyf 'n da fas layn

Many researchers proclaim that grade-school children who are not able to read are also lacking essential phonemic awareness, which is defined generally as the ability to recognize that words are made up of smaller segments, or sounds. More specifically, it refers to one's conscious ability to recognize and manipulate sound segments within words. Because there seems to be such an irrefutable body of evidence supporting the essential connection between reading and phonemic awareness, it has been suggested that educators identify phonemically unaware students as soon as possible, even as they cross the threshold into kindergarten, thereupon beginning a formal regimen of phonemic awareness training. This early intervention via formal lessons in sound segmentation promises to transform children into good, or even great, readers. And so begins life in the fast lane, at age five.

In order to determine the general thinking among researchers regarding phonemic awareness training as a prerequisite for reading, I did an Internet search, first using a standard search engine with keywords phonemic awareness, then using the ERIC database, with keyword literacy and subject words phonemic awareness. I pulled twelve articles at random and read through all of them. Eleven of the twelve articles praised the merits of phonemic awareness instruction while sounding a warning against the evils of nonintervention. The only dissenting voice was that of Stephen Krashen. What follows is a summary of three of those articles, including Krashen’s. Subsequent to the summary, for which I have made a Herculean effort not to reveal my concerns, I explain my personal and professional reactions to the papers’ findings. Finally, I offer my own suggestions for guiding children to a love and understanding of reading without daily phoneme injections.


The Articles

Kerry Hempenstall “Phonemic Awareness: What Does it Mean?”

Hempenstall’s article, which is written for fellow linguists, purports to define phonemic awareness and the role it should play in teaching beginning and dyslexic learners how to read. The article begins with a brief explanation of the differences in meaning between phonemic, phonological, and phonetic awareness; whereupon the author lists eleven stages of phonological awareness, none of which define phonemic awareness. Hempenstall then examines some ways other linguists define phonemic awareness. To this end, he discusses researchers Blachman and Stanovich who have worked to streamline a description that might be acceptable to all researchers. Alas, Stanovich rejects the word awareness because he deems it impossible to define adequately; thus, quashing Hempenstall’s own attempts to define the term.

Although Hempenstall never actually defines phonemic awareness, he does discuss some aspects of it. First, he notes that phonemic awareness has nothing to do with meaning and everything to do with the structure of words; and, for this reason, it is important that learners understand the existence of a “spelling-to-sound” correspondence in English. Second, learners must recognize that words can be broken down, or decomposed, into individual sounds that are not necessarily syllables. This brings him to a discussion of rhyme and alliteration in which he cites evidence to support the hypothesis that children who have been exposed to rhyme by age three will prove to be good readers by age six. The same holds true, he claims, for children who can identify alliterative pairs or series of words. Hempenstall then examines the possibility of teaching onset-rime distinction as a more efficacious way to teach reading; however, he quickly dismisses the approach as too difficult for young children.

At last, under the subheading Phoneme Awareness, the author discusses “two requirements of beginning reading … phonemic analysis and phonemic synthesis” (3). He notes that children are usually able to blend sounds into words before they can analyze them; which is why they can recognize the word cat before they can describe the sounds involved in producing the word.
The conclusion of his paper laments the lack of valid testing to measure the stages of reading development in at-risk and so-called normal children. He leaves readers to consider the possibility that children might develop phonemic awareness as a result of having learned how to read; it is not necessarily a separate and requisite learning task that leads to proficient reading.

Stephen E. Krashen “Phonemic Awareness Training for Prelinguistic Children: Do We Need Prenatal PA?”

Krashen’s tongue-in-cheek article lambastes researchers whose studies of phonemic awareness have led to California’s education legislation, which seems determined to suck the joy from reading. In that state, says Krashen, lawmakers have sought to boost children’s reading scores by screening for “phonemic awareness, phonics, spelling and grammar” (167). He cites Chaney, who claims that educators can predict preschoolers’ future reading ability by measuring their phonemic awareness skills (cf also Gough, Larson, and Yopp 1). He notes that preschoolers who receive formal training in phonemic awareness will become better readers than preschoolers who don’t receive such training. Krashen suggests that, given the desperate need for higher reading scores, such training should begin at birth. He bemoans the terrible disadvantages “PA-poor” toddlers will have when they enter preschool.

Citing well-known researchers such as Yopp, who suggests that teachers select children’s stories based, not on content, interest, or intelligence, but, on their repetitions of particular sounds, Krashen agrees that this is an excellent way to teach children to read. Indeed, he expands the notion, suggesting that we eliminate all real words from children’s books, replacing them with syllables. He praises Yopp’s idea that teachers — or PA trainers as he prefers to call them — teach their students songs that emphasize particular sounds. For example, “P-p-p-pop goes the weasel.” Indeed, he thinks children would learn even more if teachers encouraged “deliberate stuttering all day long” (168).

Krashen also commends the 1971 study by Eimas et al.., which discovered that three-day-old babies will suck if they hear a new phoneme. After a while, however, they get bored and stop sucking; but, upon hearing another new phoneme, they will resume sucking activity. Since babies are so inspired by phonemes, says Krashen, perhaps PA training should begin while babies are still in the womb. (Ah, yes, the sweet chimes of Swiftian humor.)

Finally, Krashen mentions an alternative to phonemic-awareness training; that is, leave children to learn it on their own. When children listen to interesting books, they become interested in reading; thus, they become readers. What’s more, early training in phonemic awareness does not make better readers or life-long readers. Instead of training children in phonemic awareness, give them access to good libraries and helpful librarians.

Gary L. Shaffer, Patricia Campbell, Sondra Rakes: “Investigating the Status and Perceived Importance of Explicit Phonic Instruction in Elementary Classrooms”

Shaffer, Campbell, and Rakes explain the procedure and results of their survey of 208 elementary school teachers to determine their attitudes toward phonics and phonemic awareness instruction. Most teachers were female [no surprise, since most teachers are female] and held at least a master’s degree [no surprise here either]. Teachers reported an average teaching experience of about eight years.

The researchers determined that teachers as a group agree that children who receive phonics and phonemic awareness instruction become good readers. The researchers concede that a small minority of dissenting teachers considers such instruction “the enemy.” However, they offer no explanation of possible reasons for the opinions of these dissenters. Most teachers who answered the survey reported that programs to promote phonemic awareness were only “moderately developed” in their schools. They also stated that their own third- and fourth-grade students were not yet prepared to understand the intricacies of phonics and phonemic study. Finally, the respondents lamented that their undergraduate pedagogy classes did not adequately prepare them for teaching phonics and phonemic awareness.

Shaffer et al. conclude that teachers are overwhelmingly in favor of preparing students for a lifetime of independent reading by teaching them the principles of phonemic awareness. Furthermore, they claim that the most important finding of their study underscores the need for schools to offer more in-service programs to teach teachers how to teach phonemic awareness and phonics.

A Few Observations about the Articles

Phonemic awareness as a panacea for the creation of good readers presents some problems. Indeed, all approaches that promise too much, too soon leave me suspect, as well they should. Although I was happy to find Krashen’s article, both for its Swiftian humor and its good sense, it also elucidated and supported my own uneasiness with daily lessons in phonemic awareness. In fact, after praising the virtues of phonemic awareness instruction, even Hempenstall finally concedes that reading and phonemic awareness might occur concurrently after all. But, the concession seems gratuitous, a covering of her tracks in case popular opinion swings in Krashen’s direction. She is among the majority of researchers, who purport that phonemic awareness, no matter how one defines the term, is essential to early reading. Whether this assumption is correct or not, researchers fail to answer many questions regarding research methods and the goals and objectives of phonemic awareness instruction.

Is it necessary to teach phonemic awareness separately from reading? Researchers whose studies support PA instruction also support the idea that children who read early become academic successes. There is, however, no literature supporting such a claim. In addition, they equate academic success with a child’s ability to pass standardized reading tests, with or without understanding or appreciating content. Indeed, phonemic awareness seems to be a natural outgrowth of the latest test-taking madness now dominating school curricula — a shortcut of sorts to the nirvana of academic success.

If some studies have in fact proven the effectiveness of phonemic awareness instruction, what long-term difference does it make? We have no idea whether six-year-olds who have been taught phonemic awareness will, in the long run, be better readers than those who have not undergone such training. We can look to Europe, where children begin reading instruction around age seven, without special training in phonemic awareness. If it were possible to give the same reading test to high-school students in the United States and those in European countries, it is unlikely that US students would score higher than European students.

There are also questions regarding the research implementation. Aside from their short-term parameters, researchers don’t include a variety of subjects in their studies. Students in groups of ten or twenty or even fifty can provide some research data, but they certainly don’t represent the majority. To be sure, most studies are conducted in schools within the same school district. Furthermore, as every teacher (and actor) knows, group dynamics change enormously with the addition or subtraction of even one element. We have no idea, for instance, how effectively researchers instruct their subjects. Neither do we know how the individual subjects respond to authority in general. For these reasons, before jumping on the phonemic awareness bandwagon, educators must consider their own and their colleagues’ real-world teaching experiences.

Another dynamic missing from the research is a description of subjects’ background and experience. Although researchers easily label particular groups of children “at risk,” they fail to explain how they arrive at such conclusions. Are they referring to children whose parents are poor or who have non-mainstream last names? In short, how valid are these studies? Eimas et al.. seem to be reaching when they inform readers about an important study that “discovered” children’s ability to blend sounds before they can explain how to blend them. It almost rivals their aforementioned study about the power of phonemes to inspire sucking behavior. Any mother could have provided the information, thereby saving researchers the trouble of conducting an elaborate study.

Finally, the problem with the survey by Shaffer et al. is that it tells us nothing we couldn’t already have guessed. Yes, the majority of teachers agree that phonemic awareness helps children read — i.e., the majority of the teachers in the survey. The study didn’t ask teachers why they agreed. Teachers sometimes agree with techniques and methodologies simply because that’s the way they learned how to teach in their university pedagogy classes. This is indicated by yet another survey, which also included an interview with teachers of English as a foreign language. Borg (1999) wanted to find out whether teachers had pedagogical reasons for incorporating formal grammar lessons into their curriculum; specifically, did they believe students benefited from grammar instruction? In all cases, teachers admitted they did not believe grammar instruction had any positive effect on students; nonetheless, they continued to teach it because they had been taught to teach it in their pedagogy classes in undergraduate school. It’s no secret that teachers often take a particular pedagogical tact, even if it has proven less than effective, simply because they have been trained in that particular pedagogy. Teachers also take pedagogical roads that have been decreed by their administrators, some of whom have spent no more than three years in a classroom. Education falls prey to trendy panaceas, just as most professions do; and phonemic awareness training seems to be resting in this unhappy category.

Pedagogical Possibilities

A few years ago, I had a five-year-old kindergarten student from Russia, who had come to the United States without knowing a word of English. In a matter of four months, his English, though still heavily accented, would have scored proficient on any assessment exam. When I read to the students, he would sit enrapt; and more often than not, he had already heard the story in Russian. “Oh, I have this one from my mother. I know this!” One day, I asked him what he had been doing before coming to my class. He replied, “I did drawing, I was so playing outside, I have snack, so good, and then I have phonemic awareness.” When I mentioned this to his classroom teacher, she said she taught a half-hour phonemic awareness lesson every day, and she was also aware that Zhenya was already reading with understanding, excelling beyond his native-speaker-of-English classmates. Clearly, since he was also reading Russian, having mastered its heavily declined verb system and Cyrillic alphabet, he was not further enriched by daily instruction in phonemic awareness.

One might argue that this student was an exception, and other students will benefit from such intervention. Nonetheless, phonemic awareness instruction had begun in this particular school district some six or seven years before Zhenya toddled off the airplane in the USA. If the PA-intervention program was so beneficial, it would follow that all, or most, students would be reading at or above grade level throughout their primary and elementary school years. But, this is not the case. Quite the contrary: it is apparent that phonemic awareness training is not producing better readers.

Children whose home environments are rich with reading material and whose parents read both to themselves and to their offspring love to read because somewhere along the line, they learned that reading was enjoyable. The proponents of PA training, however, suggest that children who come from print-poor homes and non-reading parents are automatically disadvantaged, and the only way to help them catch up is to teach them to become aware of the sounds of word segments. From a purely academic viewpoint, I might agree with the first generalization; but I have yet to find an unflawed study that proves formal training in phonemic awareness is the true road to reading success.

I had another five-year-old student. Carlitos never missed an opportunity to proclaim his dislike of reading. “I hate reading. It’s borrrrring, borrrrring, borrrrring.” When I asked him why, if he hated reading so much, he liked listening to the stories I read to the class every day, he laughed: “That’s not reading; that’s stories.” So, thanks to his daily dose of phonemic awareness, Carlitos equated reading with sounding out letters and tapping out sound segments. Unbeknownst to his well-meaning classroom teacher, he and other children like him are cultivating a dislike for reading without knowing what reading is. You can only tap out so many sound segments before the thrill is gone.

What can teachers do?

As many educators, including Vacca and Vacca, point out, the most efficacious way to introduce a subject is to stimulate students’ prior knowledge. All hearing students, whether they're phonemic-awareness handicapped or not, have an awareness of sound. Just as teachers use techniques to stimulate students’ curiosity about a reading passage, they can do the same for sound. Young children learn about sound segments, especially alliteration and rhyme, through poetry and through songs. It's the educator's job to make sure children are exposed to a wealth of materials in these and other genres, such as short stories and theatrical pieces.

Guided imagery is an excellent way to make children aware of the phonemic makeup of words. Try xeroxing and cutting out pictures of animals from stories such as "How the Rabbit Got its Short Tail." After reading the story a few times, give each student a cutout and ask her/him to describe the animal. Then ask the class to mimic the sound the animal makes when it talks. Write the sound graphemes on the board, and give students time to play with the sounds. Point to the graphemes and have the class call out the sounds in unison. Then, please forget about it. This should be a game for young children, not a formal lesson in the relationship between sound segments and their graphemic counterparts.

Another way to enrich students’ phonemic awareness is to ask one student to make an animal sound and ask students to draw a picture of the animal associated with the sound. For example, you might model the activity with ssssssssssssssssss or baaa-baaa, and draw a picture of a snake or a sheep.

Children love to rhyme, especially when they get to rhyme their own name, their teacher’s name, the principal’s name, their town’s name, anything that touches them personally. Again, this is another way to stimulate prior knowledge. Encourage rhyming in your classroom by reading lots of rhyme verse and by allowing children to play with sound. In these ways, children learn to love sound; so, manipulating sounds within sentences and words will be an enjoyable game rather than a daily trudge into the dry sands of the PA desert.

For older students, formal lessons in phonemic awareness are not so simple. A teacher’s decision as to how to make students phonemically aware often depends on the cultural and academic backgrounds of the students. Some insist on learning every aspect of a foreign language; others are discouraged by a concentration on detail and want to start speaking right away. The answer is to find a balance. One way to do this is to have phonemic warm-up exercises for the first five minutes of each class. I often include a linguistic warm-up exercise that is not unlike the tuning up of an orchestra in the moments before a concert. It’s loud, it’s cacophonic, but students enjoy loosening up their linguistic muscles and tuning up their phonemic stings before the start of class.

CONCLUSION

Although I don’t dispute the connection between phonemic awareness and reading, I question the efficacy of teaching it formally. When researchers such as Smith state, “The better a young child is at segmenting words into their individual sounds, the better they are likely to read, and the faster the reading process (20), I get worried. In no article has a researcher defined reading or the purpose of reading. If the purpose of early reading is to win an academic race without enjoying or understanding the run, I wish to dissent. When researchers such as Allor et al. refer to toddlers “with and without lexical retrieval weaknesses,” I cringe. There was a time in this country when kindergarten was a gentle introduction to formal education. Now, any child entering kindergarten without an academic curriculum vitae — or shall I say, academic pedigree? — is at risk. At risk for what? Does this child risk becoming a literary loser unless s/he is trained in the joys of phonemic awareness? Or perhaps it is just possible that even phonemically challenged children can learn to read with understanding and enjoyment. I must agree with Krashen that children who are exposed to reading — or stories, as Pauly calls it — will learn to read and, in the process, learn to be phonetically aware. The two processes cannot and should not be separated. Yes, some researchers contend that students who are taught the intricacies of the phonemic maze at age three will be better readers at age six. Whether they will enjoy reading at age six is another matter. Whether they will bother picking up a book at age ten or twenty remains to be seen.

Joy Turner, a Montessori teacher, suggests that teachers employ word-play games, rime books, and reading that “combines a rich pre-reading background with manageable and multisensory alphabetic instruction […] the best of all worlds in terms of preparing the child to read” (37). Flet and Condman list twenty ways to promote phonemic awareness. Among their suggestions: teach nursery rhymes and simple poems, read stories containing rhymes, play words games, talk about sounds and what they do, play all sorts of games with sounds. In other words, allow children to explore the wonders of sound, read them exciting stories, play lots of music, and encourage the natural curiosity that is inherent in everyone. This is the magical road that leads children to a genuine love and understanding of reading. Researchers will continue to conduct studies, and educators will do well to keep abreast of those studies. But, we must not allow methodological trends to mislead us into believing there is one answer to all our teaching challenges.

WORKS CITED

Allor, Jill Howard; Douglas Fuchs, Patricia G. Mathes. “Do Students With and
Without Lexical Retrieval Weaknesses Respond Differently to Instruction?”
Journal of Learning Disabilites 34.3 (May/June (2001)): 264-75. (ERIC Data
Base Service Number BED101015939).

Borg, Simon. “Teachers’ Pedagogical Systems and Grammar Teaching: A Qualitative
Study.” TESOL Quarterly 32.1 (Spring 1998): 9-38.

Flett, Angela, Gregory J. Conderman. “20 Ways to Promote Phonemic Awareness.” In-
tervention in School and Clinic 37.4 (March 2002): 242-5. (ERIC Document
Reproduction Service Number BED102008538).

Gough, Philip B., Kevin C. Larson, Hallie Yopp. “The Structure of Phonemic Aware-
ness.” Internet document. Webite address:
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Il fratello cambiato: "The Changed Brother" A translation

Literally, Il fratello cambiato translates as "The Changed Brother," but I don't like this title at all. If I were taking liberties with the translation, I'd title it "Carlo."

Il fratello cambiato
byDino Buzzati

When we were children, my younger brother, God bless him, caused a great deal of worry because of his restlessness, unruliness, and completely indifference to his studies. After various punishments had proven ineffective, and after having set off a large firecracker in the middle of class with the excuse that it was carnival time, he was expelled from school and our father felt obliged to put him in boarding school.

Nothing in the world frightened us more than boarding school. Each time we passed under the large gloomy building, the two of us would try to catch sight of one of those poor wretches on the other side of the windows. We didn’t have the slightest doubt that they were miserable. To us, they seemed like strange inhabitants from another world. The very mention of the words boarding school gave us the shivers, even more so than other words such as prison, penitentiary, gallows, noose, which, for us, belonged to the same general category.

I understood immediately that Carlo—that was my brother’s name—was alarmed at the news, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit it. On the contrary, he laughed defiantly and confidentially told me that it wouldn’t take more than a week at the most, before he would run away. “I tell you, I’ll croak rather than stay inside that place.”

Just in case escape wasn’t possible during the first days, my brother worked out a plan of secret communication. Every afternoon from three to four, I was to stand outside the wall that surrounded the school; in fact, that was their daily outdoor recreation hour. To signal his presence, Carlo was to whistle the first notes of a popular song. I was supposed to answer him with the same tune. At this point I was to go to the main gate, which was hermetically sealed and reinforced with a metal panel that prevented anyone from looking inside, but perhaps it would be possible to exchange a few words from there.

And if Carlo couldn’t manage to get to the gate? In this case, he was to write a message on a slip of paper, fold it into a wad, and toss it over the wall to me. Or, as a last resort, he was to communicate the situation to me by whistling various, agreed upon tunes. To simplify things, we decided on six different tunes that would mean, respectively: I will escape this evening; unforeseen difficulties; they’ve discovered me; everything is okay; going from bad to worse; throw me a cigarette.

But it was also necessary to anticipate that none of this would be implemented and that Carlo would be forced to communicate with me via regular mail, which was, of course, subject to censorship. Therefore, we established a secret code made up of conventional phrases. For example: “The food is good here” meant “I’m starving to death.” “All the teachers are good” meant “They’re a bunch of skunks,” and so on. There were no phrases to express favorable conditions inasmuch as it seemed absurd that anything good could exist in boarding school.

That wasn’t all. Because our imaginations had ascribed a diabolical cunning and severity to the headmasters of the boarding school, we agreed on a very important rule: aside from the double entendres that we had established, I wasn’t to believe one word of anything that Carlo, for the sake of propriety or otherwise, might write to me. In case he had other information that couldn’t be written in code, it would be preceded by the expression, “Brother dear” (instead of “Dear brother”), and followed by the words, “So then...” Finally, if, in his letters or in conversation, he denied or voided this secret agreement, it would mean that he had been forced to write or to talk like that against his will, and I wasn’t to believe him.

He left the house one Monday morning while I was still sleeping and, for this reason, I didn’t see him. But, the next day by three o’clock in the afternoon, I was already on duty by the wall. I had prepared three small paper cartridges to throw over the wall, each one with a cigarette inside. I waited in vain. It was raining that afternoon and there was no outside recreation at the boarding school.

It was also raining the following day. But I had some luck. While I stood on the sidewalk with my umbrella open, waiting in case the boarders would be led into the courtyard despite the bad weather, I felt someone staring at me. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone at first. Then, looking up, I saw him. (From a first-floor window—opened, who knows how, Carlo was looking at me.) He was wearing the school’s gray uniform and holding himself motionless with a equanimity not at all like him. Perhaps he had been there for a few minutes. Why hadn’t he called me right away? A little whistle would have sufficed.

“Carlo, Carlo!” I called in a whisper. It was doubtful that he hadn’t seen me. How absurd! He had seen me all right! Seen me and observed me for a long time and without batting an eyelash. For what reason? Behind his back, invisible to me, perhaps a “prefect” was watching him? But then, without smiling, he raised his right hand, making a gesture that meant: “Wait, don’t get upset, stay calm.” As if it were I, not he, who had to be patient!

He stood by the window for a few more seconds and then disappeared. The windows, their lower panes frosted, were closed. Very confused, I went away. Anyway, I wasn’t worried about his projected escape from the boarding school. For me, one thing was certain: within a few days, Carlo would be expelled. I knew him too well. It was out of the question that those teachers would be able to put up with him for any length of time.

To keep my promise, however, I returned to the school everyday around three in the afternoon. On the other side of the wall, I would hear the children’s voices, a few quarrels quickly extinguished, some rare laughs. But I couldn’t distinguish my brother’s voice. I waited for him to make himself known with the agreed-upon whistle, but he never appeared. Then, I tried to whistle. Nothing. It was like that for four days. Was he ill?

Finally, on the fifth day, after several attempts to catch his attention, a wad of paper thrown from the courtyard landed in front of me. I opened it. Someone had written: “Everything is okay. Your coming is useless.” It wasn’t much, but I breathed a sigh of relief. At the earliest, perhaps this evening, Carlo would try to escape.

But a day passed, two, three, and no alarm sounded from the boarding school. Carlo hadn’t escaped. Then, I received a letter. “Dear brother,” it said, “I want to let you know that I am very happy here and everyone is good to me. Many things, which earlier I saw under a false light, have been cleared up for me, and therefore I see my future in a very different way. Don’t worry about me. They reported to me that you come to the school everyday in the hope of seeing me or speaking to me. Since I understand your affection for me, promise me not do it anymore. A hug from your brother, Carlo.”

I was flabbergasted. It seemed like some horrible joke. This was a letter from Carlo? Aside from the fact that he had never written so correctly, not one of those words could have been his. And the tone was all the more surprising because I could find no hidden meanings in it. There wasn’t even one phrase of our secret code. But, still more disconcerting, was the postscript: “Perhaps you might remember that before coming to boarding school, I had spoken to you about using a coded language to give you news of me. Absolutely do not attach one iota of importance to that foolishness. Besides, all this would be useless because I enjoy the greatest of freedom here.”

A forged letter? No, because the handwriting was beyond suspicion. What then? How could Carlo, with his indomitable cockiness, have changed his mind so soon? Not only his mind, but even his character seemed radically transformed; as though he had become someone else, an entirely different human being.

I don’t know myself why that inconceivable change awakened a mystifying horror in me; it was almost as though I had been told that Carlo was dead and a stranger had take his place. Without wondering if it was a good idea or not, I couldn’t help but tell everything to my father who, indeed, laughed at my fears. But, I noticed that even he seemed profoundly struck.

What agonizing days waiting to see him again. It took almost a month before he was allowed to spend a Sunday at home. Never will I forget that morning. At the appointed hour, the doorbell rang and I ran to open the door. All it took was one glance. The face, the body, the tone of voice were Carlo’s, but inside there was another: well-behaved, quiet, reasonable. Even his motions, under some somber magic spell, were calm and composed. He, who had never been able to take a step without smashing something!

“And, so?” I asked him.

“And, what?” he asked.

“But, didn’t you swear that you’d run away from school?”

“What does it matter?” he said. “I didn’t know then how it would be”

“But, do they treat you well?”

“Well, of course they do.”

“And they never punish you?”

“Punish me? Why? What an idea!”

And he made a slight, compassionate smile. And he was gazing at me. And it seemed that in the depth of his eyes there was an ambiguous shadow, some unspeakable secret, the true explanation; something that he couldn’t reveal to me.

Neither has he changed since then. After three months he left the boarding school; and he went on to another school. We went on vacation together. Never again was he the same boy he had been. He grew quiet and subdued, dedicated to his studies, full of courtesy when he spoke, disciplined in a way that was almost obsequious.

He grew up, he became a man. And when I would ask him what they had done to him during his first days at boarding school, he would give vague answers or indicate that he really didn’t understand the question. But always with a shadow of apprehension in the depth of his gaze, as if his true life had been cut short on that faraway day and now he was obliged to play a part that was not his, and he was absolutely unable to explain to me why.

He is almost forty. Today he is the father of a family, has a good job, is a model citizen esteemed by his colleagues and supervisors. We love each other. Yet, each time I see him again, there wells up in me the mad hope of seeing him—even large and fat as he now is—turn a somersault, say bad words, throw rocks at a window. In short, I hope that he returns, my real brother who was lost on that remote Monday morning. No, he doesn’t make faces or say bad words; he sits in his armchair with great dignity, opens the newspaper, reads the articles from cover to cover.

“Listen,” I sometimes say to him, thinking perhaps our old confidence will resurface, “but there, at the boarding school, do you remember if you were really happy?”

“Certainly,” he responds, “extremely.” And he looks at me with that indefinable pain.

“Why?” I still ask myself on those nights when I can find no peace. What did they do to him in that accursed school? What means did they use to extinguish him, to change him into a larva? Why doesn’t he rebel? Why doesn’t he have the courage to speak?