Same Classroom, Different Seat

As language educators, we always emphasize the value of our work; a perspective I fully support. That said, it’s just as important to occasionally return to the learner’s seat: to stumble, to stretch, to grow. It helps us cultivate deeper empathy for the learners we guide. I am trilingual. I speak German (my mother tongue), English, and Spanish,  and have taught languages and literature at international schools for almost two decades.

Growing up in a small town in Eastern Germany, I had exactly one year of Russian before the Wall came down. The fall of the Wall marked the end of Russian in schools; in my case, it was replaced by English and French. My brief encounter with Russian left me with the ability to read the Cyrillic alphabet and with Briefe an Freunde, a bluish phrasebook found in almost every East German household. 

Years passed. I taught abroad in the United Kingdom, the United States of America, and Colombia. I made lovely Russian-speaking friends, but never immersed myself in the language again. Moving to Dresden in 2023, I found many of my students at the international school to be from places like Ukraine, Russia, Montenegro, and Azerbaijan. Now and then, I’d recognize a word and wonder what else I might grasp with a higher command of Russian. I organized home language events and spoke with Russian and Ukrainian families, deeply interested, yet unable to access the language beyond polite nods and the occasional spasiba. I kept telling myself that I would join the Russian class at the community college across the street, but never got that far - “Too busy.” Whenever I passed the college, I couldn’t help but think about the opportunity waiting for me just a few windows up.

So, in mid-March of this year, I finally made the leap. Every Tuesday from 6:00 to 8:30 pm, I sat in a beginners class led by a quietly passionate Russian teacher. She was curious to know why we had chosen Russian. Some of my fellow students had Russian-speaking partners or were planning trips to places like Uzbekistan. For me, it was a mix of nostalgia and the desire to  communicate with students and colleagues in their native language. We learned to introduce ourselves, talk about family, friends, interests, and navigate a map of Russian-speaking countries. It was intense but wonderful and I was thrilled to discover how many words I had actually learnt back in the day.

It was also quite humbling. I was that student,  the one who forgot their textbook and notebook, and who, on more than one occasion, almost didn‘t make it to class. The one sneakily looking up the answer key in the back. It reminded me that being disorganized does not equal being unmotivated or incapable. It also reminded me to be more generous with my own students. I noticed how quickly I switched off when I wasn’t praised. Also, how crucial it was to mix groups, not just for variety, but to allow different people to work together and bring out different sides of each other. I ended up bonding with Claudia, a seamstress and the only West German in our group. She found it funny - and a bit unfair - that the rest of us, all East Germans, could already read Russian.

After nearly two decades in international schools, filled with dynamic teaching environments and rich opportunities for collaboration and professional development, I was curious to see how I’d experience learning again, this time as a student. I was used to fast-moving secondary lessons, multiple digital platforms, and varied activities. So I must admit, I did find our teacher’s methods quite different to mine. But I’d forgotten that teaching is broad, and different strategies work for different learners. Teaching adults shouldn’t be the same as teaching teenagers. I began to appreciate the methods our teacher, Nina, used: cut-up papers for staged role plays, studying the map to learn geography, and using an enormous textbook. A visit to the local Russian center was a highlight. We explored its impressive library, sampled tea and sweets, and watched the beginning of a classic Russian movie. These moments brought the language and culture to life in a way that no app or textbook could truly replicate.

The worst moment came at the end of every session: each of us had to name five new words we’d learned that day. You did not want to be the last person in that game. The silence as the list grew longer, the pressure mounting with every word already taken - it was oddly terrifying. And yet, it worked. We remembered more and listened more intently.

Then one Tuesday evening, something happened. The teacher asked the rest of the group whether they had noticed my beautiful negation. My heart skipped a beat. It was a small moment, but it stirred something in me, and it stayed. That night, walking home, I felt a pang of guilt: was I praising my own students enough?