ELT News Think Tank

This Month's Think Tank Panel

Marc Helgesen

Peter Viney

Chuck Sandy

Panelists: Marc | Peter | Chuck
Date: October 2002
Discuss this topic on our Message Board.

Topic: "What role does imagination play in language learning?"

Chuck Sandy

Imagine you are living in a foreign country. Imagine it's the middle of the night. You sit alone at your desk, surrounded by the small things you love: an old book signed by a favorite poet, a ceramic cup given to you by someone you love. Here's a child's drawing, a seashell, a polished stone from another country where you once lived. For a moment you pick it up and go there in your mind.

It is 2 in the morning. The only sound when you lift your hands from the keyboard is the ticking of the old clock on your desk. You pause to look at it and remember the day it was given it you, what you thought, how much you felt. Go ahead. Pick it up. Feel the weight of it in your hands. Bring it to your ear and close your eyes. Can you hear it? It is the only sound there is.

“Still, can you imagine his eyes filling with tears as he realizes that she is gone? He turns and walks slowly into the house and closes the door.”

Imagine you are me. Imagine you've have been asked to share your thoughts on the role of the imagination in the classroom. You don't know how to explain it. How can you tell the truth, that there is nothing else, that skills will only take you so far. Beyond that imagination is the only thing. If you want to go anywhere, imagine it. If you want your students to travel with you, take them there. Guide them. Is that enough to say? Imagine you're a writer. It is 2 in the morning. Let's turn the computer off. Come with me:

Here is an old fountain pen that belonged to my grandmother. Let's use this. Can you hear the sound it makes as it moves across this paper to write these words? Besides the ticking of my clock, this is the only sound there is. Can you imagine what it feels like to write with this pen that once belonged to the woman who convinced me that I could be a teacher like her? She was born in 1901 but we're not going to go that far. We're only going to travel back to 1918. I was not there of course. My own father wasn't even born yet. I am imagining this. Come:

We are on a dairy farm in rural New York State. It is autumn. An immigrant from Sweden is standing in front of his farmhouse. This is my great-grandfather. He is watching a horse drawn carriage carry his only daughter away to college to become a teacher. He watches as the carriage grows small in the distance. He is so proud of her, but so scared. Remember, it is 1918 and he knows no other father who would allow his daughter to go to college. His dream is for her to become someone greater than he is. He's worked hard to reach this moment when he can say, "My daughter is going to college now. She's going to be a teacher." Still, can you imagine his eyes filling with tears as he realizes that she is gone? He turns and walks slowly into the house and closes the door.

Can you imagine how he must have felt? The house is so quiet without her. The only sound is the ticking of the old clock that is now on my desk in Japan. Can you hear it? Can you see him picking up this old fountain pen to write a few words in his journal? Can you imagine what he wrote? Could you trust your imagination and tell me what you think he wrote. Your answer is as good as mine. I am imagining this along with you. I don't know anything for sure, but here we are now using this pen that was once his before it became my grandmother's. Open your eyes. It is autumn. It is 2002 and we are in rural Japan. It is 3 in the morning. In 6 hours I will walk into a classroom where a group of students will be waiting for me.

What will I do then? I will begin class as I usually do, with a story ­ but which one and should I tell them the truth? Is it worth thinking through in this moment? Perhaps not. Stories come as they always do: from a trigger that launches the imagination. When the imagination is allowed its full depth and scope, it takes us --and those listening to us ­ to places more real in their imagining than in fact. As we travel through stories and share our imagining with others, we allow ourselves and others to let go enough to float above the need to be sure of what's real and what's not, of what's fact and what's fiction, of the usual conventions of desk and chair, text and task. A part of us floats just high enough above all this to give the imagination room to swoop in to create a bridge between the known world and the world of the story.

It is this bridge between which allows us not only to comprehend but also to inhabit Monet's gardens, Tolkien's Middle Earth, Lucas's space ships, a parent's lecture, a teacher's lesson, a foreign country. Yet even as we float and create, we stay loosely tethered to the fact of the painting, the narrative and text-based rules of story, our knowledge of film trickery and effect, the dynamics of family and classroom, the map of language.

When we use a story in the language classroom we're asking learners not only to pay attention and follow along, but also to create a detailed map with a reality of their own. Does it matter if my Monet's garden is not yours, if my Hobbits are not Tolkein's, if I indentify more with Darth Vadar than Luke Skywalker, if each of our students comes in with a different set of needs and goals and away with a different set of experiences and interpretations?

I don't think it does as long as we understand that in the case of a language class the teacher is there not only to lead and guide the creation of reality, but also to lead learners through and back should should they get lost or too troubled with the necessary poetics of language, rules of grammar, and meanings of words. With this understanding, the classroom becomes a safe point of departure, the story a known vehicle, the language a travel permit.

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Panelists: Marc | Peter | Chuck

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