Teaching in Hungary Revitalizes One Adjunct’s Love For the Classroom
by Anthony Akers
In the Fall of last year, I submitted my last will and testament of my teaching career to the readers of this publication, and my argument was simple: “Working as an adjunct is hell; we all know this; we can’t do much about it, so if you hope for enlightenment and freedom and a salary to support it…quit the classroom.”
I followed my own advice.
Soon after I left my college teaching job, I had withdrawal. It is said that one can become addicted to anything he or she enjoys. I grudgingly applied for a few administrative positions at local colleges and universities. I wrote cover letters that sounded even more stale and dry than the last paper I’d read on Dickinson’s poetry. I made fanciful excuses for myself, and clicked the “administrative staff openings” on human resource Web pages with a sense of disdain. In the end, I concluded that maybe the problem wasn’t teaching, but rather where I was teaching. I looked to the east…thousands of miles east.
I applied for and won a grant to teach high school in eastern Hungary for three months. I knew very little about Hungary and less about the Hungarian language, but I perceived both as challenges. I traveled thousands of miles to help students of another language and culture learn the nuances of the English language and American culture, but it was I who learned the most about what it really means to be a teacher; it was an injection of much-needed optimism, and ultimately, it was a lesson that sent me back into the classroom here in the United States.
Mátèszalka is a small, peaceful town situated near the Tizsa River in northeastern Hungary. A former “satellite state” of the Soviet Union, Hungary seemed like a great place to escape, and I was eager to soak up some culture. The people are notoriously friendly; the food is exceptional and generally uncontaminated by western cuisine. The country boasts over 1000 years of culture, and as I would soon learn, education, at any level, is not taken lightly.
After a long ride from Budapest across the Hungarian Great Plains, I situated myself in an apartment near the school, walked to the grocery store with dictionary in hand, and prepared for the next day’s lessons. I had been told I should engage my students in conversations about the American Civil War; the first class I was to meet was a “4a” level class, meaning they were seniors who had studied English for several years. I slept little the night before. I listened as an approaching storm roared.
On that first day, I walked into the classroom expecting the usual chatter and chaos that precede a lesson, prepared to situate my papers and raise my voice to announce the beginning of the lesson. Instead, as the door closed behind me, I heard only the simultaneous scraping of chairs being thrust backwards, and there stood 25 students, at full attention, silent, waiting for me to do or say—something.
As I tried to shake off the shock and introduce myself, a young lady walked to the front of the room, faced me, and announced who was absent (all were present). She announced the date, and the level of the class. She announced the current weather and the weather forecast, and, with a sweeping glance around the room, this student announced that all present were prepared for the English lesson. And she stood there until a young man in the front row, his papers and pens neatly organized on his desk, tapped me and whispered, “please tell the class to sit down.”
Culture Shock 101.
This almost ceremonial beginning to a given lesson was not isolated to me, a visitor, and it was not isolated to the initial parts of the class. I visited other classes as a guest, and witnessed the same respect for the Hungarian teachers. Throughout each and every lesson, from the first level students to the advanced speakers, these kids were thirsty for knowledge, and they challenged me at every turn. I did that lesson on the U.S. Civil War, and was horrified to find many of the students knew more than I did, and they told me all about it in a language not native to them. If they were to be admitted to a university in that country, they had to, and most of them could recite the major battles of our own Civil War in three languages. The contrast with American high schools, and indeed American higher education, was patently, ironically, absurd. I remember feeling ashamed of the reality of education in my own country, but began to desire, once again, to play a role in doing something about it.
I stayed in their school for three months, and delivered lessons on everything from American pop-culture and typical southern American foods to 9/11 and Hollywood subculture. I took lessons in Hungarian, many of them from my own students. I had studied ancient Greek in graduate school, yet found it was no match for the intricacies of their own tongue; I struggled with their language more than they did with mine. I went with my students on field trips and toured their country. I even joined some of their families for dinner. One common thread always remained: teachers are the most highly respected professionals in the country. The day of my departure, every class I taught presented me with gifts, and my students looked me in the eye and said “thank you for helping us.”
Indeed, I learned more about Hungary than I had ever imagined, but I learned even more, comparatively, about the state of education in my own country, and about my role as an educator. I learned that much of my disappointment, the frustration that drove me to quit my teaching job in the United States, was not as much about lack of money and lack of benefits as a lowly adjunct, as it was about the lack of respect I felt. I learned, in sum, that we are unbelievably spoiled; we take too much for granted. While this country’s institutions of higher education count their dollars and play their politics our 12th graders struggle to find Hungary on a world map, while 12th graders in Hungary recite the capitals of every state in the Union.
I have resumed teaching English literature in the United States, and I’m glad to be home again. I’ve concluded that my heart is in teaching, and it took a trip to Hungary to remind me of that fact, to put it all in perspective. And now, back in the U.S., I walk into the classroom and call them to order, my voice against 25 others, and it’s up to me to count the absences and record the date and watch the weather forecast. But in the end, I’m once again inspired to stand in the classroom, and believe I can make a difference in my students’ lives.
