I was 22 years old when it occurred to me there was a problem.
By that time, I had a strong teacher identity and was actually quite adept at teaching. Growing up with parents who were public school teachers meant I didn’t spend 4 or even 8 hours a day at school but rather 10 or even sometimes 12. My childhood took place in a music classroom. My chores weren’t doing laundry or cleaning the bathroom but erasing the chalkboard, alphabetizing the songbooks, and organizing the chairs. My playmates were the stapler, the hole punch, the markers and the highlighters, and my babysitters were my mom’s students waiting in line to audition for a solo in the upcoming concert. I learned how to do fractions and percentages by adding up scores on music theory tests and how to give feedback by addressing student questions about their final grades after class. I was nine years old.
Around this time, my dad pursued his dream of becoming a biology teacher. His eyes lit up when he talked to students about the natural world, just like they did when he read me Bernstein Bears before bed, and he started doing science experiments and testing out his lesson plans at home. I died of embarrassment when my friends told me how he jumped up on tables and made up silly science songs in class, but I also intimately came to understand the concept of multiple identities, having to behave differently when my parents were “mom” and “dad” than when they were “teacher” or, later, when my dad was “principal”.
At twelve, I started doing choreography for my mom’s choir groups and regularly taught hundreds of high school students how to dance. Still today, whenever I feel unprepared for a class or nervous about teaching a new subject, I think back on my 12-year old self, standing on a platform in front of 200 high school boys, successfully teaching them how to jazz square and do a roll off. As a teenage female teacher, I had to develop thick skin and learn how to stay cool and collected in the classroom, even when I felt hurt or confused by student side comments.
So, as you can see, my teacher identity and skills developed early on.
Throughout my undergrad, I studied art and foreign languages. I also taught academic English for a year, doing one-on-one test preparation sessions at my university’s Learning Assistance Center. But I didn’t consider myself a trained English teacher and had never even heard of TESOL, ELT, EFL or any of the other million acronyms in our field. I certainly wasn’t familiar with expressions like “native speaker myth” or terms like NEST and NNEST. Even though I had been teaching most of my life, I was new to the field of English teaching. And although I felt very connected to my teacher identity, I hadn’t explored what it meant to be an English teacher.
After I graduated, I applied to a non-profit to be a volunteer English teacher at a rural elementary school in Costa Rica. Our group had a two-week training before arriving in our small communities to teach English for a year. The stakes were high. We were being sent to these particular schools because they were either too small or too poor to receive an English teacher from the government. When (or in many cases, if) students start high school in Costa Rica, they are expected to have at least a low-intermediate English level upon entry. So, if these children aren’t exposed to the language in elementary school and don’t build a strong English foundation, there is a high chance they flunk out of high school early on. The first day of training, I learned that out of 25 volunteers I was the most experienced and qualified English teacher. Something felt off about this.
And this was the first time I detected NEST issues and English teaching tourism.
It felt problematic that among a group of twenty soon-to-be English language teachers, I was the most experienced and qualified. I had only been an English tutor for a year. It felt problematic that a volunteer openly stated she decided to teach English in Costa Rica in order to learn Spanish and that another guy told me the program was his ticket into previously inaccessible surf spots on the coast. And while I understood my primary role was teaching English, I had to admit that I was there for other reasons too, like improving my Spanish and having a cultural experience. Something didn’t feel right, but I also wasn’t sure it was wrong. Americans teaching English abroad is so common and normalized that I didn’t dig deeper into those feelings.
But they came up again in my MA TESOL program. Although NEST/NNEST issues weren’t, unfortunately, an explicit part of our TESOL coursework, in a program where over half the students were new NNESTs, I became well-versed in the terminology. In my first graduate grammar course, the girl behind me was a whiz at syntax trees, and the girl in front of me asked really good questions I would’ve never thought of. These two tutored me throughout the semester and became my closest friends in the program. They were from Germany and Russia, respectively, and together we discovered NEST/NNEST issues. We would be at conferences (yes, TESOL conferences), and people would say to them, “I can’t believe you grew up in Germany, your English accent is so good!” (She has lived in the U.S. since she was 14.) Or, as soon as they would learn my other friend grew up in Russia, they would suddenly detect an accent. “Oh yes, I didn’t hear it before, but of course, yes, you do sound a little Russian.” Like magic, after three days of interacting with her and watching her present research, suddenly, she’s Russian. Suddenly, she’s labeled as “non-native”. And then the icing on the cake: “You don’t even look like a non-native speaker!”
Those feelings got stronger when I completed a Fulbright in Brazil.
Stories began to circulate among the Fulbright fellows about Brazilians constantly questioning their “native-ness” and consequently their right to be a Fulbright English teaching fellow. My closest friends in our group were a Puerto Rican guy, a black woman from the South, and an Ecuadorian-raised girl from Kentucky. The whole year, they felt they had to defend their native-ness because they also spoke Spanish or weren’t born in the States or didn’t “look like a native speaker”.
Those feelings got even stronger when I began to look for work in Brazil. Waiting for interviews with language schools and even multinational publishers, I felt defeated every time I sat down next to another candidate with little to no experience. But hey, they were native speakers too, so we were being considered for the same job. When I opened up my schedule for private students, they never once asked about my experience but rather only cared about where I was from, as if being born in a specific place qualified me to teach. The reality hit me that all my training and education may have been in vain. I thought back to my parents and the saying, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” I wondered if they ever felt this way.
Most recently, these feelings have become overwhelming.
I’ve seen students pay three times the market price for private lessons with unqualified native teachers and then believe they were “stupid” or “unable to learn languages” when they didn’t improve. I’ve watched as a white American pursuing his doctorate in science gained hundreds of thousands of Brazilian followers on YouTube by giving English tips. Recently, he quit his PhD program and started a crowdfunding campaign to get Brazilians to financially support him. His campaign platform states they should donate money because “he has the advantage of being a native speaker who speaks Portuguese” and “has lots of ideas”. In his video comments, learners say, “Great! Our Brazilian teachers never teach us these things!” (They try to, but you don’t listen.) If this isn’t a prime example of white privilege coupled with native speaker superiority, I don’t know what is.
This may sound harsh. After all, recognizing and accepting privilege is a hard task. And it’s even harder to move from acceptance to action. And what about people who just want to travel and make extra cash? Are they wrong to claim to be English teachers? And the Youtuber probably doesn’t realize NEST/NNEST issues even exist. I mean, he’s a scientist for heaven’s sake. Can we really hold him accountable for naïvely perpetuating the native speaker myth?
Yes, we can. And yes, I do. I do take teaching seriously. Teaching has been my life. It’s been my parents and grandparents lives. It’s my sister’s life.
Teaching will make or break a student’s life.
Wherever I go, I meet everyday English speakers who ask me “how I did it”. They want to travel, see the world, and ‘find themselves’, to be quintessentially American about it.
“I wanna do what you did,” they say.
“How do I do that?” they ask.
Then they conclude, “Where do you think I should teach English?”
Most days, I give my short, (now) prepared response that goes something like, “It’s a good idea to get training first––there are certificates and programs I can recommend––and try to do some research on work conditions, culture, and lifestyle before you agree to teach anywhere.”
But there are other days, days when I’ve had a set back at work or I’m tight on money or I’ve just watched someone make millions selling a secret method to learning English that is the spitting image of Krashen’s input hypothesis from 1985.
On those days, it takes every ounce of energy to not respond:
“How do you do this? Well, first you’ll pay to do a volunteer program. You’ll teach children how to tell jokes and build treehouses in English and teach their parents how to negotiate their salaries and defend themselves against foreign interests, but you’ll also be pretty poor for the next five years. Then you’ll need to work three jobs and get a research fellowship to complete a master’s in teaching English. After that, you’ll want more professional development, so apply for a competitive Fulbright fellowship in English teaching and English teacher training. Hopefully after a year and a half of interviews you’ll get it. Then, spend years making your class materials from scratch, on carbon paper or with markers, not just to get the hang of curriculum development but also because most schools have no resources or government support. Work for publishers, work for private schools, work for non-profits and public universities, but most of all, don’t forget to work as a bartender because that’s how you’ll actually pay your bills.”
In the end, when these feelings consume me, I remember. I remember English is my first language. I remember I’m a white middle-class American. I remember that if this is a frustrating experience for me, imagine what it must be like for a POC non-native English teacher looking for work in, say, any country.
And I remember how much I love teaching and love my students.
I’ve spent the last ten years surrounded by intelligent and patient NNEST peers and colleagues. Together, we’ve shared stories and unpacked the many ways native speakerism is yet another form of discrimination. We’ve brainstormed alternatives to “non-native”, feeling that a “non-” label and deficient model is part of the problem, and created professional development modules about how to educate students, teachers, and administrators about NNEST issues.
The native speaker myth results in the deprofessionalization of our field. But in much worse-case scenarios, it results in illegal hiring practices, fuels discrimination, and cheats students out of the opportunity to work with truly exceptional teachers. And these are issues that affect all of us.
Christina Lorimer is a teacher trainer, materials writer, and certified language coach with an M.A. in TESOL and 13 years in the field. After teaching in the U.S., Costa Rica, and Brazil, she founded Step Stone Languages, an English for Specific Purposes school for autonomous learners focused on providing real-life materials that increase student motivation and decrease teacher burnout. She is also an author and editor of teacher guides for National Geographic Cengage Learning. In her free time, she loves hiking to waterfalls and playing with her one-year old niece.