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Foreword.
Many years ago, I enrolled my children (aged 5 and 6) in an English language group. Sitting outside the classroom door alongside other mothers, I listened to the ringing voice of a young teacher: "Now you, Masha: 'A CAT' - Well done! Now you, Vova: 'A DOG' - Good job!". At that moment, it became abundantly clear to me that this wasn't the right way to teach a language. It even felt as if I knew the correct way instinctively! Such was the stark contrast of this negative example that I felt the urge to diverge completely from it, aiming for the opposite end of the spectrum. The only thing I lacked was a command of the language itself (I had studied German in school). Luckily, I stumbled upon records titled "English for Communication" and began immersing myself in listening sessions... And then, amidst the voices of conference participants, I recognized the voice of their guide, Cora Grant: "I’m sure you’ve done a very good job! Some more music for you". Although I couldn't quite pinpoint what was so mesmerizing about that voice, I suddenly felt the presence of this lady right beside me, and she seemed to be speaking directly to me. Everything she conveyed felt so persuasive, natural, and was perfectly understandable without translation. The language simply flowed into me, as if filling a cup with some kind of nectar.
Later, at one of the seminars, I met Tamara Ignatova, the author of the "English for Communication" course. She was a slender woman with penetrating, kind eyes and the same magical voice I had heard on the record (Cora Grant was her pseudonym). Outside, snow swirled in a blizzard, but I felt that if she were to say "Follow me!", we'd all follow her out without even grabbing our coats.
From that very moment of my initial, distant introduction to Cora Grant, I grasped the essence of these two contrasting poles. These weren't merely different approaches or methods to language teaching – they represented two entirely different philosophies. I became certain that I adhered to the latter, and after nearly 20 years, having dedicated my life to teaching English to children, I also advocate for it.
The idea for this book emerged from a desire to address the myriad questions from the parents of my students, to discuss the challenges they faced as their children embarked on the journey of language acquisition. That's why the book is written in the form of a dialogue with a parent (a sort of generalized representation). I believe this book will be beneficial for a broad readership interested in the challenges of language learning, but primarily for parents of young children just beginning to delve into a foreign language. I would dearly love to have like-minded colleagues as readers, as well as those who might disagree. After all, it's through debate that we often find the truth, isn't it?
In Depth and Breadth.
When we delve into the challenge of language instruction both deeply (through time) and broadly (across space), we find that the recent decades in Russia represent but a tiny blip in the vast tapestry of history. Thus, it might be a misnomer to term today's teaching methods in Russian schools as "classic." Instead, let's refer to them as "traditional." Delving deeper, let us journey back a century or more to explore the history of foreign language teaching in Russia.
Reading literature detailing the events of the 18th and 19th centuries, from Tolstoy to Akunin, one can't help but marvel (and perhaps envy a touch) at the ease with which our ancestors seamlessly transitioned between languages in conversation, be it French or German (English wasn't quite in vogue then). Pushkin's heroine, Tatiana Larina, penned her letter to Onegin in French — not as a testament to her linguistic prowess, but because, "Our proud tongue hasn't yet adapted to epistolary prose."
What accounted for this linguistic genius of our forebears? Was it solely because every noble family hosted a resident French tutor? Did this solitary "humble Frenchman" indeed address all language-learning challenges? Let's not sell ourselves short by comparing our capabilities to those of the 19th-century dwellers. In this era, where horses have given way to airplanes and distances to any country are clocked in hours, not weeks; where every household might hear foreign languages emanate from the speakers of radios, televisions, and computers — surely, our capacity to master languages is vastly expanded. So, what seems to be the obstacle?
Children absorbed languages not just from tutors but also from their 'mama' and 'papa'. Notably, many butlers, proficient in several languages, didn't have such tutors. When 'mama' greeted with a "bonjour", it was genuinely morning outside. Importantly, she didn't utter, "bonjour means good morning in French. Repeat after me..."; she simply conversed in the language.
Now, considering breadth. In every European nation, people wield languages with greater fluidity than our compatriots. In Europe, any passerby might address you in three languages, offering a choice for communication. In Tunisia, every teenager on the street will courteously respond in crisp, correct English. One merchant, upon discovering I hailed from Russia, greeted me with a smile and said:
"- Are you an English teacher?"
"- How did you guess?"
"- It's quite simple: typically, Russians don't speak English very well."
Oh heavens, isn't it a slight against our nation's pride? Are we any less capable? No! So, what's the issue? I can pinpoint at least one glaring reason. In no country I've visited have I ever seen a French textbook written in Spanish. And the first page of any language-learning book, written in the native tongue for foreigners, is dedicated to introductory phrases, not to the first letter of the alphabet!
Thus, an English textbook written in Russian, using the methodology of moving from specific to general - letter-syllable-word-phrase - is one of the legacies of our advanced socialism. Dare I suggest, it might have been part of the "Iron Curtain" program. This program implicitly assumed that students, despite spending significant effort learning the language in specialized schools, would still not understand foreign broadcasts, like those from the 'Voice of America', and learn about the "decaying West". By the way, the USSR's espionage school was exemplary, and agents like "Shtirlitz" were presumably taught with a different method.
"- But perestroika happened over 20 years ago. Why hasn't the language teaching methodology changed since?"
The reason is that a colossal inertial machine had been set in motion. Several generations of students have grown up to become teachers, and they teach as they were taught. Blaming anyone would be absurd. The river had been flowing within its confines, never breaching its banks. But within these confines, teachers conjured up myriad inventive methods, displaying imagination and creativity. The Russian spirit is inherently creative, and even more so in educators — the profession demands it. Factor in personal attributes and an atmosphere of mutual love, and it's entirely clear why a young teacher might associate teaching methodology with a beloved mentor. Rejecting it in favor of a new approach might, in a sense, feel like betraying their idols. One could say of many talented educators, using Tchaikovsky's words about Wagner: 'He's a genius who took the wrong path.' (Wagner’s operas are unique in that he shifted the melody to the orchestra, leaving the singers with recitatives). I don't see myself as an exception. I was equally enamored with my math and music teachers, elevating them to idol status, defending their correctness to this day... even at the risk of defying the Truth. But it so happened that I never had a single English teacher, unless you count the virtual one in the form of Kora Grant, so I have no one to betray. Thus, coming to language teaching somewhat sideways, through math and music, I have the chance to see the problem through a different lens.
Certainly, the perestroika revolution affected textbooks. Stories about pioneer neckties and Komsomol medals were removed, replacing revolutionary figures with cheerful characters from popular cartoons. Yet, the core remained the same: letter-syllable-word-phrase. Meanwhile, a surge of innovative programs entered the market, presenting language through tales and stories:
"...once upon a time, there was a Mr. Article,"
"...a closed syllable in the form of a brick house,"
"...a Russian woodpecker goes 'tuk-tuk', countered by its English counterpart saying 'took-took'."
Again, it's the same road to nowhere, in the author's opinion of this program, because it's all about playing with the language rather than playing through the language - a diametrically opposed approach to learning.
Imagine a frog dissected by a biology student and observed under a microscope. Sure, you could stitch it back up, but alas, it will never croak again.
Let the heroes of our tales be cats, mice, princes, and princesses, and not articles, syllables, or sounds. Let's establish one of the cardinal rules of the program:
To teach a child a language, one must divert their attention away from the language itself.
1) Redirect the child's focus onto anything else:
- sympathy for a mouse,
- fear of a wolf,
- the desire to assist a piglet in the play.
2) Set a goal to teach the child something:
- stage speech,
- beautiful, correct singing, enhancing their hearing and voice,
- solving logical and mathematical problems.
(The direction chosen depends on the parents' wishes or the teacher's abilities.)
Isn't this how we all learned our mother tongue? For a child, language is not the goal, but rather a tool to understand the world. Alongside language acquisition, and with its aid, we learned to hold a spoon correctly, distinguish between good and evil, and so on. All teaching was conducted in our native language, which the child continuously absorbed in a natural manner, like music.
