NYC | Michelle

The Classroom That Changed Me

New York has a way of overwhelming you—the noise, the pace, the endless motion. On this trip, the moment that stayed with me didn’t happen on a crowded street or beneath towering skyscrapers. It happened quietly, around a folding table, in an ESL classroom filled with West African students who were hungry—not for food, but for words.

The ESL program was set up simply: three tables one for each level: Beginner, Intermediate, and Advanced. The students, called “students,” though most were young men in their twenties and thirties, some with wives and children still back home in Africa—would sit according to their English level. Our team filtered in and began spreading ourselves out, waiting for the room to fill.

That’s when one of the missionaries stopped me. He gently pulled me away and guided me toward the Advanced table. I laughed. “Are you sure you want me here? My spelling is horrendous, and I never know where to put a comma.”

“Oh absolutely,” he said. “You seem like a professional.”

“Wait—how did you know I was a teacher? Did I forget to take off my lanyard?”

His eyes lit up. “You are a teacher? That’s excellent news. Then you’re definitely at the right table. And trust me—if I can do this, anybody can.”

That’s the thing about ESL classes: there’s already a structured curriculum. Vocabulary. Present and past tense. Basic grammatical structure. You’re not reinventing the wheel—you’re guiding students through it.

At the advanced table, though, time passed slowly. Students trickled in everywhere else, but my table stayed empty… until one young man finally sat down next to me. We exchanged introductions, and I asked him to pull out his workbook so I could check his homework. Page by page, I searched for mistakes. There were none.

He had completed every assignment. Correctly. He had already finished the day’s work before class even began. Not wanting to waste a single minute of his time, I asked him, “What would be most helpful for you to work on for the next hour?”

Without hesitation, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small black notebook. Inside were pages filled—front to back—with English words and phrases. Words he didn’t understand but refused to ignore. He didn’t want to memorize answers. He wanted to understand.

And in that moment, I had to stop and recalibrate everything I thought I knew about teaching.

I work in a school where motivation is often scarce—where learning feels like something students are forced to do rather than something they crave. Sitting across from S, watching him pursue his fourth language with genuine hunger, was humbling.

For the next hour, we worked through words most native English speakers never stop to explain:

Codependent.Disease.Desperate.Wounded.Criticize.

Then phrases:

“Don’t tempt me.”“You seem like a vibe.”“I’m not impressed.”

I found myself pausing—not because the words were difficult, but because explaining them required me to truly understand them again. Once you learn a word, you rarely have to unpack it. You forget how much meaning is buried beneath what feels “simple.”

At one point in S’s book we came across a medical term: tachycardia. I laughed and said, “Where on earth did you hear that word?”

He shrugged and said he picks up words everywhere—TV shows, conversations, billboards, people at work. He listens closely. Constantly. S was grateful. Truly grateful. But more than that—he was alive with learning. Energized by knowledge.

To say this trip started on a high note would be an understatement.

Before we left that day, S and I exchanged contact information. That was four months ago. We’ve talked nearly every day since. He still asks about words and phrases. I still help with grammar. But our conversations have grown into something much deeper—family, culture, faith, life in America, life back home.

What began as an ESL lesson became a relationship.

My biggest takeaway from New York wasn’t the city—it was the people sitting quietly at those tables. These West African students are starving for opportunity, committed to growth, and determined to do better for themselves and their families. They don’t take access to education lightly.

And maybe that’s the hardest truth of all: in a country where everything comes so easily, we often lack the dedication that comes from knowing how much is at stake.

That classroom reminded me why words matter. Why teaching matters. And why sometimes the most impactful moments happen far from where you expect them.

Michelle Kondrich, New York City 2025