When the Student Becomes the Teacher
April 23rd, 2008I recently received news from the States that a former ESL (English as a Second Language) student of mine, Magdalene Mok, passed away. Natural causes. She must have been in her seventies by then; in her sixties when she was a student of mine in Boston Chinatown. That was in the 1990s, when after work as a hotshot Big 5 consultant I would head to the local Chinatown Catholic Church a couple nights a week to teach more than twenty Chinese students at a time how to speak English. I’m not Catholic, but it was something I wanted to do. The couple years of teaching were amongst the most rewarding in my life.
Magdalene Mok was one of a dozen core students. They all hung with me for the two years, from the first class to the last. They were middle-aged and elderly housewives, for the most part. From Hong Kong, Guangdong and Fujian. I was single at the time. They all became my mothers. Chinese mothers hate to see their children single. And hungry.
Magdalene started two trends. She would bring me a Styrofoam carton of fried noodles or buns stuffed with pork for me to take home after the night-class. Then another student would make sure I had fresh tea to drink at the start of class. Eventually, the competitions began to see who could get to class first with the most food to bring teacher. I finally had to tell them all to stop bringing me food; I had to lie I’d already eaten dinner before the night class – I wasn’t hungry, I insisted.
She was also the first to call me “Bill Teacher,” which other students caught onto and seemed to enjoy repeating just for the sheer oddness of the title. Secretly, I was both tickled and touched by the mantle.
Magdalene was a devout Catholic. I helped her moved house once, to an apartment complex near Chinatown for the elderly subsidized by the Boston government. I remember all the crosses and Jesus photos neatly packed in a box, ready to be positioned in sacred places throughout their new home.
I never thought of the heavy-set woman as old, really. Maybe it was her Beetles haircut that framed her thick, owlish eyeglasses. Clad in her uniform - baggy T-shirt, jeans and white sneakers - she was always active, always moving. In the few years we knew each other, she was always organizing events, always involved in the Chinatown community. Once, she came into our night class in earnest bearing a placard and wearing a banner across her ample chest. She apologized for being a little late to class; she had been protesting the development of a new high rise in Chinatown.
Magdalene had six children; all but one was still in Hong Kong. The two daughters notified me Magdalene had passed on. I am deeply grateful to them for letting me know. I met a couple of the other “children” in Hong Kong, adults all. I met her husband in Hong Kong, too; a spry elderly man who looked twenty years his junior who liked playing Mahjong.
Magdalene set out in the States to make her own life; she had given so much of herself to her family in Hong Kong. In Boston, it was time to devote herself to God; and to good works; and to her friends and neighbors. And to her English teacher, who learned so much from her about how to be a good person. Which isn’t as easy as it sounds.

