What’s Up, Dan Rather? Lessons in Language, Culture, and Great Teaching

Dr. Andy Szeto currently serves as an Education Administrator for New York City Public Schools, focusing on academic policy and performance for overage and under-credited students. He's also an adjunct assistant professor specializing in educational leadership, teacher education and TESOL. You can reach out to Andy directly here.

When I arrived in the United States in 1991, I was 12 years old and barely spoke a word of English. I had left the crowded streets and neon lights of Hong Kong, where the language of my life was Cantonese, and landed in a place where everything sounded unfamiliar. We arrived on Christmas Day, and I still remember sitting on the plane, rehearsing a simple greeting in my head. It took me the entire flight to work up the courage to say “Merry Christmas” to the flight attendant. When I finally did, she smiled warmly, and in that moment, I realized how powerful even a few words in a new language could be.

Each night, I bent over my desk, pencil in hand, working through page after page of spelling lists and sentence drills, convinced that if I followed the rules, English would eventually make sense. I copied words over and over, looking them up in a dictionary I did not entirely understand. I could memorize definitions, but I could not yet hear the music of the language, the way it danced in everyday conversation.

In class, I often felt like I was behind a glass wall. The endless rote memorization and worksheets tested what I did not yet have rather than building it. No one asked about the life I had come from or the words I already carried with me. Vocabulary lists, grammar drills, and fill-in-the-blank exercises kept me focused on isolated words instead of real communication. No one explained idioms, so when a kid said, “What’s up?” I did not know it just meant hello, not to actually look up.

I remember one afternoon when the teacher called on me to read a paragraph from our textbook aloud. My voice shook as I stumbled over unfamiliar words. A few students giggled quietly. I kept my eyes fixed on the page, wishing the floor would open up and let me disappear. I was not shy; in my own language I had plenty to say. But English had made me cautious, careful, and quiet.

By six o’clock each night, my homework was done. There was not much on TV until the evening news, so I found myself drawn to it night after night. That is where I met Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw, not in person, but through their voices. They spoke with a kind of confidence and authority that drew me in. The closed captions became my secret teacher, letting me see the words as I heard them. I followed the sentences on screen, matching the sounds to the spelling, slowly building a bridge between hearing and understanding.

I studied the way they spoke, how

they paused, the way their tone shifted on important words, the rhythm of their sentences. I mimicked their pronunciation and repeated their phrases until they felt like my own. That is how I learned that “line” and “nine” were not the same word. To my ear at the time, they sounded identical, but in the news, I heard the difference.

Looking back, my English grew not because of the formal assignments, but because I found a model that gave me language in context. Still, repeating words from a newscast is not the best way to learn English. It was simply the best I had at the time. Even at twelve, I think I understood that great teaching matters. If a teacher had taken the time to connect English to my life, to explain idioms, to give me space to experiment without fear, I might have progressed faster and with more confidence.

What I needed was a bridge. Assignments that asked me to write about what I saw on the news. Opportunities to describe my neighborhood. Projects that encouraged me to interview a classmate and learn about their life while practicing my English. And just as importantly, chances to share my own culture, to tell classmates about the streets and festivals of Hong Kong, the foods my family cooked, and the stories I grew up with. Those kinds of activities would have made the language come alive for me and allowed me to see myself in it.

I also needed patience from my teachers. For a long time, I was afraid to speak because I did not want to sound foolish. The safest thing was to stay silent. But silence does not teach you how to speak. The moments that mattered most were when a teacher let me finish a sentence without cutting me off, or rephrased my words gently so I could hear the correct form without feeling embarrassed.

What I needed most was not just more practice, but great teaching. A teacher who could see the student behind the language barrier, who could connect lessons to my life, and who could make space for me to take risks without fear. Even then, I sensed that the quality of teaching could make the difference between surviving in English and thriving in it.

Years later, when I became an educator myself, I looked back on that 12-year-old in the classroom, quiet but observant, unsure but determined, and realized how much those early experiences shaped me. Today, as an education and educational leadership professor, I know that the real work of teaching language is not just in drilling grammar or memorizing vocabulary. It is in connecting learning to students’ lives, showing them how the language works in real situations, and giving them the confidence to use it.

I think about the students I have taught over the years who were just like me, sitting quietly, working through worksheets, unsure how to cross the bridge into English fluency. They do not just need rules. They need models. They need patience. They need chances to use the language in meaningful ways.

If I could go back and talk to my twelve-year-old self, I would tell him: Keep listening. Keep imitating. Keep speaking, even if it feels awkward. The words will come, and one day, they will be yours.

If I could talk to my teachers today, I'd tell them worksheets are not enough. Give us real use of language. Let us try, fail, and try again. See our mistakes as steps, not setbacks. Help us find our Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw; someone whose words make us want to learn our own.

Because for every student struggling with English, there is a moment waiting, a moment when the locked door finally opens, and the language becomes not just something we learn, but something we live. And sometimes, that moment starts with just two words, the courage to look someone in the eye, take a deep breath, follow the captions in your head, and say, “Merry Christmas.”

-------------------

Got something that needs to be heard? We'll get it said and read on the Worthy Educator blog! Email it to walter@theworthyeducator.com