What do parents want in a language center?

They want…

…predictability. Can you guarantee that my child will reach a certain level of English? How long will it take? How much will it cost?

…transparency. What will my child learn in this course? How much progress are they making? Are they on track to meet their goals? How do they compare to the other students?

…utility. Does this English education prepare my child for work/study? Are the knowledge and skills they’re acquiring going to help them study overseas? To work more effectively?

…ingenuity. Is this different than what my children are already getting at school? Is it different from what they can get at any other language center? Why should I send my child to a private language center? Why should I send my child to THIS private language center?

Of course, they also want…

…prestige. Will it sound good to my friends if my child is studying here?

…convenience. Is this center close to my house? Are the study times convenient?

But predictability, transparency, utility and ingenuity are the keys.

The middle distance: a small perceptual shift that makes everything easier

My dad didn’t give me a lot of great advice when I was a kid, but he did tell me one useful thing.

Like most teenagers, I had to mow our lawn. Unlike most teenagers, we lived in the country on an acre of land. I got to use a riding lawnmower. For the most part, my biggest concern was trying not to nick the decorative stones that separated the lawn from the driveway.

Then one day dad told me I would have to start mowing across the bridge. We lived at the end of a neighborhood across a creek. Just the other side of the bridge was a small patch of grass which, apparently, was our responsibility.

The bridge was about 15 feet above the creek. It had two tracks which far enough apart for cars’ wheels to drive across, but too far for the riding lawnmower. Fortunately, the lawnmower could fit both wheels on one track. Barely.

I was 12 the first time I drove the riding lawnmower across the bridge. Dad did it across and back, to prove that it could be done. Then he told me to do it.

I was terrified. I drove tentatively onto the bridge. I fixed my eyes on the boards right in front of me. I craned my neck left and right to check the tires to see how close they were to the edge. I drove 5 kph. I hit the brakes and nudged the steering wheel back the other way every time the tires got to close to the edge. I was terrified by every nail that wasn’t perfectly hammered down, every gap between the slats, every uneven joint, and every knot in the wood.

It took me 10 minutes. The bridge was 10 meters.

Do it again, he said. This time, don’t look straight in front of you, look at the other end of the bridge. Don’t focus on what’s right in front of you. Look where you’re going.

So I tried again. This time, instead of staring at the boards in front of me, I fixed my gaze on a bush at the other end of the bridge. I loosened my grip on the steering wheel. I was still terrified. But this time I got across in just a minute. It did feel easier when I focused on where I was going, not where I already was.

Dad gave me the same advice again, when he took me for my first driving lesson at 15*. Don’t focus on what’s right in front of you. Look where you’re going.

(*Unfortunately, the advice didn’t work so well this time. He took me on a dirt road with deep wheel ruts from just after a rain storm. After I bottomed the car out a couple times, dad took over and drove us home. Sometimes you really do need to look right in front of you.)