Every sha-la-la-la

About a month ago, early January, I went to English Corner for the first time. It’s a weekly program run by a local Presbyterian church (about 2 blocks down the hill from us), bringing in international students and recent immigrants who would like to improve their English skills. I’d been invited to come-- “We always need native speakers” by, Siew, who works at school in the International office (she miraculously remembered my name, and Christien’s, when I saw her at a meeting 2 months after she’d helped us out in September).

I may or may not be surprising anybody to say that early January was not the best time for me. Christmas was okay, and the New Year turned with a sense of promise—but it was swiftly followed by a strange becalmed lull that turned icy, dark, and daunting--peopled by characters from Coleridge’s “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” (Rime-crusted gods and eyeless ice-demons cackled and danced in the rigging, playing dice for my soul—And I swear, it wasn’t me who shot the Albatross…).

So, with an itch of obligation, some curiosity, and a former-English teacher’s sense of “duty,” I finally made myself put on the coat and hat and go out (alone) into a frosty January Friday night for a couple hours of selflessly helping out people who were struggling with English.

I arrived promptly at 7 pm to find out that the gathering process takes about 40 minutes. But I was welcomed warmly by the minister, his wife, various volunteers and students—given tea and peanut candy—fussed over (“American! I’ve been to Texas!” “Wow, a PhD student” “A novel!”) and was even told by a sweet-faced young Chinese girl that she thought I was a European film star (because they’re pretty but in a different way… ooops, not that she didn’t think I was pretty!)

Then we sat in our seats. And I found out the sessions begin with singing. I cringed and feared the worst. I was afraid EC was about to be revealed as a missionary exercise—and I might be its latest victim: a Buddhist with a Jewish Surname … must convert! However, with Siew at the piano and a laptop hooked up to a projector displaying verses we all sang “On Top of the World” by the Carpenters. And then “Circle of Life” from the Lion King. And yes, “Miracles Can Happen,” an English hymn.

About 5 songs later (all those earnest voices with their various accents) we got into groups to discuss Global Warming. Between us we represented every continent (well almost, no Aussies). You’d think we might be able to solve it. America was given some blame, I heartily agreed. China was determined to be a big problem (which a Tibetan by birth, ousted from his homeland by Chinese who still occupy the country—made no bones about mentioning). A few of the older volunteers wondered if perhaps Global Warming were real after all. Ah. Some joked at the mention of the Maldive President holding a cabinet meeting underwater, in scuba gear, to draw attention to the fact that his country, soon, could be completely underneath the ocean. And some, like me, clenched our fists.

By the end of the night I walked home realizing that even if I might have explained the word deforestation, or corrected some pronunciation, something completely different had happened to me than what I’d planned. I walked home humming. People. I’d talked to people. Different kinds. With so many different voices. I think perhaps the ice-gods and salt-demons shrugged and packed up their dice.

Yes. There was a large dose of humor to the whole thing and quite a bit of post-ironic content which I just refuse to go into because beneath it all was this almost unimaginable strain of sincerity. I felt like Linus, finally having found the most sincere pumpkin patch in the whole world. And yes, the post-pop irony in the above is absolutely intended.

I dragged Christien the following week. Everybody was so excited to see another American. We sang “Yesterday once more,” by the Carpenters first (Every sha-la-la-la, every wo-oh-oh-oh still shines …) and I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Then we all sang, “What a wonderful world” by Louis Armstrong. And of course I cried. During the discussion about crime and punishment (not the novel, law) that followed, a math professor from China, a student from Iran, and a Welsh volunteer all suggested that perhaps the vast majority of crimes are committed because of the huge disparity between the rich and the poor.

And I thought to myself … what a strange … what wonderful world.

Of course singing “Old MacDonald” in English and then in Welsh (Just imagine 60 people with an insane range of accents, many of whom had never heard it before, belting out: with a moo moo here, and a moo moo there) … well, that came the next week.

E I E I O, acha hon ffarm cadd buwch, ag a moo moo 'ma, a moo moo 'na.