In the spring of 1996, I traveled to Moscow with a group of graduate school colleagues to study the Russian education system. I observed a number of special schools and programs, met with teachers and students, and visited Moscow’s pedagogical university. But by far the most personallysignificant experience of the trip was my visit to the home of Helena, a college student who was preparing to become an English teacher. It was one of those evenings when I felt fully present, completely engrossed in the experience, soaking it all in—metro ride, neighborhood, apartment, family, dinner, conversation.

After leaving Helena’s home, departing from Moscow, and returning to Texas, I kept replaying that evening in my mind, trying to put the pieces of my memory together into a picture of what Helena’s life might be like. We exchanged many letters in the years that followed. Paper is a precious Russian commodity, so hers were written on thin little scraps, in tiny shorthand. They gave me a glimpse of what her daily experience looked like, but I struggled to somehow connect with what it felt like. In my vain attempt to comprehend Russian life as Helena did, I was limited by my Americanism, trapped by my own world view. I would never be able to see things through Helena’s eyes, not even that one evening we had shared together.

Upon returning from Russia, our group wrote a collaborative article summarizing our findings, and I served as editor for the project. Even as I attempted to simply synthesize my own experiences from the trip, I recognized that being an outsider severely limited my ability to fully understand what I had observed. And when I began trying to combine a dozen different people’s impressions into a single coherent article, the impact of our individual perspectives became even more evident. Because of the subjective nature of human experience, we had each perceived Russian education in a distinctly unique way, even though we had simultaneously shared the same experiences. The paradox here is that life can only be understood through a combination of shared interactions with others and one’s own subjective interpretation. Ironically, the solution to this paradox lies in the very dialectic of communication and collaboration. When people examine an issue, experience, or problem together, each bringing his or her unique perspective, the result is greater than the sum of its parts.

I was reminded of this again when I participated in the Fulbright Memorial Fund teacher exchange to Japan in the summer of 2000. In Tokyo, with a group of 200 teachers representing every state in the U.S., I observed that while we all shared the cultural identity of being American, we were vastly different individuals, not only in terms of demographics, but also in terms of our personal experiences and perspectives. Traveling through Japan in a group of twenty teachers from across the U.S., our varied backgrounds and unique perspectives resulted in highly individual reactions to our shared experiences. In fact, I felt more “culture shock” in dealing with the diversity of the participants than in adapting to the Japanese way of life. But the beauty of the experience was heightened by the fact that we shared in it together, transcending our differences through collaboration.

The anthropologist Clifford Geertz suggests that while an outsider can never truly understand another culture, a greater level of authenticity can be achieved through an understanding of its language. I found evidence of this theory as I struggled to employ my limited Japanese vocabulary, struck by its strict hierarchy of formality and its inability to respond to a request with “no.” Of course, my host sister Yukie was exceedingly patient and helpful as I tried to function according to Japanese customs, without making a faux pas—wearing the wrong slippers.

But I can’t help wondering what it must have been like for Yukie and her family to have had me, a young English teacher from Texas, staying in their home. I can only assume that their impressions of American culture must have somehow been affected or influenced by my visit. Although relying on a relationship with one particular person (in this case, me) gave them a limited view of American culture, I believe it was a more authentic experience than watching American television or touring Washington, D.C. Indeed, our subjective experiences with each other’s culture created a unique opportunity for understanding one another. The chance nature of one’s encounters with particular people and places, adds to the magic and mystery of travel and cultural exchange.

No longer frustrated by it, I have become increasingly fascinated by the subjectivity of human existence, the fact that we are each experiencing life in a unique way, a phenomenon that is further complicated by differences in language and cultural background. Thus, the travel experiences I have found the most valuable, significant, and rewarding are those where I have had the opportunity to interact with the local people on a personal level, as a friend and colleague. My journeys to Russia and Japan have enabled me to teach my students about Russian and Japanese literature and culture with much greater insight and vision. So it seems, when I have traveled for the purpose of teaching others, I have learned the most.

As a teacher at International School of the Americas, is important for me to model a multi-cultural, global approach to life-long learning by seeking out experiences and interactions that will give me greater insights, broaden my perspectives, and enhance my ever-changing and evolving understanding of the world. In order to become more globally pluralistic, I must continue to seek out educational travel opportunities and participate in collaborative meaning-making as a means towards further understanding individuals and cultures different from my own.

In the summer of 2002, I spent six weeks traveling throughout South Africa on a Fulbright-Hays Seminar Abroad. As a diverse group of educators—20 in all, both high school teachers and college professors—we engaged in highly personal and political discussions of identity, knowledge systems, and hegemony, not only in terms of South Africa’s history and social reality, but in terms of American society as well. The profound learning opportunities afforded by each trip were heightened by the collaborative nature of group travel and seminar study. As a learning community, we shared our experiences with one other, grappled with intellectual and emotional issues together, and helped each other see things from multiple perspectives.

Of all the philosophical questions that interest me, I am perhaps most fascinated by the subjectivity of human experience. The fact that we are each experiencing life in a unique way is further complicated by the nature of perception and language. Therefore, my fundamental interest in literature has come to center around its potential for ambiguity, the fact that a given work of literature can be “read” in infinitely different ways. Thus, I am a reader response theorist in that I believe the meaning emerges from a text only in the act of reading, or rather the interaction between the reader and the text. I believe that each person has his or her own unique experience with a text. So when we read, we are translating the words on the page into our own images, ideas, and interpretations.

The same can be said of any art form. Even as audience members, we are artists in a sense, creating meaning for ourselves from the experience. And the degree to which we are aware of this process can greatly impact our perception of that experience. I had an epiphany about this while visiting the Museum of Modern Art a few years ago. As I stood in front of Starry Night, I felt the essential nature of my connection to the work of art before me in that single ephemeral moment, which could never be recreated. I had the paradoxical sense of being both isolated in my own experience and, at the same time, strangely connected to others, past and future. I thought about how each person who looked at this statue would have his or her own magical moment, each one unique like mine. Thus, I ultimately felt connected to something larger than myself through a shared difference.

This shared difference is what makes teaching literature exciting. My students and I are discovering new ideas and perspectives together. Teaching from the reader response philosophy, I strive to empower my students to use their imaginative and interpretative abilities, to become artists, creating meaning for themselves. The reader response approach allows for a more dynamic classroom where we are all teachers and learners together, sharing our points of view and expanding our ways of understanding. I feel it is important for my students to experience each text for themselves, but also to share and collaborate as they grapple with its meaning.

The reader response approach provides a framework for the introduction and application of other critical approaches: historical criticism, cultural criticism, gender criticism, etc. Although I want my students to be personally engaged in their own meaning-making, I also recognize that the more information students have and the more diverse perspectives they are able to consider, the greater their opportunity for rich and thoughtful understanding. So while I am careful to avoid interpreting texts for them, when we are reading literature from distant times and places, I sometimes need to act as translator or tour guide. Thus, in order to successfully facilitate a rich world literature curriculum, I feel it is important for me to bring personal experiences with other cultures to my classroom.

My travels to Russia, Japan, and South Africa have certainly given me greater insight into these cultures and significantly enhanced my abilities to teach texts from those countries in more authentic, meaningful ways. But I am still concerned that my own knowledge of literature, history, and culture is too western-centered. I was shocked and dismayed when, in graduate school, I discovered that The Tale of Genji was considered to be the world’s first novel, as I had previously been under the common misconception that this status belonged to Don Quixote.  This is the kind of narrow thinking that I hope to teach my students to avoid.

I conscientiously strive to achieve a balance of writers, artists, thinkers, and perspectives from across all time periods and cultures in my curriculum. Recognizing that I have only scratched the surface of cultural understanding through my travels and studies thus far, I continually seek out other opportunities for multi-cultural learning by attending international events, lectures, seminars, and workshops sponsored by local universities, museums, and other community organizations.