MSI Press Blog

  When I think about English as my first language, I don’t just think of grammar lessons or vocabulary lists. I think of the way we actually spoke. Every family, every region, every community has its own idiolect—the personal flavor of speech—and its own dialect, shaped by geography and culture. Growing up in New England, I learned early that the way we spoke wasn’t always the way we were expected to write. In school, teachers corrected our spelling and word order, guiding us toward Standard English. But at home and in the community, we kept our own rhythms and sounds. We didn’t “park our car in Harvard Yard.” We “pahked owah cah in Hahvid Yahd.” That distinction mattered. In writing, dialects and idiolects were often erased, replaced by the standard language that carried authority in textbooks, exams, and professional life. Yet in speech, they remained alive, carrying identity, humor, and belonging. My dialect was a reminder that language is not just rules—it is culture, heritag...

  English was my first language, the one I absorbed without effort as a child. It was the language of my family, my community, and my earliest immersion in the world. I didn’t study it at first; I lived inside it. Every year, my understanding deepened as I listened, spoke, and eventually read and wrote. When I entered school, English became not just the language I spoke but the subject I studied. Teachers corrected my spelling, my grammar, and my word order. I learned that sentences had structure, that verbs carried tense, and that word placement could change meaning entirely. Grammar became a framework I could lean on, even if I didn’t realize at the time how valuable it would be later. That foundation in English proved indispensable when I began learning other languages. With Germanic languages, I found familiar ground in the shared grammar framework. With Romance languages, the gift of 1066—the Norman Conquest—was still alive in English. So many words had already crossed i...

  We were 20 American professors of Russian on a Soviet bus, heading northeast from Yerevan toward Lake Sevan. The trip was supposed to be simple: two hours, one lake, and a KGB minder named Liliya to make sure we didn’t stray. But the road had its own ideas. About an hour in, we passed a sign for Charentsavan. The bus driver pulled over to the side of the road, turned to one of the professors with whom he had struck up a friendly rapport, and said, “Georgii, so mnoi.” Georgiy followed without hesitation, and the two disappeared into a nearby bazaar. Liliya’s reaction was immediate. “You must not follow,” she said, her voice tight. “This is a closed city.” Then, she ran after them, coat flaring, shoes kicking up dust from the road. We waited a moment. Then, as if on cue, we scattered. Into the market we went—curious, amused, and slightly rebellious. There were onions, bread, eggplant, and the quiet rhythm of a working-class town. No one stopped us. Back on the bus, the driver was t...

  When speaking a foreign language, there are always opportunities for errors—sometimes embarrassing ones. These can even occur in one’s first language, especially when an expression is unfamiliar. For example, at age twelve, I was the master (senior leader) of our local Junior Grange. That year, our group was selected to perform the degree ceremony at the State Grange. During the event, there was a moment when senior Grange leaders were invited to say a few words. The matron (our adult advisor) leaned over and whispered, “Ask if there are any big whigs here who would like to speak.” Not knowing the term “big whigs,” and unaware that I should have said something like “senior leaders,” I blurted out, “Do any of you big whigs out there want to say something?” Suffice it to say, no one volunteered. The matron turned bright red—on my behalf. Years later, while presenting at a conference in the UK, I spoke about teacher preparation in the United States. Someone asked if there we...