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Archive for the tag “intrinsic motivation”

Burning Patterns into the Brain (Class Eleven)

“Alright–I want all of you to listen to the recording of today’s dialogue for homework and have it memorized and ready for recitation by Thursday. Yes, I know it was three pages long, but that’s beside the point. Your intonation must be exactly as you hear on the recording, and that means repeated practice. Each passage should be played and recited 30-50 times until you’ve mastered every line. If I find you have not done this, your parents will be notified.”

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Shuku loved the dictionary!

As a student, how would you respond to this assignment? The three Chinese EFL learners discussed in Monday’s article by Yanren Ding worked long and hard throughout their secondary school years to follow their teachers’ hard-lined approach and memorize most of their English textbooks. Not surprisingly, they resisted at first, but all three grew to appreciate the intense focus on recitation and the strict pedagogy. In fact, they credited their later success as winners of national speech and debate tournaments to the hours spent memorizing and reciting textbook dialogues and later memorizing scenes from English movies, line by line. Today’s blog post is devoted to these three learners, and to the topic of language memorization. I will also dedicate this post to my husband, and to my classmate Shuku, who both willingly memorized English dictionaries, one definition at a time. 

Here’s the gist of the article: Ding chose three mainland Chinese college students who had demonstrated high levels of achievement in English in order to learn what strategies they had used to achieve success. The learners were interviewed in detail, each describing years of memorization on a daily basis–a road on which they all, at first, traveled unwillingly. They spoke of the pressure they felt and the difficulty of memorizing lengthy passages of text. They did what they were told to do, however, in spite of the fact that many of their classmates, unable to imitate the L2 accent properly, resisted the practices of memorization and recitation. Ding reports that teachers simply gave up on those students, devoting themselves to others who were willing to put in the time (Ding, 2007, pp. 273-4). And, along the way, each of the learners found themselves becoming motivated not just by the teacher’s exhortations (they were praised and encouraged, as well as scolded), but by the English language itself.

Here is where it gets really interesting for me because I, too, am motivated by the love of words as well as the ideas they represent. In a previous post, I referred to psychologists Amabile and Hennessey’s definition of  intrinsic motivation, as characterized by “The drive to do something for the sheer enjoyment, interest, and personal challenge of the task itself (rather than for some external goal).” (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010, p. 581) Although Ding does not explore this issue at length, I believe that his learners H, W, and Z were unusual in their degree of intrinsic motivation, which gradually took root and flourished while they busily memorized passages of language. As they spent long hours at home listening and attempting to precisely imitate native speakers’ inflections, class time recitations and discussions grew easier; the students came to discover their own aptitude for English and to find pleasure in the sound of the words themselves.

Mind you, all three were modest about their English ability. Neither Z not W believed they had any aptitude, and although H originally mentioned her “natural gift” for language, she later changed the wording of the interview notes to reflect a more neutral stance. (Ding, p. 273).  However Z reported noticing that there were “…things that I could do but others couldn’t do,” (Ding, p. 277) and I am certain that all three learners were secretly proud of their ability to manipulate a second language. In short, they knew they were good at something, and though their ability must have made them stand out in class (a big faux pas for Asian students), they forged ahead, driven by the desire to perfect their language skills. They became intrinsically motivated.


Sherlock can be seen in China, too.

After graduating from high school, the students’ drive to memorize English continued through their college years, in the form of fanatic movie watching in English. Textbook memorization enforced by the teacher was replaced by out-of-class learning, as the three memorized dialogues from English language films, line by line, making a long train trip home once a week since television was off-limits in their dormitories. A combination of work and play? Absolutely! As Ding says, “…their purpose was not just to enjoy the stories; rather, their goal was to enjoy the language, imitate it, and memorize it.” (Ding, 2007, p. 227) 

So what exactly did years of memorization enable these devoted students to achieve? They learned patterns and formulaic chunks of language. They practiced diligently and learned them so well that they could easily retrieve and use them both in the classroom, in interviews, and on stage in debates. They learned to recognize and acquire prosodic features of language, practicing their own rhythm and intonation on a daily basis, constantly comparing it to that of native speakers. Most impressive to me is that the students mastered details of the English language that would not be interesting to more meaning-focused communicative L2 students. They listened for and learned to use collocations, function words, and inflections without worrying about grammar and apart from their desire to understand the meaning. H, especially, spoke enthusiastically of the enjoyment of listening for new and unusual usages and intonations that she might add to her own repertoire. The three also learned to hear their own voices and to take control of their own learning process. My guess is that the years of imitation and critical feedback from teachers enabled the students to be good judges of their own pronunciation and keen strategic learners. They knew what the standard was, and they knew how to achieve it. Lastly, they became producers of language, able to spontaneously and appropriately produce chunks of language to communicate, to persuade, to argue, and to expound. 

“Oh, yes,” you might say. “But was their language natural? ” Well, the answer is not a simple one, and before answering it, we need to ask ourselves a few questions. 

To begin with, how do we really feel about this kind of learning? Are we unknowingly condescending toward those raised in a culture where rote memorization of large bodies of knowledge is acceptable and preferred? Do we (speaking for myself and fellow westerners) feel a bit superior in our perceived ability to think critically and use language creatively? I’ll raise my hand and admit that I thought my husband was nothing short of pitiful when he first spoke of his dictionary memorizing days. Fast forward twenty years to the day when he scored higher than me on the Qualitative portion of the GRE exams, and ask me if I still think that. Go ahead–and you can also ask me if I regret being too high and mighty in high school to memorize algebraic formulas and chemical compounds…or better yet, don’t ask since I’m already properly humbled just by the writing of this post.

Now back to the question of “natural” and “creative” English. I only know learners H, W, and Z through Ding’s analysis of their statements, but my guess is that no, their use of English was not always natural or “native-like”.  After all, it is hard to find the perfect chance to use a line from a movie or a textbook dialogue in spontaneous conversation. Yet they were always concerned with context and alert for opportunities to make use of what they had struggled to remember. We can presume their English was not notably creative since much of it was lifted word for word from dialogues and scripts. They probably did not string elements of language together, but instead relied on formulaic chunks they had memorized. I have no doubt, however, that their language was appropriate (they were, again, very concerned with context), grammatically accurate, and spoken with native-like intonation and pronunciation. And because their heads were literally full of patterns and chunks of language that had been “burned into their brains” they were rarely at a loss for words. In short, their secondary school learning environment had demanded complete accuracy of language use. And–here is the amazing thing–they were able to achieve this because of their dedication to memorization, most of which occurred outside of any communicative context. Ding writes, and I agree, that freedom from the pressure of real-time conversation enabled the three learners to perfect their language skills. Taking all this into consideration, I see no reason to treat their achievement with condescension, or to bemoan a lack of creativity and naturalness, both of which would undoubtedly emerge with time spent abroad in an immersion situation. 

It is conceivable, of course, that such intense focus on form could have the adverse effect of inhibiting students from engaging in face-to-face conversation, but Ding writes that his subjects embraced the chance to converse and discuss in class as well. And their story reveals a different twist to what we know about how language is acquired. Scholars have repeatedly proven that learners’ noticing of the gap between an L1 speaker’s language and their own imperfect interlanguage is the key to real acquisition. Yet in many cases the gap remains unnoticed, and L2 errors become habitual. Perhaps those learners are the ones who can’t be bothered to memorize and recite? No matter how distasteful the idea might seem, Ding believes that this is so: memorization and repetition are an important part of the noticing process. He writes, “Passion for the language leads to noticing and rehearsal, which in turn lead to acquisition. Good language learners are superior to other learners in the two aspects of noticing and rehearsal.” and, even more directly, “…text memorization and imitation have a legitimate place in second language education.” (Ding, p. 279)

Lastly, I’d like to return to the subject of intrinsic motivation, which is what enabled learners H, W, and Z to memorize such a massive amount of input, thoughtfully process it, and finally make it their own for productive use. My guess is that many highly motivated Asian students are bored with communicative classrooms and with task-based learning in particular. Shuku, Alan, and I discussed this in our small group and Shuku admitted as much. “I was never task-oriented,” she said. “There was never enough speaking involved, and I wanted more direct feedback from my teachers instead. In class, I pretended to be an average student like everyone else, but at home, I did what those Chinese students did: I spoke in English out loud, and I tried to imitate my English teachers exactly.” And there you have it: those who love language for its own sake will not necessarily be happy task-based learners since they are intrinsically motivated by the language itself rather than in the task, which is assumed to be the motivating factor. And just as music lovers accept that memorization of several movements of a sonata is necessary to perform on stage, language lovers realize and accept that memorization is not only part of the process, but can be highly motivating in and of itself.

In the end, I’m proud to be married to a language-loving man and proud to be the friend of Shuku, who imitated her teachers and slept with a dictionary by her pillow. I hope that learners H, W, and Z are living productive lives, using their English regularly and with enthusiasm, and able to travel abroad to polish their already formidable language skills, which I suspect are already becoming more natural and native-like. 



Ding, Y. (2007). Text memorization and imitation: The practices of successful Chinese learners of English. System, 35(2), pp.271-280. doi:10.1016/j.system.2006.12.005

Hennessey, B.& Amabile, T. (2010). Creativity. Annual Review of Psychology, 61(1),pp. 569-598. doi:10.1146/1nnurev.psych.093008.100416





Intrinsic Motivation and Thoughtful Corrections (Class Ten)

Last night’s listening and speaking class with Dr. Jim was lively, in spite of the fact that Chunmei had not slept a wink, Hiroko had walked over 20,000 steps across Tokyo during the day, and Paul and I had spent an exhausting weekend attending a two-day vocabulary acquisition seminar with Batia Laufer. There were three presenters, and the topic was a continuation of the Task-Based Learning theme, with a twist. I’d like to talk about two of the articles presented, one of which I had engaged with since reading the title, and another which looked to be uninspiring, but proved to be surprisingly useful and enlightening.

Steven Sadow

Steven Sadow

I’ll begin with the article we all thought sounded appealing: “Concoctions”, by Stephen Sadow, a professor of romance languages and literature at Northeastern University. It’s not often that we get to read an article written by someone outside of the field, and I viewed it as a treat rather than an assignment from the first. Happily, the article–found in Foreign Language Annuals 27(2) did not disappoint.

By Sadow’s own definition, “concoctions” are tasks that students find absorbing because they stimulate intrinsic motivation. But ho-hum, that definition is yawn-inducing, so let me go a bit further. Psychologist Teresa Amabile, whom Sadow quotes, defines intrinsic motivation as, 1) having love for and even an obsession with the task at hand, 2) having a sense of dedication to the work over time, 3) having a view of the project as combining work and play (are you waking up yet?) and 4) marked by a concentration on the activity itself.  Dr. Jim’s study sheet for the article had asked us to recall an intrinsically motivating projectand I knew the answer: this blog, of course. It’s a requirement, but it’s also an obsession, and these blog posts get written before reading or writing assignments for other courses. I am one of those women who do not hesitate to indulge in dessert before a meal. 

So more about concoctions. They are tasks which are performed not just for the sake of the outcome (which had been my impression so far from reading Willis and Skehan), but for the sake of the process itself. These are tasks involving ambiguity, open-endedness, and instability. They make the strange familiar, and the familiar strange. They involve unexpected, unusual, or even startling associations, and curiosity is the key. If students are not intensely curious–if they are not driven to think in new and different ways–Sadow would not consider the task a proper concoction. He also goes so far as to speculate that, “…the ability to grab and hold student attention may be more important than the practice of specific language points.” In designing a concoction, Sadow suggests: Avoid problems that have already been solved and design new problems. Let students brainstorm for solutions and re-arrange their existing schema (he calls this “breaking frames”).

In discussing the Dada and Surrealist influences on Sadow’s thinking, Chunmei showed us a clip of a Luis Bunuel film involving the juxtaposition of an eyeball and a razor as an example of a “frame-breaking” experience. Having been through three laser surgery operations on my eyes (and lasers and razors are one and the same in Japanese), I could not watch, but I did lift my head up in time to enjoy Chunmei’s final slide, entitled “Stairway to Heaven” by Jim Warren. “It’s Surreal, but it’s also romantic, and I just like it,” she pronounced, and we were able to forget the eyeball clip and end the presentation on a positive note.

Well. After Chunmei’s presentation, there were a few awkward minutes where we tried to picture ourselves as creators and implementors of such ambiguous and appealing tasks, with our intrinsically motivated students begging for more class time to finish the project, please! Some of us ventured to say that this was all very exciting, but not realistic or practical for our teaching situations. And I’m sure that many of us felt, at that point, about as interesting as dishrags. What bearing could this article by a crazy Harvard-educated literature scholar possibly have on our daily working lives as teachers of shy Asian EFL students?

Then Doug, who teaches classes for Japanese businessmen, spoke up. “You’d think that guys in suits are really serious,” he said, “but we do some crazy things in our lessons. I’m basically mocking the textbook dialogues a lot of the time, and those businessmen love it. If I tried to teach everything straight from the book, we’d all die of boredom and no-one would learn anything.” Aha. Then I remembered, “Yeah, I do something similar with my kids’ classes. I have to teach endless chunks of language and phrases using these cute little Kumon cards showing boring well-behaved children. So I always re-arrange the order of the cards to purposely put the boring, predictable children in interesting or unexpected predicaments.” And from there, most of us could think of ways that we tweaked tasks or drills to give them unexpected or humorous outcomes. And Dr. Jim wrapped things up by reminding us that challenging learners to “think differently” can be as simple as changing the perspective. Trees, eyeglasses, shoes–even objects can have a perspective or a voice (said the professor whose doctoral dissertation involved puppets) and students can willingly suspend their disbelief to imagine the world seen through different eyes. Ha! As I wrote that, an image flashed through my head of shoes with eyes, alert to impediments or obstacles that their near-sighted owner might not have noticed. “Look out for the snail!” “Whooooa, that’s dog poop!”  Maybe an idea for a concoction-influenced task? I believe I will file it away for future reference.

Finally, I’d like to talk about the last presentation, on an article entitled Teaching Speaking: Suggestions for the Classroom (found in The Language Teacher 21-1) by Robert S. Brown and Paul Nation. This was the article I wasn’t overly excited about; it had a mundane title that did not sound like an alcoholic beverage, and I was in the mood to talk more about concoctions. The presenter was Robert, who began, as many of us have thus far, with an apology: “I’m really sorry, but my presentation’s going to be straightforward and boring. I’m just not good at this stuff.” …….and then he went on to speak confidently, smoothly, engagingly and enthusiastically, as most of us do. After all, we’re teachers, and performing is part of our job on a daily basis. Perhaps the tendency to apologise before beginning our presentations reflects our comfortableness in speaking in front of peers; in front of our own students, any little anxieties are instantly repressed, and bright smiles belie none of the worries that make us human. Whatever the reason, Robert’s modesty was soon tossed aside as he launched into the heart of the presentation and became teacherly in the best sense.

Paul Nation

Paul Nation

The first half of the article covered speaking: how to encourage students to do more and how to improve their fluency and accuracy. Okay–pretty good stuff, and Robert was interesting. Then my ears really perked up near the end when the subject of error correction was introduced. We’ve discussed the subject often, in different classes and different contexts, but there are always new angles to consider. I thought that Brown and Nation (as represented by Robert) did an excellent and thoughtful job of analysing why L2 learners make errors and how we as teachers can respond both effectively and sensitively. For those of you who are familiar with these principles, it’s probably worthwhile to read them again, and for those of you who haven’t yet encountered them, here they are:

If your learner makes an error because they have not yet come into contact with the correct language form.…….don’t correct. Show them the correct form and give them chances to practice.

If your learner errs because they have not observed the form correctly………correct by showing the difference.

If your learner errs because of nervousness…….do NOT correct. Lighten the mood, relieve the tension!

If your learner is suffering from cognitive overload due to task difficulty, do not correct. Make the task easier, or give more chances to practice.

If your learner is confused due to task difficulty (tongue-twisters are the example given), do not correct. Again, tweak the task to make it easier.

If your learner’s error is based on the transfer of a pattern from their first language, do correct, or learners may continue to make the same error, leading to what some linguists call “fossilization”. If the learner’s error has not yet become a habit, it’s time for “consciousness-raising” to help make them aware of correct patterns.

If your learner has copied an incorrect model (which can happen when L2 learners use their interlanguage together without a L1 interlocutor), do point out the correct model.

In short, EFL and ESL teachers should be wary of rushing in to correct learner errors. In some cases, correction can do more harm than good, and often it would simply be a waste of time. On the other hand, it’s also a waste to let a potential consciousness-raising opportunity slip by, so when the circumstances are right, we need to find a way to make learners aware of the much-discussed gap between the target phrase and their developing interlanguage.

“And don’t forget,” said Dr. Jim at the close of the class, “that error correction often works over time. While you may think a simple re-cast of the learner’s error goes unnoticed, that might not be the case And sometimes, learners do the re-cast themselves….. Ruthie! Ask me a question!” Startled, I opened my mouth and said what was uppermost in my mind: “Don’t you think it’s time for a little haircut, Dr. Jim?”

Dr, Jim

Dr, Jim

The good Dr. looked a bit startled, his hand flew to his head, and Hiroko sitting next to me scolded, “Ruthie!! That’s not a QUESTION! That’s a hidden request!” Hahaha—never mind that mentioning the state of your professor’s hair is not an appropriate topic, Hiroko was remembering the article by Zoltan Dornyei, urging teachers to train their students to recognize all manner of complex “questions”. She immediately substituted, “What did you do last weekend?”, while both Dr. Jim and I recovered our composure (to be honest, I had startled myself by saying what I was thinking). And then Dr. J. showed us what he meant. “What did you do last weekend?” he repeated in a small voice to himself thoughtfully. “See?” he said. “The learner is repeating the phrase, thinking about it and re-casting it for himself. That happens!” We all said, “aaaaah! yes!” then put away our pens and notebooks, unplugged our iPhone chargers, and called it a night. Another Listening and Speaking class checked off the syllabus, and–as always–some good things to ponder before next Monday when we meet again.

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