When I was an English teacher in Sydney, I taught young adults at a local college. Every lesson began with a high-stakes ritual: marking the attendance roster. For these students, those checkmarks weren't just about grades; they were the lifeline for their visas. If they weren't in their seats, their right to stay in Australia was at risk.
Because the subject matter could sometimes be dry, I prided myself on making my lessons as inventive and creative as possible. I wanted to pull them out of their textbooks and into the world.
One day, I launched into a particularly ambitious speaking exercise. "All right, everyone," I announced with a flourish, "let’s pretend you have all won a wonderful prize: an all-expenses-paid week-long holiday to anywhere in Australia! In your groups, I want you to discuss where you want to go."
I fanned out a collection of glossy brochures featuring the Great Barrier Reef, the Red Centre, and the rugged coastlines of Tasmania. "Get those creative juices flowing!"
The room buzzed with excitement—except for one girl. She sat perfectly still, looking deeply concerned. As I moved around the classroom, monitoring the "trips" being planned, I passed her desk. She leaned in and whispered urgently, "Teacher, when we go on this trip for a week, will we still get marked off on the attendance roster?"
I stopped in my tracks. I realized in that moment that she hadn't seen the brochures as a prompt for a fantasy; she had seen them as a travel itinerary. To her, this wasn't an exercise in speaking—it was a looming logistical crisis.
