The following week, another classmate—let’s call him Yuto—joined us, and the cracks in Hana’s polished façade appeared almost immediately. Yuto was hardworking and humble, the kind of student I was used to teaching in Japan. He’d never left the country but had achieved an impressive level of English through sheer grit and determination. While Hana’s fluency and vocabulary were naturally more advanced, Yuto’s dedication was unmatched.

The lesson was on how to use diplomatic language to navigate tricky situations. After reviewing the grammar and techniques, I paired them up to practice. This was during COVID times, and technical issues with online teaching often caused difficulties with listening comprehension. Yuto struggled to understand Hana, and her patience thinned at a pace familiar to those used to getting their way.

Staying calm in tense situations was part of the lesson’s focus, so I decided to let them navigate the dynamic a little longer before stepping in. But Hana had other plans. When Yuto misinterpreted one of her questions, she snapped.

“Do you not understand me? Are you slow? Is my English really that hard for you to understand?” she said in Japanese, her tone sharp and cutting. I hadn’t expected this level of frustration—or such an explosion—from someone as poised and polished as Hana. It was a jarring reminder that fluency in a language doesn’t always equate to fluency in patience or understanding.

This was not, to put it mildly, the kind of diplomatic language the lesson called for. As tensions flared and their voices rose, I hurriedly stepped in. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—this is exactly the kind of situation we wanted to avoid,” I said, grateful that the lesson was virtual and not in a physical classroom where a brawl might have broken out. “We do not speak to people that way. Hana, you need to control your temper. If you were to do that in a workplace setting, chances are you’d get fired. This will not fly.”

Hana huffed. “But it’s so frustrating,” she said. “He doesn’t get it.”

“I do this all day, every day,” I replied. “Don’t you think I get frustrated when people don’t get it, too? But when people don’t understand me, I remind myself that it’s on me as the native speaker. I slow down. I use simpler words. I help them.”

I called a break to let tempers cool. As I sipped my coffee and tried to gather my thoughts, I noticed Yuto had left the virtual classroom and wasn’t coming back that day. Hana, meanwhile, was back to her cheerful self, as if nothing had happened. For a moment, I considered returning to the material, but I realized that there was a more important lesson that she needed to learn that day.

“Hana, we’re going to talk about privilege.”

Learning another language is about more than bending verbs and understanding complex texts. It’s about communication, which, at its core, is about empathy. We’re all shaped by where we come from and the opportunities we’ve had. Hana and I were lucky to have grown up immersed in English, with the privilege of travel and exposure to different cultures. It’s easy to forget that not everyone has had the same experiences.

For the next forty-five minutes, I encouraged her to use the considerable power she possessed—her command of English, her confidence, her privilege—for good. To slow down, listen, and help, rather than judge or dismiss.

Did she take any of it to heart? It’s hard to say. But for me, that day cemented my role not only as an educator but as a mentor. Teachers fill students’ minds, yes, but we also have the responsibility to fill their hearts with understanding and compassion before we send them out into the world.