By Laurie D. Morrissey

On a cold, snowy December night in downtown Manchester, New Hampshire, a half-dozen bundled-up men and women arrive at the First Congregational Church for their semiweekly English lesson. It’s a diverse group in nearly every respect—but they all have one thing in common: the language they are here to learn is not their own.

In this, they also have something in common with their teacher, a 21-year-old junior at Saint Anselm College. But Cristina Medrea’s English is nearly perfect. When she makes a slight mistake (“substraction” instead of subtraction), her aide, retired theology professor Walt Noyalis, corrects her. It is a comforting reminder to the students to know that their instructor has faced the same chal-lenges they have and understands what they are going through.

The class is small tonight. Some of the immigrants do not have cars, and New Hampshire’s second major snowstorm of the winter makes walking an unwelcome prospect, especially for those who hail from countries close to the equator. Medrea has brought an armload of journals, and while she waits for late arrivals, she sits with individual students to discuss their weekly entries. Then she goes to the front of the room and begins the lesson, reinforcing practical words and phrases like grocery store, post office, doctor—and of course, flu, pharmacy, and fever. Next, Noyalis leads pronunciation drills—the only area where the instructor’s distinct Romanian accent is a disadvantage.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5