After spending around three years with my partner, I decided it was time to learn his language. I felt that if we were going to be together for the long run, it was important to be able to have our relationship in both English and Swedish. Furthermore, if we were ever to have kids I wanted them to have two parents who spoke both tongues. There was also a side of my partner I wanted to access, and that could only come from speaking his language.
Two years ago, I came to Sweden and spent five weeks in an intensive Swedish course at Folkuniversitetet. It was invigorating to be back in school after so many years... eight to be exact. Taking courses as an adult felt different and I noticed my increased level of commitment, compared with that of my college years. It was also wonderful to be in a class with people from all over the world - me being the only person from the U.S. Our teacher was older and very strict. She wore a lot of tartan and reminded me of an old British schoolmarm. I almost thought she would whip out a ruler, but fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your learning style) she kept us controlled with sharp glances and curt words instead. English, which for many in the class was a second or third language, was not allowed... ever. It was a combination of her severe teaching style and the commitment level of a group of people who were paying top kronor, that ensured I received a great education. I learned enough during that time to have a fairly lengthy conversation with my Swedish friends/family.
Flash-forward two years. My partner and I got engaged and made the decision to move to Sweden, or to be more precise, to move me to Sweden. Throughout the decision-making process and moving ordeal, I took solace in the fact that I would be going back to school. In my daydream-believer mind, I equated going to school in Europe with the terms ‘sexy’ and ‘hip’, and imagined long philosophical conversations with schoolmates over coffee and cigarettes (neither of which I consume anymore). It excited me to know that I would be learning again and challenging myself to speak the language fluently. It had been two years since the last course and I knew I had let my Swedish fall by the wayside. The funny thing is, I never imagined it being difficult or even different from my ‘perfect’ class at Folkuniversitetet.
One of the greatest things about Sweden are the social benefits given to all residents. Sweden is so forward-thinking in fact, that I don’t even have to marry my parter to get these benefits. I can be ‘sambo’ with him. This means that we live together as partners - and I get the same benefits that he does as a Swedish citizen (minus the passport). Upon arrival, and after a little paperwork, I had free healthcare and free education (along with a list of other benefits such as the extensive parental leave program). Free education to me is one of the most crucial aspects of a society’s ability to advance. It is a fundamental human right. Unfortunately, many countries don’t see the benefits to this, or they only see the cost advantage of charging to educate those privileged enough to have funding for their education. Sweden, on the other hand, welcomed me with open arms and said, ‘come learn our language, we’ll pay for it and if you do well, we’ll give you some money too’. Revolutionary and damn sexy.
I knew in advance that learning Swedish via the government’s free program would be different than a private course. The process was typically Swedish: head out in a winter blizzard to some random office where there is no reception, take a number (you know, the paper kind they have a grocery stores, with the two pieces hanging off like legs that you often rip before your number is called), wait, wait, wait, listen to the silence, stare at the other immigrants, wait, wait, more silence, and then get called by your number to meet with an evaluator.
The evaluator and I proceeded down the hall to his office where he asked me questions in Swedish. I sat there feeling an intense pressure to do well and get placed at a high level. This was really silly because I was only there to learn and a higher level didn’t mean anything. It was the old, competitive U.S. culture rearing it’s ugly head! After a few minutes the man escorted me to the testing room. I had no idea I would be tested and suddenly my pulse shot up a notch. I’ve always hated tests. Suddenly, I was 14 again and freaking out like I was taking a biology exam, for which I never studied for. I was placed in front of a computer and had to do reading, writing, and listening comprehension (I wrote about seeing Santa creep through the woods at Swedish Christmas and the disgusting Lutfisk). To my surprise, I understood the Swedish! As the tests went on however, I realized I was not as fluent as I had thought.
After finishing the test, I was directed back to the waiting room and received a new number. The sky was black now, the snow blizzarding about. I occupied myself by worrying if I would be able to find my way back home and whether or not I would be placed low. Then, after what seemed an eternity, I was called back into another little office. I was told I tested at a level C3. This was super good and I was really proud of myself. Considering there are levels A-D and each has 3 levels, I had done well.
A few weeks later I was placed at a school by Stadshagen, a gritty, gray, construction zone one stop away (yet miles apart in hip city standards) from my house on the tunnelbana. I was eager to get stared and approached the reception staff in Swedish. I was told to wait for the teacher. After a while, an old woman instructed us into the classroom. I was ready, pencil (which I hadn’t used since high school) in hand, Swedish ready to pour off my tongue (or the back of my throat since it’s Swedish), and a eagerness to make it to level D by the end of the week.
Then the teacher, Gun, passed around a piece of paper. I looked down confused. It was the alphabet! I shook my head and looked again, nope, still the alphabet. Then she, in her raspy, and unclear old Swedish voice, began to recite. I was suddenly back in kindergarden and slowly noticed that while I recited the letters like a pro, the majority of the class did not. As the class went on, I found myself communicating with the teacher and reading with the Swedish accent I had picked up at Folkuniversitetet. I began to wonder why they had tested me for placement, as it was clear I was right back where I had started 2 years earlier.
At the end of class Gun called me to the front. In Swedish she proceeded to tell me that the class was too easy for me and I would have to switch. Thank the goddesses.
The next day, I went to her morning class. I have always prided myself on being a pretty good judge of character and when I smell a bad apple, although usually sweet smelling on the outside, it’s rotten at the core. Something was strange about this school. There was no order. It was total chaos. I walked into my new classroom (after being shuffled around for 1/2 hour by the receptionist who didn’t know where my class was) and Gun asked me to introduce myself. As I did, I looked around at what appeared to be a group of misfits. One guy encouraged me to sit next to him, in a pervy kind of way, and the class giggled. Was I back in grade school? I took my seat and tried to follow Gun’s broken and incoherent pedagogy. The women next to me whispered tips on where we were and what was going on, but in truth they didn’t really seem to know much more than me. No one understood the syllabus, because there wasn’t one. Throughout the class people wandered in and out. Every time a student came in, Gun would re-instruct this student on what she had just taken a 1/2 hour to instruct us on. We were quickly accomplishing NOTHING. People answered their cellphones in class and no one really seemed to care. Had I taken the wrong test? Was I at the wrong school?
The potential problem with Sweden’s free education is that it’s outsourced to education companies. These companies (or at least the one I was attending ‘Hermods’) get paid on retention. Therefore, it didn’t really matter if she taught us anything, as long as we kept coming back.
The next day I heard a rumor that Gun had found out that two women had switched out of her class because they did not like her teaching style. Rumor had it that she found out, marched into their new classroom, and screamed at them - bringing them to tears. Bad apple indeed.
I knew that I had the option to switch schools and I wanted to go to ABF Huset, which I heard was the best (although they were full when I tested in). I had to get out of there. During the following class I approached Gun and told her my schedule didn’t work with her class, which was true for the most part. She told me that there were no other C3’s and that I probably would have to stay. I knew she was lying. That afternoon Erik called SFI and had me transferred to ABF. Sweet relief.
ABF was like a whole new world. I was tested in again and provided with an overview of the structure they use. I was asked what my learning style was, what my goals were, and what my teacher should know in order to support me in the best way possible. I felt heard, catered to, and nurtured. And this was just the intake.
My new teachers at ABF are wonderful. So full of energy and eagerness to teach. My class is full of (mostly) people who also want to learn.
It is incredibly interesting that these two schools - Hermods and ABF - are supposed to be providing the same thing: Swedish language education. As I trudge though the learning curve associated with traversing new systems, I have found that things aren’t always as they appear. Free education doesn’t necessarily mean good education. And, like anything in life, there are always a few bad apples hanging on the tree. Regardless of the challenge, it was good to experience both. Maybe Gun’s job was to teach me to appreciate what else Sweden has to offer.
So while it’s true that ‘you can’t always get what you want’, it’s also true that ‘if you try sometimes, you get what you need.’ Perhaps it's experiencing the former that ultimately gets us to the latter.
