Lost in Translation: The Cost of Being Fun

Living the American dream: Coffee to go and a free spot in the parking lot.

The semester is over. I am going to repeat: THE SEMESTER IS OVER. Oh, gosh. What a challenge it was to navigate the demands of this term.

The way this spring semester took shape was defined by an email I received at the very end of the fall semester.

A student wrote, “Thanks for the fun class,” in the email they sent with their take-home final exam. When I read it, I stopped for a second: “Thanks for the fun class, and that is it? It was just fun, and you didn’t learn anything from me?” They were not ill-intentioned, I am sure; they probably just wanted to be nice. But it didn't sit well with me. I didn’t like being perceived only as the “fun” lecturer. I know I am funny, and I value that, but I am also a dedicated teacher, and not being appreciated for my teaching abilities made me feel uncomfortable.

It made me feel uncomfortable because I was, indeed, intentionally trying to be a bit funnier than I usually am because I was trying to hold on to my new life in America as a non-American, and being funny had to be a part of everything, including teaching, which my Eastern European/Middle Eastern mind still cannot comprehend.

So, at the beginning of the spring semester, I decided to experiment with what it would be like not to be funny.

I didn’t engage with students in my lower-level class as much; I didn't ask how they were or what they did for fun over the weekend. And, the class turned out to be a struggle for me—and likely for them, as attendance was quite low—but I felt I could not change my approach in the middle of the semester, so I accepted that I had lost their engagement and carried on.

This wasn’t the case for my upper-level course students, though. I was very enthusiastic about teaching that class, and I worked hard to engage them. Asking who watched the Super Bowl halftime show or what second language they would like to learn were only some of the questions I used to get them talking. During the lectures, I also asked questions about the material by calling on them by name to involve them more directly.

This continued until I had a meeting with the department head about something unrelated. I had requested a meeting to discuss my yearly report, which I was about to submit, and at the end of the meeting, he told me students had made a complaint because I was allegedly calling on the same specific students all the time. I was shocked, for two reasons: 1. I was not calling on specific students (why would I?), with the exception of one student who always fell asleep. (I told the department head exactly this: I only did that with X because they were often asleep, eyes closed.) 2. When had this complaint been made, and for how long had I been unaware of what was happening in my own class? Why had I been left out, as if I were someone not to be communicated with?

And with this, that class turned into a struggle for me. I felt as though I was being scrutinized, and I didn’t like it at all. So, I started counting down how many classes were left before and after every lecture. I kept my cool by not mentioning anything—acting as if it hadn’t happened.

If something like this had happened in Türkiye—if I’d heard something like that from the department head—I would have addressed the class directly to clear the air. There, the teacher-student relationship relies on a different kind of directness and mutual understanding.

Here, I am just a woman from somewhere they cannot place on a map. A hard truth to accept. I feel the pressure to be 'fun' and entertaining. I find myself navigating a culture where calling on students by name is viewed with suspicion, yet I feel the weight of ensuring pass rates remain high. If the DFW numbers are too high, the assumption is often that the lecturer has failed, as if education has become a service where the 'customer' must always be satisfied.

This mindset shows up in the smallest ways. For example, there was a student who didn’t even bother to address me at all in their emails—no Dr. Çetinkaya, no Dr. Ayça, no Ayça, no nothing—as if I were someone they just walked by. They would simply ask whatever question they had, and I would always reply: “Hi X, This is the answer to your question. Best wishes, Ayça.” I can almost understand them, though. In a world where I am viewed as a service provider rather than a teacher sharing a lifetime of knowledge, why bother with a name? It becomes just another piece of unnecessary information.

There were nice students as well, and I appreciate them all. But this blog is dedicated to difficult experiences only.

So, to recap, I have been thinking about the pros and cons of being here, 6,000 miles away from home. At this point, the challenges feel quite heavy, which is difficult to admit. Still, I always remind myself that the main reason I am here is to challenge myself to become a better version of myself. This, right now, is that challenge.

Part of that work is doing my best to look for signs that I made the right choice, hoping for the day I can say I am truly happy here wholeheartedly—even if, for now, that is not the case. Probably I am just a bit drained, and my perspective will shift once I’ve had enough time away from teaching.

Stay tuned and to be continued.

May 2026, Chattanooga.