Lesson No. 1: Laughter needs no translation

Now, their textbooks are open to Unit 2. I sip water from a glass one student brings me every day. " 'He,' " I say, "is for a man. 'She' is for a woman."

"He is Mr. Duangta," I gesture widely, suspecting it's impolite to point, and "she–." My hand smacks the glass of water. It's airborne for a quiet moment, then shatters on the floor. Everyone, including me, is shocked. Except when driving, Laotians seldom muster enough velocity to smash anything.

"Too much iced coffee this morning," I say in Laotian. "Please forgive me."

Then, with the same suddenness of the breaking glass, everyone explodes into laughter.

"Bo penn nyang," they say, "Don't worry."

The room is charged with delight. As if with a switch, the lights behind their faces glow. There's a universal quality to physical humor, the banana peel, the loss of dignity. Or maybe their own language, from my foreign face, makes me easier to see. Laughter needs no translation.

Later, when the intermediate class files in again, I tell them "No books today." I burrow in my bag for photos from People magazine. "Choose a picture and pass the rest." I write on the board: name, age, job, family. "Write four sentences about the person in the picture."

As I turn to the board, my hand hits a brown vase filled with white plastic flowers. It twirls, skids, then plunges to the floor. Ceramic bits and fake flowers scatter.

The students gasp. I stare at the mess, as if to blame the flowers. No one moves.

"Jai hon, no?" I say. "Hot- hearted, no self-control."

Like the other class, they erupt with laughter. It's almost a relief; any sound from this class. I laugh too. Khamfanh hurries for a broom.

When the class settles, my students deliver their magazine biographies in front of the room.

One solemnly holds up a picture of O.J. Simpson.

"His name is Xai. He is 26 years old. He has seven children. He is a farmer."

In the next 20 minutes, Elizabeth Hurley becomes a tour guide and Natalie Merchant a seamstress. When they finish, I'm suddenly filled with gratitude just to be here. If O.J. gets to be a farmer, surely I can teach.

On the board I write, "Khamfanh, Kamfan, Khamfan." "Please," I say, "can you help me?"

They laugh as I botch their names in a variety of ways. But they look surprised when the hour is up.

"Goodbye, ajaan." Ajaan is "teacher" in Laotian.

Teaching textbooks advise an "ice-breaker" – but breaking glass works, too. Perhaps the willingness to be a fool is a kind of teaching in itself. Perhaps my students will see in me the pure spark of intention that is the beginner's gift.

The next morning, there's a new vase, this one blue, with a mess of fuchsia orchids tumbling over the sides.

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