Author: Diane Kim

One of the most important things I’ve learned as a teacher is to look for what is missing. From learning spaces. From lessons. From books and conversations. From perspectives. Because sometimes, what is missing is the difference between inclusion, and isolation. Between learning, and not learning. Between being safe, and not.

It’s not always easy to notice what is missing, though. While we may be keenly aware of absences that preclude our own participation in various spaces, we are not naturally aware of barriers that impact others. Of the things, that if they are missing, lock them out …

A microphone.

Text in visually-accessible format.

Enough time to read a passage in a workshop.

Sensory-friendly lights.

An educator or presenter or decision-maker with the same background and experiences we have.

The list goes on …

Yet as teachers, we don’t have any choice but to seek out what is missing, to find those barriers and do our best to eliminate them.  To create inclusive spaces so that every student can learn.

So how do we illuminate those insidious absences? We discussed one possible way this fall, at our union local’s Disabilities and Accessibility Issues meeting.

This is the third year I have been a part of this committee. And despite the fact that our days seem to be getting busier by the second in education, the only regret I feel is not joining it sooner in my career. It’s a small group of teachers, all from different schools across our board, all passionate about creating inclusive spaces for students and staff. We meet once a month at the union office and plan support workshops for teachers, information nights, and wellness events. It’s been a rewarding way to meet dedicated educators in our union that I never otherwise would have. This year we have a new goal: assisting a union-led audit of our local’s office and presentation space, to ensure it is accessible to all.

And so it was that a question occurred to me.

As we sat at the first meeting of the year, brainstorming ways our committee could assist with the audit, questions we could ask teachers who attended events at the local, one thought kept running through my mind that seemed to encapsulate all that we were trying to ask:

“Is there anything missing from this space that you need in order to have access to the same information, and the same opportunity to participate, as everyone else in the room?”

Instead of lengthy surveys and questionnaires, perhaps that simple question would be our starting point.

What’s missing for you?

Hmm.

What would it be like, if it were commonplace for everyone to ask that question? After every staff meeting. After every PD session. After every lesson.

How can we include you?

What are we missing?

So this year, we are asking that question. Anonymously of course. But at the end of every union local event at the HWETL office, teachers will have a chance to name what they need from our union’s spaces in order to be included.

Not a bad question to ponder in any profession, in any situation, in my humble opinion.

As I begin my second year blogging for Heart and Art, I find myself being carried along by the wonderfully-frenetic pace of the fall. Although I have been a teacher for many years now, the speed at which September flies by always manages to surprise me … after a whirlwind of welcoming new families, getting students settled, and creating first language profiles for classes, October is nearly upon us!

New students and new languages have once again added vibrancy to our learning communities. It has been nothing short of joyful to see students using first languages to communicate with each other, to negotiate lessons and learning materials, to express themselves and their knowledge. 

In one of my final blog posts last year, Gardens in June, I talked a little about this kind of vibrancy … the end result of centering students’ linguistic repertoires, celebrating students for all that they are and, from those essential foundations, seeing  student growth.

I also talked a bit about a nearby community garden … 

As I mentioned in that post, I always like looking at that garden as I pass by. And last June as I drove away from the school, I approached that familiar intersection where the garden sits and took one final look. The leaves and plants had gained ground, stretching over the soil in green clumps. I knew something interesting was sure to be growing, but couldn’t yet tell what.

Over the summer the garden slipped from my thoughts completely. I did not think of it again until a couple of weeks ago, as I made my way to the school for my first visit of the new school year. Pre-occupied with to-do lists and deadlines, I rounded the corner and saw a flash of brilliant yellow, nearly a block away.

A row of towering sunflowers greeted me as I approached the intersection. It was a perfect image, really. Standing at attention, strong and sturdy, these uniquely beautiful plants were what had taken root from those tiny beginnings. Now they stretched to the sky, golden orbs mirroring the countenance and motion of the sun.

This year I am looking forward to new growth and new adventures … the language curriculum and what it means for multilingual language learners, finding ways to centre and affirm all students’ languages and identities, and creating safe spaces where everyone feels welcome. 

Dedicated educators always rise to the challenges of any given year, giving their best for students no matter the circumstances. This year will be no different. And through it all, as we tirelessly support student belonging and growth, I’m going to keep the hopeful image of those sunflowers close. 

Every summer there comes a point, in the middle of sunny slower-paced days, that I feel it. It usually happens in August, but sometimes sooner. It’s that little insistent feeling, as though someone is tapping my shoulder, gently nudging. September is coming, with all its excitement and challenges and learning ahead.

Over the break I usually centre on one area I want to brush up on, or even learn for the first time, to prepare for those first September days. Sometimes I just read up on these subjects on my own time, sometimes it’s more formal learning. Some years I have wanted to look into math, other years it has been social justice, or collaborative teaching … This year, it’s reading for multilingual language learners. 

Coincidentally, near the beginning of this summer, I heard a radio interview discussing phonics while driving to one of my schools. The child on the audio clip was trying to sound out a word, laboriously ploughing through, applying the phonics rules she had learned in an attempt to decode. Her tiny voice wobbled through all the correct sounds, a sweet staccato that let listeners know she had them all right, and would be able to blend them together into a word at any moment. I held the steering wheel and waited expectantly for it to click.

“Sa-sa-sa. Far-far. sa-fa-fa-r …. Safari!”

Her voice was jubilant on that last word. The letter sounds had finally come together and she realized in a flash, this was a word she knew. Safari! 

The radio guest who had brought the clip went on to describe that moment, the joy in reading, when students realize they can do it, decode and recognize a word, and from there begin to orthographically map it in their brains, and make meaning of the print on the page … It truly is an amazing moment. And I have some wonderings …

What if the student were a multilingual language learner, in the early stages of acquiring English? And what if that same student sounded out all the letters, applying all the phonics rules they have been taught (just as the child on the audio clip did) only to at last utter the word “safari” … and not know what the word “safari” means. No joy in recognizing the word, in realizing they know it … no increased understanding of the text …. no inclusion in the knowledge, enjoyment, and thinking processes inherent in reading that the child in the audio clip experienced. 

Earlier this year, I discussed some of the main considerations for literacy instruction for MLLs in my blog entry Equitable Phonics  including the importance of teaching and developing vocabulary and oral language, so that MLLs understand the words they are decoding.  With so many teaching resources now turning significant attention to the scope and sequence of phonics instruction, sometimes with little to no context for word meaning and oral language, I wonder how to make this process equitable for MLLs. How best to develop oral language and vocabulary alongside systematic phonics instruction, so that the process and purpose of reading is fully available to all students? How best to centre and affirm literacy development in first languages? After all, the benefits of doing so, as research tells us, are numerous and irreplaceable.

Wonderings are a constant in teaching, I think, and one of the ways pedagogical practice grows and responds to the needs and identities of students. So for my final blog of the year, I will end with these ones. May your own wonderings inspire fantastic journeys ahead.

I love the tree outside my window. I’ll look up at it from my chair while reading a book, or cast a quick glance as I’m vacuuming. I suppose it’s an unremarkable tree. Not too tall, a thin trunk. It’s a common silver birch. But there is a way it looks, especially in July and August, that has the ability to instantly pierce through whatever worry I am feeling and replace it with a little bit of serenity. 

The view through the glass only allows me to see the topmost branches of the tree, nothing else. The bright green leaves are glossed, giving their surface a bit of a shine. At the slightest breeze the little triangular leaves, like pointed teardrops, begin to wave and flutter in glittering celebration.  And the backdrop to this green and silver splendour is the mid-summer sky, usually clear and bright, its deep blue electrified by sunlight. 

Not bad for a little birch tree. 

Finding grand beauty in small moments is something I’m trying to do this summer. In noticing what is around me, what is wonderful, and what I am grateful for. It’s not unlike teaching, where the most incredible joys can come from those “small” moments: a student’s delight when they understand something for the first time … an unexpected perspective or piece of art created in class … hearing pride in students’ voices as they share important events and people in their lives … camaraderie with other educators as we work together to create the best learning environments we can for students. 

As I look back on this year’s blog entries, I see it was a long, wonderful year full of those tiny moments of joy: students recognizing and celebrating their languages, educators collaborating, conversations, translations, open houses, and pincushions …

I hope this blog entry finds you happily settled into your summer, finding those wonderfully-small, imperfectly-perfect beautiful moments throughout. 

Inna* walked into the library confidently. She had very recently arrived in Canada and was, like so many multilingual language learners, a hands-down amazing communicator. She greeted me in both Ukrainian and English, and sat down to get to work. As we conversed, she continued speaking in Ukrainian and then added some of the English she knew to express herself, and sometimes gestures. I did the same. The conversation progressed this way naturally, as we shared our likes, dislikes, and some of our interests and hobbies. 

The classroom teacher and I had collaborated just prior to that session, a quick yet impactful dialogue about what he was teaching, and how he might make it accessible to everyone in the class. He explained his lesson, which was new learning for me, and I in turn shared some possible strategies and multilingual adaptations that might work to ensure Inna could participate as well. He chose the adaptations that worked best for his set up, and I offered to show Inna some of them in a withdrawal session.

And in this way, I found myself sitting in an empty library across from this resourceful student, using all of the tools at her disposal to communicate. I got out her teacher’s questions, prepared to show her some strategic translation tools that would help fill in anything she didn’t understand, as well as some sentence frames in English and Ukrainian for offering answers. I placed them on the table in front of her.

She regarded the questions on the paper, and then me, with calm awareness. As I reached for my iPad, my finger hovering over that familiar little icon, she gave a quick shake of her head. She swiftly took out her own device, and before I knew it had snapped a photo of the text, skillfully read the translation in Ukrainian, and concluded with an assured nod of the head, “Yes.”

I put my iPad down with a smile.

Translanguaging is a wonderful tool — not only for learning and expanding all languages the MLL speaks, but for accessing curriculum and creating inclusive learning environments. From the Latin word “trans”, meaning “across”, translanguaging is moving “across” and back and forth between languages in order to communicate, think, and learn. This intelligent student demonstrated all of this in just a few moments of interaction. She used both Ukrainian and English to express herself, to check the meaning of words, to access the classroom task, and begin to form answers. 

How much of this learning, this communication, would have been possible had we been using English exclusively?  How much of her personality, how many of her thoughts and contributions, would have been silenced? When you think about it that way, why would we want a school environment that demands answers and learning be conducted in a single language? A learning environment that posits, even unintentionally, a single language as the norm? 

We know that for learning spaces to be equitable, all students’ identities, knowledge, skills — and languages in which they are encoded — need to be centered and affirmed. As Inna demonstrated so powerfully, translanguaging is one indispensable element of such inclusive classrooms. 

*names have been changed 

As I write this blog, there are two school days left. It is that strange time of year when I feel like I can finally, finally start to come up for breath — just a little bit — after a frenetic month of deadlines and demands. 

This June seemed particularly busy … then again, I think I always say that. At any rate, it is inevitably four weeks of non-stop final assessments, transition tours, summer camp sign-ups, parent interviews, presentations, and report cards. By the end of the month, exhaustion makes itself known.

Early this morning, as the sun was just starting to colour the sky, I sat with my coffee at the kitchen table and flipped open my laptop. Weak bluish light from my calendar illuminated the still-dark room, and as I stared at the familiar daily schedules I realized that, all of a sudden, the seemingly endless list of items to complete had dwindled to just a few. The monumental tasks that had stared me down at the beginning of the month, that kept me awake at night and charging full throttle during the day, had all but been taken care of. 

In that moment, I felt that first small calm before summer. And that feeling stayed with me through the day, as I went about finishing off the final errands of the year. After school, as I walked into the sunny afternoon, I could feel the warmth slowly start to pull at the the tangle of deadlines that had matted in my thoughts, unravelling them to complete. Calm.

With school ending for another year, I am looking forward to welcoming more of that calm this summer. Whether it is spending time with my family, meeting with friends, walking in the woods, or simply taking time to listen to myself, to what I need … those are the wonderful beginnings I want to focus on now.

May you also find beautiful beginnings this summer, that the months ahead bring you what you need to rest and restore. 

I love a good quote. And quotes are ubiquitous in the education world, thankfully. They pop up on email signatures, inspirational posters, and in scholarly articles. Many deal with how an educator’s impact can flow through generations, reaching ahead into time beyond what we now see, and how we will never know the ways in which our teaching today shapes the lives of tomorrow. Such musings often centre on how teachers can impact the lives of students. But in this blog, I want to discuss the impact educators can have on other educators.

I have been fortunate to work with amazing colleagues over the years. And the educators I work closely with now seem a concentrated microcosm of all that is good about collaboration in education. The free flow of ideas. The dialogue. The trust in one another. The courage to say, I don’t know. The humility, and sometimes bravery, it takes to try something new. Where would I be without these conversations? These gifts? My practice and approach has changed over the years, shifting in response to new information, new needs, and inspiration from colleagues. Like any practice, teaching is one that cannot remain stagnant. We always search for the best ways to educate, to affirm. 

So, with another year nearly at the close, this blog is a thank you note to all the teachers and educators that I work with. Thank you for sharing your ideas with me. Thank you for listening when I have been stumped by a challenge. Thank you for supporting me when I set out on new waters, and for having my back when the seas are a little rough. Thank you for your dedication and excellence, the passion with which you support students every day. Thank you for challenging me to see what I previously could not. Thank you for making me a better teacher. 

With increasing demands placed on teachers and educators everywhere, finding those colleagues, those mutually-supportive communities, is more important than ever. I wish you all the most wonderful luck in finding those safe harbours, those adventurous journeys, and the unifying strength that comes from it all.

 

Today was a beautiful day. I spent it at a school that sits on a large green field in the middle of the kind of urban vibrancy I grew up in. The expanse of grass is so wide and empty that it almost looks out-of-place compared to the wonderful density that surrounds it. The busy city streets leading to the school are lined with apartments, homes, businesses … an eclectic mix of buildings, some new, some many many decades old. Smack dab in the middle of one of the through-streets is a community garden, a jumble of interesting plants and floppy leaves that pops up out of nowhere, nestled behind a busy intersection, and which I always strain to see as I drive by. The June sun tends to warm this end of the city in a heightened way, and when a breeze blows across the grassy field as I walk up to the school, I can feel summer in its touch. 

This school, like so many I have taught in, is full of amazing students and dedicated teachers. Even in the final days before summer, when the academic year is winding down, the educators here are busily supporting students, and each other. Today, I arrived at classroom doors, taking students for end-of-year conferences and reading celebrations, and at each turn I chatted quickly with teachers, exchanging on-the-spot observations, progress and strengths, hopes for next year, plans to meet in September … all in a matter of seconds. These educators never seem to stop thinking about their students, and with the increasing demands and dwindling timeframes educators everywhere experience, being succinct and supportive is something of a necessary art these days. Teachers across our schools are exceptionally good at it.

Today was a beautiful day, full of engaged students, multilingual books, centres and math and outdoor games … and that quick collaboration between educators that helps hold it all together. It always gives me pause, that we manage to do so much when more and more resources and supports seem to slip away by the day. And I often imagine all that we could do if they were given back …

If we had class sizes that were manageable, that allowed every student an optimal learning environment …

If support programs for students with varying and wonderful and unique needs were properly funded … 

If we had time — real time — to collaborate and communicate with one another to best serve students …

Like that garden so close to the school, lovingly attended by neighbours and community members, I am continually proud of all teachers do to support their students’ growth. And I am also continually proud of our students, who bring so much knowledge and hope and joy to their classrooms, growing stronger, insights expanding throughout the year into new and glorious blooms. 

Summer is a time for dreaming, and this year my summer dreams are for all educators to rest and rejuvenate, knowing they did their absolute best for students. And for students, my dream is that every single one feels loved and celebrated, and proud of all they have accomplished, knowing that next September, their beautiful gardens will continue to grow.

I always look forward to May and June — and not just for the blue skies and glorious weather. They are also months of collaboration with secondary educators, when hopeful and nervous grade 8 students can tour the high school they will attend in September. 

One of the secondary schools in our area has an ESL program, among many other specialized courses. And although information nights are held for families throughout the year, in May the small group visits begin.  Parents and guardians of multilingual language learners are invited to join tours, and together we visit classrooms, meet teachers and students, and answer questions. Just a handful of students at a time … a teacher … a family member or two … the ESL department head. These small tours happen fairly often, to accommodate new students and family schedules. 

I accompanied a few grade 8 students on one such tour recently and, as usual, it was a great morning. The learning spaces were alive with creation and vibrant communication. We moved from class to class, watching theatre rehearsals, computer design classes, geography presentations … and all of the spaces incorporated multiple languages, in multiple ways. We chatted with educators and community partners who spoke Turkish, Ukrainian, Arabic, and a host of other languages. We passed signs and posters in Vietnamese, Mandarin, and Spanish. We watched classes full of students speaking, reading, and writing in multiple languages, switching back and forth between them as needed. 

As we moved through the hallways and classrooms, I could see the students from my schools slowly relax, the serious expressions gradually replaced with smiles. Some recognized siblings and friends who already attended the school, some noticed similar activities and learning contexts from their elementary school classes. Witnessing this happy transformation reinforced to me the value of supporting elementary students in transitions, and the central role collaboration among educators plays in this process. 

Towards the end of the tour, we dropped in on the fashion class. The teacher at the front was arranging gold-coloured cloth in front of her sewing machine, and students were looking from her to their devices, hunched over screens filled with translations. The teacher explained to us they were learning about textile quality and cuts, and checking the vocabulary on translation apps and dictionaries, to learn content in both English and home languages. 

As we listened to students talk about what they were making, one student quietly got up and went to the back of the class to retrieve something. As she turned and approached our group, she held out her cupped hands in offering. She said nothing but smiled brightly; in her hands sat a pincushion. Puffed and white and softly rectangular, it looked like a little fairy pillow. She had embroidered two words on its surface, the bold, colourful thread jumping out against the ivory cloth. It was the word “love” — once in English, in deep ruby letters, and once in Arabic, the script obsidian black. She stood silently and smiling and simply holding out the pincushion she had made. I wish I had a photo of that moment.

At times, popular rhetoric can become singularly focused on hard data and measurable results, on whether student learning is up to “standard”. And while reflection on pedagogical approaches and student success is undeniably important, perhaps we should also be asking a different kind of question: Are our schools places of love? In other words, are they places where everyone is welcome and safe and valued? Places where learning happens in ways that centre students’ strengths, experiences, and identities? I have heard educators ask this question in many ways, many times over the years — but the sentiment is always the same. We cannot learn if we are not safe. And we cannot learn optimally unless we are valued for everything we are.

Perhaps that little pincushion, held in the hands of a happy and proud student, can tell us more about teaching and learning than at first glance we might think.

Open House is always a great night … seeing the learning that has gone on throughout the year, families milling about, students’ work proudly on display. But this year’s celebration was memorable for a different reason.

Back in the fall, I had the good fortune to collaborate with the teacher-librarian at one of the schools I support. We reviewed the home languages of students and purchased additional dual language books, which were eagerly checked out as soon as they hit the shelves. And every now and then when I visited the school, the teacher-librarian had a new story about a family who had enjoyed the books, or a student proudly exclaiming, “That’s my language!” when the latest batch was brought out. These books had been used all year, by all students, so it seemed only fitting to showcase them at Open House.

We set up the multilingual books everywhere, at every centre in the room: hardcovers and paperbacks, QR codes to scan for free online multilingual books, forms for free international language classes, translated tip sheets on reading with your child … every display and centre we had was in multiple languages, not just English. There was no “ESL table” off to side. Instead, the displays throughout the room reflected how learning normally happened in that space, where it was natural to see many different languages, where students’ linguistic repertoires were centred.

The Learning Commons was situated in the middle of the school, and virtually all families passed through it on their way to various classrooms. Before long, it became a hub of activity. Parents strolling past book displays … older children suddenly noticing the QR codes and tugging on sleeves to ask for the phone … families asking questions about the international language courses. At one point I saw a very tall dad crouched down as low as he could next to his tiny preschooler, whose full height barely reached his father’s chin. The two were happily reading a Punjabi-English version of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”, the tiny boy jumping and pointing at the pages. Just a brief moment, and the story was over quickly. The dad placed book back on the table, and eventually the family drifted off. But the energy of that moment remained.

Many years ago, I came across an apt statement by Dr. Jim Cummins, who likened the ESL programs of decades past to “satellites” rotating around the main operations of the school and classroom.  Indeed, many years ago it seemed the main goal (perhaps the only goal) was to teach English — and to teach it at a remove from the “regular” learning of their classmates. 

Now of course we know so much more.  

We know that language is learned through meaningful interactions with others, and for that reason the mainstream classroom is an ideal place to acquire oral language, with the right adaptations in place. We know about the benefits of maintaining first language, and the essential linguistic, academic, and social-emotional benefits to including it in the classroom. We know the irreplaceable connection to family and culture first language provides to students, and the strength and vitality a multilingual society provides to everyone. And finally, we know there are achievable ways to include all learners, their identities and their languages, in classroom and school communities. 

The sun was setting as the last of the families left the school, and the hallways that had been so lively earlier suddenly felt heavy with stillness. As I drove home I thought again of the father reading the dual language book to his son, how natural and joyful that moment was.  And I hoped our little Learning Commons, throughout the year and that evening, had given a little bit of joy to everyone.