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.
