by Helen Thorpe
I tended to know the emotional burdens the students were carrying, or the losses they had incurred, whereas Mr. Williams knew how well they read, how strong or how weak their sentences were, whose comprehension did not line up with his or her pronunciation. He knew how they grasped key concepts, whether by listening to him speak, or by seeing something visually, or by acting out. As Mr. Williams said, upstairs in the copy room one day, “I know them as learners.”
It says a lot about Mr. Williams that I spent an entire year in his company and he never once mentioned to me (I discovered this fact only during the following school year) that he was a “leader teacher.” Even as he was working with all of the newcomers, he was simultaneously coaching five fellow teachers. During first and second period, when he was not with the newcomers, he was either observing one of the other teachers and providing feedback, or he was co-teaching lessons with them, or he was bringing the teachers he was coaching into the rooms of other teachers he wanted them to observe. But he never even alluded to this during our many side conversations. Mr. Williams was, among other things, terribly modest. He was a bit like Kaee Reh and Dilli, in that sense—he was not vocal about his own remarkable strengths, and as a result I was slow to appreciate the full extent of what was doing at South, both in his own classroom and in the rooms of other teachers who also taught ELA students.
* * *
By the middle of February, Mr. Williams was feeling both disgruntled with some of the disruptive behavior breaking out in his room and also immensely pleased with the amount his students had been learning. I could see the increased level of comprehension as Mr. Williams questioned the students about a Hmong fable they had been reading. Called The Eagle and the Moon Gold, it told the story of a poor boy who was content to be poor, and a rich man greedy for more and more wealth. The poor boy finds an eagle that flies him to the moon, which turns out to be made of gold; they fly home safely with a little gold before the sun comes up. His wealthy neighbor sees the gold and demands to know where he can acquire some, too. When the eagle flies him to the moon, however, the wealthy man refuses to leave. Too busy collecting more and more gold, he is burned alive by the sun.
Mr. Williams assigned each student one vocabulary word from the story. He asked them to write out a definition of their word, use it in a sentence, and make a list of synonyms and antonyms. Jakleen’s word was “rich,” while Solomon’s was “poor.” Grace got “content” and Ksanet “greedy.” Methusella’s word was “moral.” Hsar Htoo did not understand his word: “returned.” I told him that if he got in an airplane and flew back to Thailand, he would have returned to the country of his birth. Hsar Htoo nodded; he understood.
Several days later, after the students had deciphered the meaning of their assigned words, Mr. Williams quizzed them to see if they had followed the story’s plot.
“Where did the eagle take Yao?” he asked.
“The moon,” said Nadia.
“Is Yao content or greedy?”
“He’s content,” said Grace.
“What about Gwa? Is he happy?”
“No,” said several students at once.
“Tell me about Gwa, what happens to him?”
“He dies!” Nadia exclaimed.
Mr. Williams started calling on students who were not speaking. He walked over to Shani. “At the end of the fable, Gwa . . .”
“No understand!” objected Shani.
Mr. Williams held up a copy of the book and opened it to the first page. “This is the beginning, okay?” he said.
Shani nodded.
He turned to the last page and said, “This is the end.” Then he pointed at a picture of Gwa and looked expectantly at Shani.
“Boy,” said Shani.
“Yes,” Mr. Williams said. “A boy named Gwa. What happens to Gwa?”
Shani could not answer. Nadia helpfully ran her hand across her throat, a gesture Shani understood.
“Right, he dies,” said Mr. Williams. “Because he is greedy.”
Just then, I glanced around the room and saw that Lisbeth was not paying attention, as Mr. Williams had hoped, over in her new seat. Instead, she was chatting animatedly with Bachan. He had come to life and was pointing at another student while he spoke to Lisbeth in broken English. She was listening closely and making a series of expressive faces (shock! laughter! horror! vigorous affirmation!) while he talked. I had not thought any non-Nepali speaker could forge a social interaction with Bachan, so withdrawn had been his demeanor, yet somehow she had managed. I knew that Lisbeth was distracting Bachan from the lesson, but I found it striking that she had established a connection with the half-missing boy. Her effort seemed to help bring Bachan further into the room.
* * *
Later in February, Mr. Williams told the students to turn to the next unit in their textbook, “Everything We Do.” The chapter was about indoor and outdoor activities. He asked the class to make sentences using verbs such as swim and kick and play. Then he asked the students to stand up if they liked certain activities. Who liked to dance? Lisbeth and Nadia stood, and Lisbeth announced, to nobody in particular, “Quiero bailar mucho!”
Who liked to draw? Lisbeth, Hsar Htoo, Kaee Reh, Plamedi, Mariam, Nadia, Saúl, Abigail, Ksanet, and Jakleen stood. I knew that about Jakleen—anytime Mr. Williams asked the class to draw, Jakleen came to life. She carried a round metal tin filled with sharp colored pencils, which she kept in her lavender backpack and would bring out for poster-making sessions. I had also seen some of Kaee Reh’s artwork, stunningly realistic charcoal drawings. But I hadn’t known that the others liked to draw.
Who liked to play the guitar? Kaee Reh, Solomon, Hsar Htoo, Saúl, and Shani stood up. “Shani, you like to play the guitar?” Mr. Williams asked, checking.
“Oh, yeah!” Shani said enthusiastically.
Did she actually know how to play the guitar? It wasn’t clear—quite possibly, she only liked the sound of guitars, or appreciated that they were involved in rock-and-roll.
The degree to which Mr. Williams still struggled to impart even basic information to his newest students became apparent to me one day toward the end of February. A winter storm warning was in effect, and students arrived at school shaking snow off their coats. Grace walked in wearing a burnt-orange wool cap and a black T-shirt that said KISS ME FOREVER, while Shani had on a hot-pink headband with a silver bow and a blue down jacket. Solomon and Methusella wore only thin tracksuit jackets, however, and I worried about them freezing later as they walked all the way over to the train station.
Mr. Williams grouped the students into pairs so they could work together to read an important letter.
“Shani, I’m going to read with you,” Mr. Williams announced. “Can you try reading?”
Shani looked at him expectantly. Okay! Was he going to read to her?
“No, can you read this?” he said. “Can you try reading?”
She could not. Mr. Williams suggested they read the letter out loud together, and asked her to repeat every word she did not know, starting with the very first one. (“Greetings,” he said. “Greetings,” she parroted.) The letter was from Mr. Williams to their parents, and it said that parent-teacher conferences would be held at the end of the month. After he and Shani finished reading, he tested her comprehension.
“So who is coming?” asked Mr. Williams.
“South?” Shani responded uncertainly.
“Parents and families,” Mr. Williams said in a kind tone. “When is this taking place?”
“February twenty-ninth,” Shani answered. He nodded, that was correct.
“Where is this meeting happening?”
Shani opened up her hands to the sky.
“Okay, not sure,” he said. “That’s fine.”
Mr. Williams thought for a moment and decided to try a new approach. Looking around the room, he saw that Ksanet and Methusella had finished reading. He went over and asked them to dramatize the significance of the letter. Ksanet and Methusella v
anished into the hallway. When they returned, Mr. Williams greeted the pair warmly, asking if Ksanet was Methusella’s mother, the role he had assigned her to play.
“No, this is my older sister,” said Methusella, having a little fun with his teacher.
“Oh! Methusella’s older sister!” Mr. Williams said to Ksanet. “Nice to meet you!”
Mr. Williams told Ksanet that her “brother” was earning A’s and B’s and had acquired a lot of English. Then he asked if she had any questions.
“Methusella is a good student in class, or not good?” asked Ksanet.
“He is a good student,” said Mr. Williams. “Sometimes he likes to throw things at other students or pull their ears, but he is a good student.”
Methusella laughed out loud to be accused of things he never did. Mr. Williams turned back to the rest of the classroom. He still needed to go over the significance of the letter.
“I’m going to draw some pictures,” Mr. Williams announced. On the whiteboard, he drew three stick figures. “This is your family, right, Bachan?”
Bachan heard his name, pulled a face that said what-gibberish-now, and turned to stare at Mr. Williams, awash in puzzlement.
Mr. Williams drew an arrow from the family to an outline of South High School, with its tall clock tower. He faced his class.
“Yonatan, who is invited to South High School?”
“February twenty-ninth!” Yonatan answered confidently.
“That is when. First I want to know, who is invited?”
“Parents,” said Grace.
“Right,” said Mr. Williams.
“Mother, father, sister, brother, uncle,” suggested Saúl.
“Good,” said Mr. Williams. “And what day is this happening?”
“Monday, February twenty-ninth,” said Ksanet.
“And Bachan, where is this happening?” asked Mr. Williams.
A glare.
“Solomon, where should families go?”
“South High School.”
“Can they see Mr. Speicher?” he asked.
He was referring to the math teacher who used body language to convey math concepts up on the fourth floor.
Solomon said, in an uncertain tone of voice, “Maybe?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Williams. “They can. Can they see me?”
“Yes,” Solomon answered confidently.
Saúl had a question. “Really?” he asked. “Or is this just an example?”
All this time, Saúl had thought they were just practicing reading a letter about a pretend event.
“Really,” Mr. Williams told him.
Saúl wanted to double-check in Spanish. “Verdad?”
“Verdad,” assured Mr. Williams. Truly.
“Mister, what if they don’t have time to come?” Nadia asked in an urgent tone. She splayed her hands out wide to signify just how busy her parents were.
“Good question,” said Mr. Williams. “They can come anytime they want. They can call me, we can make an appointment. They can come on a different day, or at a different time. It’s also possible to speak by phone.”
* * *
One day that month, Mr. Williams arrived at school wearing blue jeans and rubber-soled boots because there was more than a foot of snow on the ground. Jakleen and Mariam made it to South anyhow, dressed extra warmly. Mariam was wearing a black cardigan with black leggings and tan suede boots. I had seen Jakleen wearing the same boots just a few days before. (The following week, Jakleen appeared in a white cable-knit cardigan with big wooden buttons, and a few days later Mariam arrived wearing the same sweater, which made me smile because my sister and I used to share clothes when we were in high school.) Given the appalling weather, I was pleasantly surprised to find the two sisters from Iraq in the classroom.
I assumed this was due to an intervention that Mr. Williams had staged. The week before, when the girls had been absent yet again, a somewhat exasperated Mr. Williams had met with their mentors, Sam and Sana (the Iraqi twins), in a corner of Room 142. He had told Sam and Sana that Jakleen and Mariam were at risk of being held back. He wanted Sam and Sana to convey this message in Arabic, so that Jakleen and Mariam would be certain to understand. “Please communicate that it’s very important that they come to school,” he told them. “Because they have missed a lot of school already.”
Sam and Sana had nodded earnestly. The idea of not attending because of bad weather struck them as unfathomable, even though they, too, had struggled to get used to hail and sleet. Whatever they said to Jakleen and Mariam seemed to spur the sisters, for they began showing up much more regularly, participating in class activities with greater enthusiasm, and taking better advantage of the opportunity they had been given. They also started to socialize more.
That same month, Mr. Williams staged an intervention with Bachan as well. He found a Nepali-speaking paraprofessional named Miss Sushantika, a quiet, slim young woman who stood less than five feet tall. She normally worked in another part of the school, but Mr. Williams borrowed her for about one month so that she could help Bachan acclimate. Miss Sushantika began reporting to Room 142 daily, where she sat next to the Bhutanese student and translated everything that Mr. Williams said into Nepali. In Miss Sushantika’s hands, Bachan turned into an amiable, chatty boy, eager to please his diminutive new instructor.
* * *
All that month, as Mr. Williams focused on pushing his most advanced students forward fast enough (“Grace, Methusella, Ksanet—is there a way to make this more complex? Can you add more description? Can you make compound sentences?”) and tugging at the latest arrivals to catch up (“Bach-a-a-a-n!”), side conversations kept breaking out in various parts of the room. One day, Nadia and Jakleen started chatting about footwear, as Mariam began chortling about something Lisbeth whispered to her. It was the first time I had seen the sisters engaging in extended conversations with anybody else in the room; usually, they spoke only to one another. They were branching out.
Mr. Williams had recently separated Lisbeth from Bachan and moved her to a seat beside Mariam. The two of them needed to resort to English to communicate, which boosted Mariam’s confidence. The new seating arrangement also triggered the first real friendship Mariam found in the room, as she and Lisbeth grew closer. This vastly increased the amount of spoken English that Mariam produced, but also led to moments when the two girls surreptitiously shared YouTube videos of small furry animals and misbehaving toddlers on their phones. Soon they began chatting so much that Mr. Williams interrupted himself to say sharply, “Lisbeth and Mariam!”
They paid attention to him for a little while, but then resumed snickering.
“Ladies, are we writing?” Mr. Williams said in a stern voice. “Mariam, Lisbeth, are we writing sentences?”
Lisbeth pretended not to know that Mr. Williams had been referring to her. She pointed to Plamedi, seated nearby, and said in a tone of surprise, “Lady?”
Plamedi grimaced at Lisbeth, and she cheerily apologized as if she had just realized her mistake, saying, “Oh! Lo siento! ”
Despite the genuine distraction that Lisbeth provided, she served a worthy purpose. She exerted a pull on Mariam—and later, Jakleen—that drew the Iraqi sisters further into Room 142 emotionally. Only after the two sisters befriended the ebullient girl from El Salvador did they begin enjoying school. One evening, when the Iraqi family and I were going out to dinner, and we were driving to a Middle Eastern restaurant in my car, Mariam and Jakleen admitted they had begun to like South. When I asked why, Jakleen cried, “Lisbeth!” I believe that Mr. Williams deliberately let Mariam and Jakleen get away with a certain amount of out-of-bounds fun with Lisbeth, even though it meant he had to work extra-hard to manage the whole situation, because he recognized that Lisbeth had become one of the reasons they looked forward to school.
Meanwhile, Mr. Williams and Miss Pauline continued to have side discussions about the psychological well-being of the students. Occasionally, I caught sight of the ways the
students revealed themselves to the therapist. One day that month, Miss Pauline took half of the students out of the room, and when they returned, they showed us the rubbings they had made of objects that were patterned. Lisbeth announced that hers was feo (ugly) and then told everybody mira! (look!) at her drawing. Shani walked over to Mr. Williams and showed him the colored chalk dust that powdered her hands and pantomimed the act of washing. “You want to wash your hands?” Mr. Williams asked. “You can wash your hands.” Then Miss Pauline came over to me and chatted about the artwork the students were producing. “They have a lot of feelings!” she said. “I don’t even know if they know they have so many feelings. We made boxes last week and several kids used lots and lots of tape to make sure the boxes were very, very secure—all bound up. How symbolic is that?”
I nodded. I had seen the boxes. One student had wrapped his entire box in the American flag, as though he wanted to embrace his new reality completely and did not even want to acknowledge the past. Another had used miles of tape. When the students showed off their boxes and their rubbings, I was most curious to know what emotions Solomon and Methusella held inside, and what lay behind the self-destructive rebellions that Mariam and Jakleen sometimes staged. I could guess what each of the students might be harboring, but they hadn’t revealed themselves to me. I did not think it would be productive to try to prise emotional information out of them; someday, they would tell me, if they felt like it. My job was to stick around and see if that time ever came, and if it did, to listen. To listen hard—because they would never say too much; I would just get a hint of what they kept secreted away inside those well-taped boxes.