This is an article published by New York Times on September 15. It is an interesting story.
By Christina Shunnarah
I am a 7th-year kindergarten teacher at the International Community School (I.C.S.), in Decatur, Ga. It is a DeKalb County charter school founded in 2002 with about 100 students; it now serves over 400, from kindergarten through sixth grade. Our school is unique in its mission to educate and integrate American-born and refugee children from countries all over the world — including Afghanistan, Bosnia, Kurdistan, Somalia, Sudan, Iraq, Burundi and Burma.
When I first learned that I would be writing for Lesson Plans, I was excited about the opportunity, but I was hesitant, too. What would I write about? How could I do justice to the hundreds of students I’ve taught since I came to the I.C.S. in 2002? To get some clarity, I decided to climb Stone Mountain. Located outside Atlanta, it is the world’s largest piece of exposed granite, with a circumference of five miles and a summit higher than 1600 feet above sea level; it is a place many Atlantans go to for prayer, solace, spiritual rejuvenation, or simply for exercise. For me, it is an oasis of peace. I needed some grounding so I took the 1.3-mile trek to the top with my notebook and pen in hand. It was a typical Georgia morning, hot, humid and very sunny.
At the top of Stone Mountain, I meditated on my path as a teacher and how I came to be here at this point in time. As a Palestinian-American, navigating my own cultural identity has been a life-long process. My experiences led me to want to help children develop and express their unique identities — and the way I chose was through creativity. Soon the story of a young boy who came to my class from Sudan last year entered my mind.
When Luca walked into my kindergarten classroom on the first day of the 2007 school year, he paused, took a look around, and walked right back out. In fact, he ran out. He wanted to find his brother. When he realized his brother had disappeared down the hallway, complete anguish filled his eyes. He fell onto the floor and started crying. People literally had to walk over him as he screamed and kicked on the floor in the middle of the hallway.
The tears were endless. Each day it was the same routine. He walked in; he walked out. The teacher assistant in the class, Mr. Eddie, an asylee himself from Rwanda, had to spend the whole morning standing by the door because Luca had gotten really good at escaping the classroom without anyone noticing. We were a foreign culture to him — this school, our language, our very being — a long journey from the language and culture of his life and heart.
Running away and seeking escape had become his daily habit. Considering where he had come from, it was not surprising. When it was time for physical education class, Luca ran past our classroom into the parking lot. When it was time to line up after recess, he was nowhere to be found, hiding behind trees to escape having to go back into the classroom to practice his writing. Even when students were lined up to get lunch, Mr. Eddie was forced to chase after Luca, who flew by in the other direction. He hid under the table during class discussions. He fell into deep sleeps during the afternoons. Working with Luca was overwhelming at times. I felt frustrated when I couldn’t reach him. I had a whole class of kindergarteners to teach, but I worried continuously about Luca.
It was not until I introduced an art project to Luca that I saw the first spark of interest in his eyes. Art, as a therapeutic tool, can be extremely beneficial and healing for children such as Luca. It also can be an outlet for unexpressed emotions. Since Luca was struggling with basic language and communication, art became a powerful vehicle for exploration and self-expression. Many refugee and immigrant children at our school have experienced traumatic events in their home countries. They have lost their homes, family members, and ways of life. They need to be able to explore their experiences in a positive and healthy way.
One day in October, when he awoke from a nap, he looked at a nearby table and saw paintbrushes, tissue paper, markers and liquid starch. I demonstrated how to use the materials and he watched with excitement. I showed him how to use the markers and he pulled out the different colors he liked, and started making designs all over the paper. He then feverishly, dipped the paintbrush into the liquid starch and began pasting colored tissue paper all over the picture. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. By this time, he had learned some basic English. Enthusiastically, he said, “Teacher, more?” I nodded, smiled, and gave him as many supplies as he needed. Keep exploring, I thought. And he did. He made several abstract pictures filled with amazing color. He wanted me to hang them up on the wall for everyone to see. At the end of the day, he gave me a hug, and I felt as if I had finally reached him. Somehow, by encouraging him to express himself, I had found a link to his creative identity.
It was a long process of adjustment for Luca after that: finding him a mentor, helping him make friends, letting him be my helper in various ways, visiting his home and meeting his younger sister and mother, calling his father to come to the school to surprise him, showing him I knew just a little about his side of the world. Soon Luca’s tears and anguish turned into a tentative smile. Over time, the smile turned into enthusiasm, excitement, friendship, and complete radiance.
Why am I writing about a student from last year, and how does that connect with the first days of school this year? This is a testimony of transformation in Luca’s life as well as my own journey as an educator; throughout the year, Mr. Eddie and I strove to help him develop trust, respect, and friendship. This year he is back in my class because of work that we must continue to do together. The difference? He walked into my classroom the first day of school happy and excited. And he didn’t run out. We were long lost friends greeting each other after a huge summer break. He gave me a big hug and asked me what was for lunch. In the hallway, he also gave all of his old friends hugs — connection, camaraderie, and community.
Last year, Luca was dealing with the conflict of his identity as well as culture shock. He wasn’t ready for kindergarten: he had to go through a year of emotional healing to regain a sense of balance and connectivity before he could even deal with academics. Now he has an intense focus and concentration. There is a passion in his eyes that pulls on the heartstrings of all who cross his path. He sits quietly at his seat with an inner strength, creating small works of excellence. He is proud of his completed assignments. He listens intently to stories and often sings and dances with laughter. He is loved and he is the face of all the children at the school.
This is still a tough journey for him, however. It is only recently that he has begun to articulate some of his experiences back in Sudan. He speaks more openly about the war. He speaks about his memories, about running with his family, about the reasons for coming here. He tells me that the people over there don’t like black people. He says he dreams about his homeland sometimes and he misses it. But he is happy to be here now.
http://lessonplans.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/09/15/student-in-a-strange-land/?th&emc=th
I am a 7th-year kindergarten teacher at the International Community School (I.C.S.), in Decatur, Ga. It is a DeKalb County charter school founded in 2002 with about 100 students; it now serves over 400, from kindergarten through sixth grade. Our school is unique in its mission to educate and integrate American-born and refugee children from countries all over the world — including Afghanistan, Bosnia, Kurdistan, Somalia, Sudan, Iraq, Burundi and Burma.
When I first learned that I would be writing for Lesson Plans, I was excited about the opportunity, but I was hesitant, too. What would I write about? How could I do justice to the hundreds of students I’ve taught since I came to the I.C.S. in 2002? To get some clarity, I decided to climb Stone Mountain. Located outside Atlanta, it is the world’s largest piece of exposed granite, with a circumference of five miles and a summit higher than 1600 feet above sea level; it is a place many Atlantans go to for prayer, solace, spiritual rejuvenation, or simply for exercise. For me, it is an oasis of peace. I needed some grounding so I took the 1.3-mile trek to the top with my notebook and pen in hand. It was a typical Georgia morning, hot, humid and very sunny.
At the top of Stone Mountain, I meditated on my path as a teacher and how I came to be here at this point in time. As a Palestinian-American, navigating my own cultural identity has been a life-long process. My experiences led me to want to help children develop and express their unique identities — and the way I chose was through creativity. Soon the story of a young boy who came to my class from Sudan last year entered my mind.
When Luca walked into my kindergarten classroom on the first day of the 2007 school year, he paused, took a look around, and walked right back out. In fact, he ran out. He wanted to find his brother. When he realized his brother had disappeared down the hallway, complete anguish filled his eyes. He fell onto the floor and started crying. People literally had to walk over him as he screamed and kicked on the floor in the middle of the hallway.
The tears were endless. Each day it was the same routine. He walked in; he walked out. The teacher assistant in the class, Mr. Eddie, an asylee himself from Rwanda, had to spend the whole morning standing by the door because Luca had gotten really good at escaping the classroom without anyone noticing. We were a foreign culture to him — this school, our language, our very being — a long journey from the language and culture of his life and heart.
Running away and seeking escape had become his daily habit. Considering where he had come from, it was not surprising. When it was time for physical education class, Luca ran past our classroom into the parking lot. When it was time to line up after recess, he was nowhere to be found, hiding behind trees to escape having to go back into the classroom to practice his writing. Even when students were lined up to get lunch, Mr. Eddie was forced to chase after Luca, who flew by in the other direction. He hid under the table during class discussions. He fell into deep sleeps during the afternoons. Working with Luca was overwhelming at times. I felt frustrated when I couldn’t reach him. I had a whole class of kindergarteners to teach, but I worried continuously about Luca.
It was not until I introduced an art project to Luca that I saw the first spark of interest in his eyes. Art, as a therapeutic tool, can be extremely beneficial and healing for children such as Luca. It also can be an outlet for unexpressed emotions. Since Luca was struggling with basic language and communication, art became a powerful vehicle for exploration and self-expression. Many refugee and immigrant children at our school have experienced traumatic events in their home countries. They have lost their homes, family members, and ways of life. They need to be able to explore their experiences in a positive and healthy way.
One day in October, when he awoke from a nap, he looked at a nearby table and saw paintbrushes, tissue paper, markers and liquid starch. I demonstrated how to use the materials and he watched with excitement. I showed him how to use the markers and he pulled out the different colors he liked, and started making designs all over the paper. He then feverishly, dipped the paintbrush into the liquid starch and began pasting colored tissue paper all over the picture. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. By this time, he had learned some basic English. Enthusiastically, he said, “Teacher, more?” I nodded, smiled, and gave him as many supplies as he needed. Keep exploring, I thought. And he did. He made several abstract pictures filled with amazing color. He wanted me to hang them up on the wall for everyone to see. At the end of the day, he gave me a hug, and I felt as if I had finally reached him. Somehow, by encouraging him to express himself, I had found a link to his creative identity.
It was a long process of adjustment for Luca after that: finding him a mentor, helping him make friends, letting him be my helper in various ways, visiting his home and meeting his younger sister and mother, calling his father to come to the school to surprise him, showing him I knew just a little about his side of the world. Soon Luca’s tears and anguish turned into a tentative smile. Over time, the smile turned into enthusiasm, excitement, friendship, and complete radiance.
Why am I writing about a student from last year, and how does that connect with the first days of school this year? This is a testimony of transformation in Luca’s life as well as my own journey as an educator; throughout the year, Mr. Eddie and I strove to help him develop trust, respect, and friendship. This year he is back in my class because of work that we must continue to do together. The difference? He walked into my classroom the first day of school happy and excited. And he didn’t run out. We were long lost friends greeting each other after a huge summer break. He gave me a big hug and asked me what was for lunch. In the hallway, he also gave all of his old friends hugs — connection, camaraderie, and community.
Last year, Luca was dealing with the conflict of his identity as well as culture shock. He wasn’t ready for kindergarten: he had to go through a year of emotional healing to regain a sense of balance and connectivity before he could even deal with academics. Now he has an intense focus and concentration. There is a passion in his eyes that pulls on the heartstrings of all who cross his path. He sits quietly at his seat with an inner strength, creating small works of excellence. He is proud of his completed assignments. He listens intently to stories and often sings and dances with laughter. He is loved and he is the face of all the children at the school.
This is still a tough journey for him, however. It is only recently that he has begun to articulate some of his experiences back in Sudan. He speaks more openly about the war. He speaks about his memories, about running with his family, about the reasons for coming here. He tells me that the people over there don’t like black people. He says he dreams about his homeland sometimes and he misses it. But he is happy to be here now.
http://lessonplans.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/09/15/student-in-a-strange-land/?th&emc=th
