Thankful for Étienne

Every Friday morning I meet with Étienne, a fourth-grader at a public school in Manhattan.   He's not very tall, agile and wiry in his crisp uniform, always ready for me with a broad, sweet smile.  He has the stuff I've given him out on his desk -- the French-English picture dictionary, the story book in both languages, his work folder. At first he was tentative, despite his cheeriness, walking by my side, not engaging with anyone or anything in the hallways, a questioning, uncertain expression on his face. He had only a few words in English back then, and didn't attempt to string them together. As time went on, I noticed a change in his movements first.  He began to jump out of his seat even before his teacher and I had a chance to say our good mornings.  He would dash ahead of me in the hallway, touching walls, doors and bulletin boards as he ran, in the proprietary way of a kid who feels at home.  He began to greet adults, who knew his name.  "Can I play on the computer?" he asked quickly this visit, as I stepped out to return the room keys to the A.P. Étienne will tolerate the simple pattern readers I bring him, but vastly prefers, and handles at least as well, books at a much higher level with good, strong story lines to carry him along. I had been reluctant to do the one-on-one tutoring, required by my TESOL program, with a real beginner. How could I talk to him?  What would we read?  I now realize that language beginners, especially children, can be the easiest and most rewarding to teach in many ways. They live full, mostly unself-conscious lives, immersed in their new language and culture, they soak everything up, and ask who wants to play freeze tag.  I doubt I can claim credit for much of his development, but it doesn't hurt, and it's all a great wonder to witness.


I must admit that at first, my anxiety over his limited English made me feel very clumsy, like a teaching novice. I tried and abandoned several techniques I'd read about, such as Total Physical Response, which had him moving around the room, up and down from his seat, in response to my increasingly complicated but pointlessly bizarre directions, and song lyrics meant for a younger child.  It's not that this method, and others I tried, were totally without merit.  But they weren't me, and as patient and accepting as he was, I knew they weren't Étienne.  I thought about the ways my own children had learned English, and how I had taught my mostly native-speaking fourth-graders. I decided to use some combination of a natural but simplified conversational "mother's" approach, and a scaffolded but close to grade-appropriate style of instruction. Our sessions now follow a pattern not unlike the literacy block in a classroom.  We have our own "morning meeting" where I tell him a bit about what's been going on with me (my daughter's bad cold, a trip I took to Washington, D.C. with some old friends).  I ask him how his week was. He invariably answers, "Good!" with an energetic nod, but when I ask him what happened that was interesting, he just as consistently thinks, shrugs, and chirps, "Nothing!" I then read him a story, a good, predictable story a bit above his level.  Étienne almost always reads along with me, his volume increasing as we progress.  Folk tales are a favorite, and he loves Caps for Sale.  We wag our fingers and stamp our feet and make monkey sounds and laugh.  He reads to me next, usually from a not-too-challenging book he has enjoyed as a read-aloud, or from very basic patterned readers.  We do some science or social studies, and his teacher has been very helpful in finding appropriate books for him about the topics they are covering. We spend some time on word work, paying careful attention to the spelling patterns that are new and tricky to him. We end most sessions on the computer, where he can practice word work or guided reading as he sees fit, with a degree of independence and a feeling of play, with me still gently but more quietly at his elbow.

Étienne's language explodes weekly, but it is still pretty concrete.  He has nonetheless managed to tell me, at first one hesitant word at a time, a lot about himself.  He came to this country from Haiti in May, and has talked about his mother, five brothers and two sisters.  He has not mentioned his father, and I have not asked.  He has aunts and cousins in Haiti, but his grandparents died.  He likes New York, but he prefers Haiti.  He lives in Brooklyn, and makes the long trip in to Manhattan each day by car because his mother works nearby.  He can read in French, though I don't think he's going to win any awards for it, but he absolutely loves good books and stories.  He also enjoys books about gadgets and dinosaurs, and already had a best friend at school named Nico.  He is temperamentally inclined to be positive about his new life -- this bodes well for him, and is not always the case -- but overall he says he feels things are hard and wishes he could be back home. I don't ask why.  I wonder sometimes what his life was in like Haiti, whether any of the country's relentless trials drove his family to relocate here.  I wouldn't probe, even if I thought he could knew or could explain. Is it a mistake, am I sending him the wrong message, by avoiding tender topics?

I decided today, though, that I wanted, needed to get to know him better as a person.  The information I'd found so far has been as concrete as his language ability, but I was missing some important abstractions.  I also want to ask questions that are open-ended enough that he can be dark if he wants to.  I want him to feel known and understood, and I am also interested for purely human reasons.  What did he enjoy doing most in his free time?  What were his dreams, favorites, fears?  I made him a picture questionnaire, which he noticed immediately as I opened the folder.  We'll get to that in a minute, I assured him, although I was just as eager to dive in.  After story time and guided reading, I slid it out and toward him, and his eyes lit up. As I began to explain, he interrupted with a knowing nod and blurted, "You can give this to me for homework!"  I was impressed with the length and confidence of the sentence, and I could see that his request was born of savoring something juicy for later.  I was a little deflated about having to wait till next time to deepen my understanding of him.  I somewhat reluctantly started word work, where we sorted words with the long e sound into piles of "ee" and "ea" words.  When we came to the word "team", Étienne said, "Like in basketball!  I'm on the basketball team."  "Do you like that?" I asked. "I want to be a basketball player!"  he said, his eyes dancing.  We talked next about Thanksgiving, the history of it, how it's celebrated, and he informed me that they celebrate Thanksgiving in Haiti.  We listed things for which we were thankful, and again he mentioned playing basketball with his friends. He also told me he was thankful for the, like, twenty cousins he would be visiting in Boston for Thanksgiving.  But he hates long drives, and his little brother likes to bother everyone, to make trouble. His mother would get mad at them all and just be in a bad mood and that would make his brother act up even more.  Oh, that sounds like my family, I laughed!  

I hope he enjoys that homework questionnaire, I thought, but we are doing just fine getting to know each other -- abstractions, darkness and all-- without it. And what I know about Étienne that he would not be able to say, but that is perhaps most important, is that he is a strong, happy, resilient young guy with a zest for life and a balanced honesty.  He will be fine, he is fine.  And he is helping me at least as much as I am helping him.  I will be a better, more trusting Teacher of English to Speakers of Other Languages, and more confident in my own journey through second language learning this year, for our work, our play, together.  

I am thankful for Étienne. Sono grato.