Guest article written by Lori Fettner
I first realized there was something different about Binta when I handed her an alphabet book and asked her to copy the letters into her notebook. It was my third year teaching English as a Second Language, and I loved working with students who were new to the country. Still, when 14-year-old Binta stuck her tongue out in concentration and struggled to form a simple “A,” it became clear she had never held a pencil before.
The challenge was twofold: we didn’t share a common language, and she was effectively illiterate in both languages. I kept having her practice the alphabet in her notebook and I showed a video that animated letters coming together to form words. She didn’t understand most of the spoken words in the video, but I hoped the visuals would help her make the link between letters and sounds.
Newcomers often sit quietly and absorb everything, patient with not knowing. Binta was different. She wanted—urgently—to communicate. She would approach me and speak quickly in French. I could only smile, shrug, and say, “I’m sorry, Binta, I don’t speak French.” I felt terrible imagining an outgoing child in her native South African community, suddenly isolated and alone here. During a fire drill once, I watched her face and wondered whether she was frightened or confused. I smiled as she passed me, hoping to reassure her that everything was okay.
Binta’s hunger for education was unlike anything I’d seen before. If I started teaching the rest of the class without giving her a task, she’d come up and say one word: “workbook.” Once she mastered the alphabet, that same workbook introduced simple conversations and short stories. Slowly but steadily, she was learning to read.
When the class worked independently, I played simple learning games with her. We walked around the room while I pointed to objects and said their names; she repeated them. Before long she knew the vocabulary. I remember stumping her once by saying “teacher.” She looked around, smiled, and finally shrugged. I pointed to myself and she laughed. Those small moments were a lot of fun and very rewarding.
My assistant principal, Ms. Ghosh, stopped me in the hall one day to tell me how proud she was of Binta. “The other day she asked me to go to the bathroom,” she said, grinning. To most people that might seem trivial, but when it’s the first thing a child says in her new language, it’s a milestone worth celebrating.
Binta still tried to communicate in French and I could see how frustrated she became when others misunderstood her. She faced some bullying from classmates, and I believed that once she could express herself clearly, her vibrant personality would shine through and make those social interactions easier.
She began to come out of her shell during an art and theater program. The class wrote and performed a short play at a Manhattan venue and also rehearsed scenes from Where’s Charley? Binta had a single line, and she delivered it loudly, clearly, and on cue every time. At dinner after the performance she sat next to me—hesitant to join the girls. A group of Bengali classmates heard and invited her to sit with them. That invitation marked the beginning of her transformation from isolated newcomer to part of the group.
That year was difficult for our school. We were under a Quality Review and faced constant pressure: rumors of closure, frequent observations, and last-minute directives about teaching and classroom management. Despite the stress, I tried to remain positive for my students. Kids like Binta made that easy. Near the end of the year, while I was addressing the class, a boy complained that someone wouldn’t stop talking. When I looked, he said, “It’s Binta. She won’t stop talking!” Her voice was English, and I couldn’t help laughing. “I’ll make an exception for Binta,” I said. “She’s waited a long time to speak with you all.”
On paper, the data would show a 14-year-old in seventh grade who could barely read or write. If she still scored low on the state ELA test the following year, critics might call the school or I a failure. Test scores alone don’t tell the whole story. It may take Binta several years to reach grade-level literacy, but judging her—or any child—solely by one test or one year ignores the human work behind growth. I could not have taught Binta to read without first getting to know her, building trust, and giving her the confidence to use her new language. This is what I mean by Teaching to the Child: it requires time, patience, and an understanding that meaningful learning cannot be reduced to numbers alone.
Note: Names in this article have been changed to protect those mentioned.
Bio: Lori Fettner is an ESL teacher in New York and the author of a memoir titled Teaching to the Child, written under the pen name Ms. Frank. The memoir shares stories of the students who mattered most during her early teaching years, along with lessons, classroom trips, and strategies that succeeded or failed. Lori is iPad-certified for classroom use and has participated in many programs focused on ESL and the arts. For more about her work, search for Teaching to the Child and Lori Fettner online.