During a tour of the school before the pandemic closed it in March, Woodson points to the large flags hanging in the atrium, the first thing you see as you enter the school. “They’re going to recognize El Salvador right away. Every country in Central and South America is represented here,” she says. She hopes when children recognize their flag, they know they are welcome. There are also signs posted all over school that say ‘Being Bilingual is my Superpower.’
Front office staff are bilingual and any sign in English is also posted in Spanish — from the school entrance to the trash cans — and the school stocks several Spanish titles in the library. Woodson says these small efforts help all students see there’s no language hierarchy.
Before she retired, Woodson, who is African American and speaks fluent Spanish, beefed up support staff. With the flexibility she had in her budget, the school hired three additional bilingual teacher aides last year. The school also hired a bilingual community liaison who can connect “newcomer” families to outside services and a bilingual counselor who can support teachers, make home visits and meet individually with children who are struggling.
Those meetings now mostly occur over Zoom, as educators try to find ways to translate their in-person supports to online learning.
Woodson warns that even with these supports, none of this is easy on educators. “With the influx [of newcomers], I have to be very honest. Teachers are tired. It’s a lot.” She says she encourages teachers to talk about how they feel and support each other. “But guess what? We’re tired but committed. We will rest but there’s no quitting.”
In October 2019, Prince Georges’s educators voluntarily crowded into a community center for a five-hour seminar with an expert from Harvard University.
Dr. Margarita Alegria, chief of the Disparities Research Unit at Massachusetts General Hospital and a psychiatry professor at Harvard Medical School, was helping educators understand how to support first-generation students.
The teachers were hungry for information — roughly 150 people, from security guards to psychologists and kindergarten teachers, had given up a sunny Saturday to join the session.
Berta Romero, a counselor for English learners in Mary Harris Mother Jones Elementary School, hears awful stories from her students. One second-grader said her mother had to cover her eyes because people were drowning in a river they were crossing. Another child talked about the journey to the U.S. in a crowded truck, his father having to push him above everyone else just so he could breathe. A mother tearfully recounted how MS-13 gang members molested her daughter on her way to school. Romero says the weight of these experiences is like these children “carrying a big backpack with boulders in it.”
The trauma continues for many children after they reach the U.S. Under the Trump administration’s family separation policy, children were kept in frigid detention centers where food was inadequate and kids were not given access to basic hygiene. Several children said the adults there threatened them when they broke one of the many rules — no talking, no making friends, no playing.
At the seminar, Alegria explained the “compounded loss” children experienced when they fled their homes. “They lost their familiar language, their customs, their habits, they lost their social networks,” she said. For older youth, Alegria says, social status is very important. She told educators that helping these children make friends has a “super powerful effect.”
For that reason, Prince George’s County is intentionally focusing on investments in mental health resources.
Before the pandemic closed Prince George’s schools in March, social worker Beth Hood organized “circles” to support newcomer students in High Point High School. The school in Beltsville has about 300 newcomers. Their English is very limited, so she spoke in Spanish and explained very basic aspects of U.S. education, from the layout of the building to the role of school nurses to the expectation they come to class every day. But she also encourages them to share their stories about where they came from and what their lives were like before.
“It’s important for them to talk about how they used to tend cows or how they used to make tortillas or how they used to help their grandmother go to the market,” she says. “These are real life day to day strengths and experiences that they bring.”
Social worker Beth Hood has created and shared signs in Spanish and English to encourage students to work on their mental health and ask for help if they need it. She organizes “circles” so undocumented students can share their challenges, make friends and realize they aren’t alone.
Many of these students came to the U.S. as unaccompanied minors and often don’t trust adults. Hood says these circles are also a way for them to make friends with other teens like them, so they don’t feel alone. Coping skills promote healing. In 2014, when there was an influx of unaccompanied minors resettled in Prince George’s county, teachers at High Point High School asked the principal to create a new social worker position instead of hiring another teacher. Last year, the school added another.
Sometimes Hood teaches her students breathing exercises, and other times they discuss how to solve conflicts. In January this year, they worked in groups, listing out factors that help them do well.
By the end of the class, in February, students began joking around while working on the assignment. Hood was visibly delighted. It was a completely different vibe from the start of the school year in August 2019, when they barely spoke to each other and everyone looked terrified. She says her school intentionally creates opportunities for newcomer students to have fun. Last year, the principal organized a holiday lunch just for them, complete with a D.J., because the holidays — and memories of years past with their families — are so hard.
“They all danced and the kids danced with the staff. And it was just pure joy,” Hood said. “It brings that sense of compassion and love and joy into the school building. And we know that every positive experience that immigrant youth have builds resilience and trust.”
But all of that is harder, if not impossible, to sustain during remote learning.
A hallway in Cooper Lane Elementary School in Landover Hills, Maryland. Tyrone Turner / WAMU/Dcist
Teacher Tanya Gan Lim says she worries that her students aren’t hearing English in the hallways or on the playground now that they aren’t in school. Prince George’s County distributed free Chromebooks and mobile wi-fi units, but often these kids and their relatives don’t know how to log on or troubleshoot problems. Psychologists say their days are spent doing tech support or trying to locate kids who aren’t attending classes during the pandemic. And as their families struggle, undocumented students feel an increasing pressure to help provide.
One of Hood’s students, Luis, was 16 when he fled violence in Guatemala almost two years ago and arrived in the U.S. We’re not using his last name to protect his privacy. His first language is Mam, an indigenous language; he spoke little Spanish and no English. Luis now works in a grocery store. “I finish school at 2:30 and then work from 3:30 to 11,” he says. He needs every dollar to repay his coyote who smuggled him into the country, to pay his lawyer, to pay rent. And he sends money home. “Even one dollar here is a lot of money in Guatemala.”
At first, when customers asked Luis something, he wasn’t able to reply. “Then I practice more, practice more, practice more. Now I help them with everything, no problem!” he says. Luis squeezes in homework after work. But, he admits, sometimes it’s hard to wake up.
Hood says most of her newcomer students start off very motivated to do well in school, “but when it comes down to it, their physical body can only sustain that amount of work and studying.”
But it’s clear that undocumented students want to learn and can achieve.
After years of struggles, Nando graduated high school this spring. He had dreams of becoming a doctor, but for now he’s working as a painter. He’s grateful to his teachers who supported him and wish everyone saw him the way they did.
“We are here because we want to improve our lives,” he says. “To have a better life.”
A version of this story was produced by The Hechinger Report, a nonprofit, independent news organization focused on inequality and innovation in education. It was also supported by the University of Southern California Center for Health Journalism.
This story originally appeared on DCist and WAMU.]