Sunnyside Su's Healthy Treats

One summer, sitting at a cottage in Peterborough, my mother and I found ourselves talking about the school year ahead.

 

She had returned to teaching later in life and was now working full-time in an adult ESL program at Yorkdale Secondary School. I was about to begin my first year teaching a gifted Grade 5 class in Markham—excited, a little nervous, and full of ideas.

 

“Wouldn’t it be interesting,” I said, “if my students became pen pals with your adult ESL learners?”

 

Many of my students came from families who had immigrated to Canada. I wondered if this might give them a window into what their parents had experienced—learning English, starting over, finding their place.

 

My mother smiled. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

 

And just then, a monarch butterfly landed lightly on my knee.

 

We both went still.

 

It felt, in that quiet moment, as if something had gently said yes.

 

That fall, I introduced the idea to my class.

 

“My mom is a teacher too,” I told them, “and she teaches adults who are learning English. You’re going to become their pen pals.”

 

They were excited immediately.

 

“But there’s something important,” I added. “They are still learning English. So we need to write in a way that helps them understand. Clear. Kind. Thoughtful.”

 

They took that seriously.

 

Letters began to travel back and forth—real letters, sent through the mail. My students chose their words carefully. My mother’s students wrote back with equal care, sharing pieces of their lives and their journeys.

 

After a few exchanges, my students began asking:

 

“Can we meet them?”

 

With support from both schools, we made it happen.

 

My students raised money for a bus through small sales and simple fundraising. They were determined.

 

When the day came, we arrived at Yorkdale Secondary School, where my mother had planned a full experience—tours of programs my students had never seen before: auto mechanics, hairdressing, baking, even vermi-composting.

 

Before we began, my students asked me:

 

“What should we call your mom?”

 

“Well,” I said, “I call her Mom.”

 

They thought for a moment.

 

“Can we call her Mrs. Mom?”

 

And so they did.

 

There was no single dramatic moment that day.

 

Instead, there were many small ones.

 

Students and adults talking together—sometimes slowly, sometimes searching for words, always patient.

 

Children helping adults navigate simple computer games.

 

Laughter in the gym as partners—young and adult—played floor hockey together.

 

At one point, one of my students sat down at a piano and played. For a few minutes, language didn’t matter at all. Everyone simply listened.

 

And at lunch, something unexpected happened.

 

Staff who came to observe expected noise and energy.

 

Instead, they found a room full of children quietly reading, completely absorbed in their books.

 

It was a small moment—but it revealed something about them.

 

And something about what happens when children feel both grounded and inspired.

 

At the end of the day, there were smiles, handshakes, and a few hugs.

 

Students who had only known each other through letters were now real.

 

I had hoped my students might gain some understanding of what their parents had experienced.

 

What I hadn’t anticipated was how naturally that understanding would grow.

 

Not through teaching.

 

But through connection.

 

More than thirty years later, that connection is still with me.

 

I am still in touch with some of those students.

 

One is now on the Canadian women’s dragon boat team. Another is a doctor. Another an architect. I have followed their lives as they have unfolded—careers, travels, visits home.

 

One of my students and I exchanged letters for years. I still have them.

 

I also have a pair of earrings she made me—five small characters, carefully crafted. I have kept them all this time.

 

What a treat it has been to watch these young people grow up.

 

My mother and I had shared that idea together, years ago, sitting by the water.

 

Looking back, it feels like more than a classroom project.

 

It feels like something we built—together.

 

Sometimes, as teachers, we hope our lessons will land.

 

But every now and then, something quieter takes root.

 

A letter.


A connection.


A small widening of perspective.

 

And years later, you realize—

 

that was the lesson that stayed.