A Bridge Built of Art and Words

It was a crisp, cold morning, early spring in Indiana, yet I felt no need for a coat. I always wonder why, even though I’m North African, I’ve never liked heat or humidity. The weather was unsure of itself—caught between a lingering chill and the promise of thaw, and I was enjoying the walk, even though, as usual, I was lugging bags of school supplies from home, trying to carry everything I needed in one trip. As I made my way through the empty hallways to my classroom, dropping things along the way, a student rushed behind me, picking them up.

“Miss Kubesch, you need to buy a donkey to help you!” he said, grinning. Josue had a far walk to school each morning and often arrived before the building had fully stirred to life. My students were wonderful—funny, kind. How I wished I could do more for them than just make do with whatever I could bring from home or borrow from the public library.

Supplies were scarce, and our classrooms often felt incomplete. . . . I knew something needed to change.

It was 2002, and I had just stepped into my new role teaching English as a Second Language at a public middle school that served a “high-needs” population. My classroom was tucked into the basement with an antiquated orange carpet, exposed pipes overhead, and small windows that offered just a sliver of the world outside. This school was in the same district as the one I’d taught at in my previous job, but the challenges I faced here and the difference in resources made it feel like it was in a distant land.

Supplies were scarce, and our classrooms often felt incomplete. We had a single computer but no outlet nearby to plug it in. A modest stack of books sat in the corner, though they would have loved a shelf to call home. Many of my students had experienced trauma. Their lives were marked by frequent upheavals, making it difficult to form lasting bonds. To make things even more complex, students trickled in throughout the year, making it hard for them to connect with each other. I knew something needed to change.

My class was a multi-age group of sixth, seventh, and eighth graders—a diverse mix of newcomers from different corners of the world. They connected well with me, their teacher. They teased me about skipping lunch, ran to help carry my supplies, and made me laugh—always—but they hadn’t yet built strong connections with one another. These young students had rich, untold stories, yet their shyness created a barrier. They were reluctant to share anything that might help bridge the gaps between them.

We needed something bold—something that could foster a true sense of belonging in the classroom. I had noticed how their spirits lifted during art, how a spark seemed to ignite when their hands met paper, blending colors to bring ideas to life. Art was their refuge, a way to feel at ease. And in that realization, I found my way to engage them.

I chose fables because they reflect the human condition while also providing a safe distance from it.

The next week, I brought in a collection of fables—simple, concise, timeless. I chose fables because they reflect the human condition while also providing a safe distance from it. I began reading aloud, sharing stories of animals that faced challenges, showed courage, and navigated unfamiliar worlds. The students leaned in, intrigued. Together, we worked through the language, using dictionaries and collaborating to understand each word. Slowly, they grasped the essence of these fables—stories where animals take center stage, conveying lessons that make us think about our choices. It was a gentle way for them to connect with the idea of sharing their own experiences without feeling too exposed.

For an entire week, we immersed ourselves in fables. Once they had absorbed the structure and spirit of these tales, I asked them to make the concept their own. “Think about a story from your life,” I said. “Something that helped you learn or grow. Now tell that story through the eyes of an animal.” At first they hesitated.

“What kind of animal?” one asked.

“Any kind you like,” I replied. “Think of an animal that best represents your story. And remember, you can illustrate it too—draw your characters, the scenes, anything that helps tell your story.”

Slowly, I watched them relax and begin to feel at ease, making way for their creations to emerge. To help them get started, I lugged an entire roll of bulletin board paper to the classroom, cutting and folding sheets into grids of small squares. Each square, I explained, would serve as a storyboard frame for their fables—a way to visually map out their tales, scene by scene. This approach transformed what could have been overwhelming into something manageable. I let them know they could write in whatever language they felt most comfortable with—their native language, English, or a combination. Code-switching was welcome, and collaboration encouraged.

A sixth-grade Korean student was the first to pick up some supplies and sit on the floor, spreading them out around her, ready to start her draft. Everyone looked at me, somewhat shocked, wondering what my reaction would be or what I might say. Nothing! I simply handed her a bilingual dictionary and invited anyone else to spread out however they wished. Soon, they all opted for the floor—perhaps for the novelty, perhaps for the freedom, or to try something different. I put on some classical music, setting the tone for a relaxed session. Students paired up to help each other with translations, laughed over their drawings, shared broken crayons, and found joy in the transgression of sitting on the floor.

“We ran out of yellow! How can that be possible?” one exclaimed. I watched them improvise by using glue and shaking yellow glitter over it, making suns and flowers.

Day by day, the energy in the classroom shifted. Hesitant voices found their rhythm, supported by the stories they were creating and by developing friendships. The students laughed as they figured out how to depict a silly baboon or a selfish seagull. In collaborating on their stories, they found safety—a way to share without fear of judgment.

One student, a boy from Egypt, wrote about an owl who had once been terrified of scary branches but learned, with friends’ guidance, to perch with ease. He shared his storyboard with the class, explaining in halting English how the owl’s journey mirrored his own fear of being in a new school. Another student from Mexico crafted a story about a seagull who didn’t want to share—a metaphor for conflicts with an older sibling. These stories were simple yet profound, revealing more about the students than they had shared in weeks of classroom interactions.

As the students continued to work on their fables, I began to understand the magnitude of what they were experiencing. Many had faced hardships most adults would struggle to endure. They had been uprooted from their homes, separated from family members, and thrust into a foreign environment. They were learning a new language, navigating a new culture, trying to make sense of it all—often without the support or resources they needed. Worse, many of them were struggling hard to feel accepted in their new country. They very much needed a space where they felt seen, heard, and valued.

At some point during the semester, I approached Purdue University hoping for a little help—perhaps a few college students willing to read with mine. What began as a simple ask turned into a powerful collaboration. The one-on-one mentoring provided by Purdue became a lifeline for my students—inspiring them and offering them a vision of what they, too, could one day become.

What began as a simple ask turned into a powerful collaboration.

When the Purdue students agreed to participate, it led to another inspiration: inviting parents for a storytelling night. My mantra is if I don’t ask, the answer is always no. I enlisted my students to help me with the invites. It felt like I was on a winning streak because these parents—often labeled as “disengaged”—came. The students shared their fables, reading them aloud to an audience of parents, teachers, administrators, and the college students who had helped support these young authors. A few students who opted to refrain from reading agreed to share their recordings instead.

The next day, when I set out to display my students’ work in the classroom, I discovered there wasn’t enough space to fit it all. Besides, it was clear it was too good to keep confined within those walls. I told them I would display their work in the hallways, and they eagerly offered to stay and help. Together, over the course of an afternoon after school was dismissed, we transformed the dark hallways into a vibrant gallery.

It seemed like a novelty for the school—where I’d rarely seen anything displayed on the hallway walls, much less something as vibrant as these illustrated stories. Everyone who passed by—teachers, custodians, students, visitors—paused to look. “These are so good!” students would say. The positive comments helped others see that the students’ limited English did not reflect limited intellect. For the first time, these students were perceived as talented and creative individuals who knew more than they could verbally express. Suddenly, my students were being approached by their English-speaking peers and invited to sit with them in the lunchroom.

For many, it was the first time they saw that their voices mattered—that their creativity could capture attention. They were no longer invisible; they were authors, artists, creators. Their work drew small crowds, gathering as if it were a museum exhibit. People didn’t just walk by; they stopped, read, contemplated, smiled, and congratulated the artists. Our hallway gallery had become more than a display. It was a bridge, built out of art and words, to connection and belonging.

The project helped turn our classroom into a true community, where students began to see each other not just as classmates but as friends, each with a story to tell and a lesson to share. For perhaps the first time, they saw common ground despite their differences.

“I thought I was a burden to my teachers because of my little English.” The room grew quiet, heavy with understanding . . .

One student, a girl from Japan, had written about a koi who carried her home on her back. She’d explained how the fish felt burdened but eventually found comfort in knowing she could swim on her own. As she shared her story one day, she said, “I thought I was a burden to my teachers because of my little English.” The room grew quiet, heavy with understanding and empathy.

My students had experienced circumstances that could have easily silenced them. But through storytelling and art, they found a way forward. They found joy in the creative process, in the act of making something meaningful out of their experiences. I learned that the power of storytelling lies not just in the stories themselves but in the act of sharing them—in the courage it takes to put your experiences into words and the compassion it takes to receive someone else’s story.

At first, like my colleagues, I also believed that “high-needs” meant we were poor. I discovered that we were rich—rich in spirit, in imagination, and in the quiet power of community resources that so often go unnoticed. We had public libraries, willing neighbors, and hallways that made space to become an exhibit of stories.

The university volunteers later told me that their time in our classroom became the most meaningful part of their teacher preparation. And for my students, those one-on-one sessions were more than help with reading—they were a rare and powerful gift of time.

This project wasn’t just about writing fables. It was about rewriting the story of who gets seen and who gets heard—about what becomes possible when we choose collaboration over isolation, creativity over scarcity, and kinship over assumption.

Featured photo by Max Ducourneau on Unsplash.