In my breakout room, the students and I do not even notice how fast time is passing by as we are doing homework and literacy activities. Until we see a ‘breakout room is closing in 60 seconds’ notification, signaling that it is time to say goodbye.

After looking at the notification a student says “I do not want to leave! If I press the little red ‘x’, can I stay on Zoom with you?”

My heart flutters hearing this and I say, “I wish we could stay for longer, but do not worry, I will see you next week!” At this point, there were still 40 seconds left until our breakout room was closing.

“Can I stay online with you for the next 40 seconds then?” the student asks.

“Of course!” I say with a beaming smile, we counted down until the very last second, 3...2...1...

Despite the Zoom call being disconnected, my heart felt connected and warm just from those extra 40 seconds I spent with my student. Now with every online tutoring session, we make sure to stay online until the very last second.

A student arrived at the library after school one day, and came over to our team, assisting other students with their homework. He wondered curiously, tentatively who we were.  

          “We’re Friends of Simon,” I responded.

          “Simon?”

          “Tutors from Simon Fraser University,” I clarified.

          “And you come here to help us with our homework?”

          “Yes, every Monday and Wednesday.”

          He looked astonished.

          “Can you help me . . .  with my English?” he blurted.

          “Yep, of course.”

          “Chemistry?”

          “Sure!”

          “Math?”

          “We can help you with all your homework, man.”

          “Wow! What a program!”

          He shook each of us by the hand to thank us for our time. And joined Friends of Simon. 

Tutoring students in my former high school every Monday and Wednesday, for the past two years, has rounded out my school life, enabled it to come full circle, complete.

To give back to the school that gave me so many opportunities, as a shy teenager, to join the circle and find my voice, has been so rewarding.

To get to know new students who walk the same hallways I did, and to listen to them and help them process their experiences, has helped my tutoring focus on reaching out, sharing, building relationships. 

I’m appreciating something of the role tutors play in their students’ lives.  

The students are curious to learn about us. I’m often asked all kinds of questions—and then some—from, “Why are you here?” to “What is it like to be old?” to “What do you plan to be?”

This leads to the student sharing about themselves.

These exchanges animate our relationships. 

Maggie, a student at Cariboo Hill Secondary, never spoke a word to me for the first three months of tutoring.

Every session, I would say, “Hello, Maggie!” as she entered the room; this would be acknowledged with barely a nod.

Over time, my “Hello, Maggie” became, “How are you, Maggie?”, and was returned with a smile.

These exchanges deepened with the card game “Speed”. Maggie adored Speed, and if I let her, she would play it for the entire two hours.

Two semesters on, with summer and winter breaks in between, I sat next to Maggie on her return from one of these breaks. I asked her, “What did you do?”  I thought the response would be a “Nothing”.

But Maggie burst into a smile and told me all about her trip to Whistler with her family—illustrated with pictures on her phone!

I nodded attentively and listened and asked questions; inside, I was exploding with excitement.

I guess, over time, those “Hello, Maggie’s” must have counted for something.   

Sam, a student at Byrne Creek but not a member of the program, sat down with us. We asked him if he wanted help with his homework, and explained what Friends of Simon is about.

Sam expressed surprise there was such a program. As we helped him, he repeatedly thanked us, and signed up for the program.

There are many students, like Sam, who have a hunger and ambition to succeed but need that hand up to make it happen.

Friends of Simon can be that hand up for these students.

At our site, we begin with a light, gentle, playful prompt to ease students into the session.  

Once, we invited them: “Tell us about a dream.”

Farid said, wistfully, in his native Arabic, "I dreamt I was back home in the bosom of family and friends."  

Many of our immigrant and refugee students are homesick and need an open and listening heart to help them ease into their new home in this land.

We fill in as best we can.

The school’s site coordinator asked us “what on earth” we tutors had been doing over the past weeks. 

A parent had reported that since joining the Friends of Simon program, her son had been eagerly working on his homework every night.

The few hours a week we spent with this boy had dramatically changed his attitude and work habits—from bridling at facing homework to diligently completing it and even enjoying it!

I nervously walk into Green Timbers – a brand-new tutor who knows well the need to know every student’s name.

Fast forward to the following week. I begin handing out puzzle game sheets to each student–making sure I say each child’s name aloud as I place the sheets on the table in front of them.

When I come to the last student, Raj, try as I might, I cannot recall his name. 

As I place the puzzle sheet before him, he teases, “Betcha you don’t know my name.”

He’s right. He knows.

That was the launch of our relationship on a deeper level . . . and I’ve never forgotten Raj–or his name.

“Will you come to my water polo tournament?” Tom asks.

“I don’t think so, Tom. Let’s get back to our homework,” I reply . . .   “Just so you know, though, I’m rooting for you from afar.”

I have a struggling grade 10 student, Sophie, who constantly asks me how to get jobs, how to ace interviews, and how to create winning resumes.

Sophie is consumed with the idea of employment.  I ask her why she feels the need to get a job. She tells me her mother can’t find work here in Vancouver, as she can’t speak English; and Sophie’s dad can’t afford to pay for her and her sister’s post-secondary education.

This means that Sophie must work every day after school, to save up for her post-secondary education.

I can see that Sophie juggles between stressing out about her future studies and her current ones. As her tutor, I know I have a responsibility to encourage her to complete her homework assignments, but I also believe it is just as important to know when to put homework aside and deal with students’ obstacles.

I want to show the students that I’m not just a tutor, but also someone to whom they can turn to talk about their lives.  

The father of one of our students, Rowan, passed away the day before winter break. Despite this, Rowan never misses a session.

One day, another tutor was helping him with Math. Rowan was distressed that he was still was not grasping the concept. He said, "My mom can’t do this . . . but my dad used to help me."

There was a slight, uncomfortable silence.  

The tutor responded: "You're doing great! Once we're done this worksheet, you'll be able to teach your mom!"

And he carried on tutoring Rowan. 

In my first semester as a tutor at Princess Margaret Secondary, I met Azan. He was painfully shy, seemingly uncomfortable talking with his peers and even his older brother. He looked down at his desk and didn’t acknowledge us.

Over time, we developed a relationship. I learned that Azan liked it better when I sat beside him (duh!) instead of standing beside him, leaning over to answer his questions or guide him through his work. He started laughing at my lame jokes, shared experiences. As he came into the room, he’d look around to make eye contact with me, as if to telepathically call me over.

I became known as the "Azan whisperer". To this day, I have that title. 

One of the students, Mary, asked me why we pose these playful questions on the board at the start of each session. Like, 'If you could have any superpower, what would it be?'.

I said the questions let us all get to know one another in a more persona way. I said, "I'm interested in knowing about you because that's how we build relationships, through such interesting conversations. Remember how last week, Sally wrote something silly on the board for her superpower, and we asked her why she wrote that, and she told us all a personal story, giving us a better understanding of who she is?"

Mary looked at me wide-eyed: “Wow, I didn't know you cared about us to want to know answers to silly questions like that.”

The questions on the board get students engaged from the very beginning of the session. They are a form of attendance-taking and also give the students access to their snacks. But above all, they allow us to playfully get to know one another in a less formal way.

I sit down next to the young woman. Tears are rolling down her face as she cries: "She called me ugly because I'm so black. No boy is going to like me because I'm so dark. I'm ugly and I'm black and she hates me."

I pick up her hand, hold it in mine, let her lean on me.

I say, "You are beautiful, and kind, and funny, and I wish I had a smile as big as yours. Brown girls like you and me change the world and the way they see us. But it starts with knowing our worth."

She’s reading the care and empathy in my eyes.

I let her sit for a moment, still holding her hand. Then I pull her up and dare her to beat me in a skipping rope contest.

She laughs and says, "Watch me." 

It's time for the students to get to their homework.

Cora tells me she doesn’t have homework. Cora often says this, but, according to her teachers, she’s behind.

I ask her again and she repeats to me that she really doesn’t have homework.

We get into a conversation that gets into honesty and integrity. Cora tells me if she owns up to something, her teacher gets upset with her. And when she's honest at home, her mum yells at her for whatever she admits to.

So, Cora tells me, it’s just easier to lie.

I want our after-school program to be a safe place where students can be themselves and be accepted instead of being met with intimidation that leads to dishonesty, guilt, and shame.

I’m reading with John about a boy who goes grocery shopping for his mom. John’s excited to tell me all about his mom in their kitchen, and what they eat at home.

When we come to the part of the story where the boy is buying ingredients for baking, I ask John if, by any chance, he likes cupcakes. His eyes widen as he tells me about his favourite treat!

The following week, when we bring cupcakes for the students to ice and decorate, John beams: "You remembered!"

A finger poking at my arm, a sense of urgency.

“I have to go to the market after school with my brother, to buy tomatoes,” Badr says, tilting back his head, crossing his arms proudly.

“Wow! How will you pick them?” I ask.

“Only the best ones, of course,” he giggles. “That’s what I always do. I learned that when I was three!” he says confidently, throwing his arms up in the air, hopping back to his seat.

It's time to practice alliteration.

“Mini Mina, because I’m littlest in my class! But also, Magical Mina!” Mina declares

"Ummm… Elegant Emily,” Emily chimes.

“Timid Tony,” Tony adds.

“Tremendous Tomi!” Tomi says, in a fierce, stentorian voice

The room is silent. It's Mio’s turn.

 “Hey, Mio, how about Magical Mio?” Mina offers.

Mio shakes her head. She thinks, and thinks; takes her time; fidgets with her hands…

She looks up, whispers something.  

“One more time?” I ask.

“Marvelous Mio” she says softly, smiling to herself, as she wiggles in her seat, sitting up straighter.

“Alright, so let’s all gather on the carpet, and read this book together!”

Rowan hurries over, leading the way. The students gather around.

Emily raises her hand. “Hey, can I read the book to everyone today?” she begs, folding her hands.

“Of course you can!!!” Anika, a tutor, responds excitedly.

Emily is delighted. She takes her seat in the rocking chair, holds the book in one arm, slowly flips the pages with the other hand.

She looks just like we tutors do, when we tell stories during Storytime. She reads each page and displays the pictures all around, turning the book so everyone can see.

Emily is teaching.

His desk is tidy, his homework complete. He has a few moments of free time. He begins by making funny faces, and asks for some in return.

And then he starts telling us about...

Animals in Kyrgyzstan. His favourite toque and the pom-pom which fell off. YouTube. Water polo. Being tired. Sketching. Russia. His best friend. His mum’s boots. Setting the table at home. The sketchbook he’s going to share with us next week after homework time.

Time to go home.

“But I don’t want to leave yet!” Sam says.

“Neither do I” I reply, reassuringly.

"I have to write about my career goals . . . and I'm not sure how to explain them," the student says softly, holding up a blank piece of paper.

"Well, why don't we talk about that?" I ask.

The conversation turns into a recollection of Abdi's coming to Canada as a refugee. He proudly explains, "So I want to be a computer engineer, so I can fix connections for people who try to Skype their grandparents in Jordan, when they're really far away, just like I am…"...  

In moments, Abdi has shared with me an important source of motivation and joy in his life.

I thank him for inspiring me.

He beams . . . and the words begin to flow on the page before him.

A grade 11 boy was asking me about university, and how to apply: "I want to become a police officer, but I don't know where to go."

I helped him research the process for joining the VPD.

I asked Laila, the girl sitting next to him, what she wanted to do after high school.

"Oh, me, I'm not smart enough to get into university.”

"Of course you’re smart enough! We just have to study extra hard in our tutoring sessions and you need to do more reading at home; but I know you can get into university."

One day, the following year, Laila comes into the computer lab, walks up to me, and declares matter-of-factly: "Today, I want to apply to schools."

Laila’s currently studying nursing at Kwantlen University—and loving every moment.

The Friends of Simon Tutoring Program is a safe space for all students—whoever they are and whoever they’re friends with; however they look; wherever they come from or are going to; whatever they think, or feel, or believe. We are a place of belonging and hope. 

One of my tutees, Malaya, was struggling with acceptance from her family and peers, as she embraced her developing identity as a transgender young woman. She was feeling an outcast—her very existence a violation of everything she was supposed to be and feel and think and do.

One day, Malaya asks me: "Are you Filipina?"

“O-o" I respond in Tagalog. “Indeed, I am!" I beam with pride.

She’s thrilled: "That's so cool, Ate!" she says with excitement.

“Ate” — pronounced A-the — is an honorific we use to address older female relatives, and, by extension, others we honour, and respect, and cherish.

From that moment, Malaya addressed me as “Ate”, rather than by my first name. I was no longer just her tutor. I was an honoured mentor with a duty of care to offer unconditional acceptance and regard, and model the role of a cherished Ate in a family.

Over time, our relationship has grown us both; helped each of us navigate our journeys between our cultures of origin and our adoptive country. And just as much as it has shaped Malaya (free, independent, in Tagalog) as a developing transgender young woman, our relationship has shaped my development from recently-immigrated, young Filipina youth to new Canadian adult and community leader.

We had fruits and vegetables set up on the table where the kids could shop for 3 vegetables and 2 pieces of fruit they would like in their fruit cocktail.

No one likes carrot and spinach juice with apples. 

Abdisa standing with his friends looks up at me, and says, "Um, is this gonna be good for my soccer?" 

I say, "Yes......"

Before I can explain why, he turns to Elamin and says, "Let’s just hold our nose and gulp it down.  It's for soccer, you know — so let's pick these two vegetables."

At one of my sites, Joe is dropped off by his mom, while she works as a janitor at the library. I've been told his mom is a struggling single parent.

Each session, we give the children a juice box and a granola bar as a snack.

When Joe picks up his snack, he invariably tells me he’s hungry, and he asks for another. I’ve overheard him, as his mom drops him off, telling her he’s hungry; but she just smiles and shrugs off his statement, telling him it is important to study.

One session, Joe surprised us by declining to join us, to sit on his own to read. At the end of the day, as we put everything away, we realized Joe had chosen to sit out and read because he was able that way to get a few extra granola bars without our noticing.

Our refugee students at Burnaby North are on fire. As English language learners, they push themselves hard to keep up in their school classes along with their English-speaking peers.  They insist on having tutoring sessions during their own breaks— on early dismissal days, every Pro-D day, every seasonal break.

While they are just starting to grasp the English language, the majority of them can communicate in several other languages fluently, skills often overlooked in an English-speaking classroom.

These students place a enormous value on Friends of Simon, emphasizing that we provide hope for them to look past their hardships to a bright future. 

These students are an inspiration to me to me.

I don't know the struggles that my students experience. I'm an English-speaker, and I’m not multilingual. I was born here in Canada, and I say that to my students when they ask me where I'm from, even though I know that they're actually trying to ask me what my ethnic background is.

My students hail from Syria. They speak Kurdish, Arabic and English. Reading and writing in English is difficult for them. I’ve never experienced this difficulty. When I read my science textbooks in the tenth grade, I understood the concepts, because I understood the language they were written in.

One of my students, Karza, doesn't have this advantage. His conversational English is fluent, and we both understand each other. But reading and writing are hard for him. He may know the concepts to study in his science class, but he can't make full sense of the English.

What can I do for Karza, when I don't understand this struggle firsthand? I'm still figuring that out. But until I do, I listen. I talk with him, since conversing is something he does best. I listen to him as he explains why science is so difficult. And I encourage him. I tell him that he faces a struggle that I, at 21 years old, have never faced. And I tell him that the three languages he speaks comprise a wonderful, useful skill.

I want Karza to know that he is definitely good at something, something I’m not. I want him to know that I admire his multilingualism. I encourage his using Kurdish and Arabic. I tell him to never let those languages go, because I want him to know the value of who he is, the languages he speaks, and the culture that makes up his very being.

Jenny’s mind is so open. She never fails to ask deep, complex questions and is receptive to any answer. She engages me in perplexing, horizon-broadening conversations. 

This week, Jenny asked me how I learn. We had a conversation about the different types of learning (auditory, visual, kinesthetic, etc.) and shared with each other different ways to study different types of material for different outcomes (papers, quizzes, etc.).

At the end of the session, Jenny exclaimed how much she enjoys learning.

Our online sessions are rich with learning on both sides.

I walk into the classroom for the first time—I am a returning tutor joining this site during the middle of the semester.

I have a unique hairstyle with a half shaved head and curly ombre hair.

The students stare at me as I go to put my bag down. I look at each of them in turn and smile.

One of the students asks me, “Are you a girl with a boy hairstyle?”

I smile and answer, “Yes I am a girl, with a different hairstyle; thanks for asking.”

The student continues, “I’ve never seen that style before.”

I walk to the middle of the room where the students are sitting and announce, “Well, now you have. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

The other tutors join me, and we begin the session.

Alright, I admit it.  I chose a table I thought would be less hassle to work with, compared to the other groups at the site.

One minute we were laughing and quietly working on our arts and crafts; the next, I had to console a little girl at our table of four, who burst out crying because she felt targeted and bullied by one of the boys earlier in the week.  

This was when I realized that no student is "easy" to work with, nor do they have it "easy" because they seem to be less trouble, or fail to voice their frustrations as much as other, more expressive students.

I work with students who are struggling with English.  

I witness them all gradually using more of the language, confidently, creatively.

And I hear them increasingly make suggestions or requests for what they want to learn, as they make use of the opportunities for help that we create for them.

She comes in—new to the group, shyly approaching.
I greet her with a smile, words, and warmth.
I think: make her feel welcome, make her feel she belongs.

She tells me her stories. She shares with me her hopes.
I tell her I am there for her.

Time goes by. On wings. Lines of students ask for help.
I am an octopus, all of my tentacles occupied with people and tasks

The end of her first session.
I walk up to her for the second time.
I smile: “How did it go?”
She looks directly at me: “You never came by to help me.”

I’m taken aback. Panick.
I make excuses, I defend myself, I try to reason with her.
I look into her eyes and I see that I am losing her.

I pause. I think.

I am so sorry.
I understand you.
You are right.

She looks at me again:
“I did get lots done though,” a smile playing on her face.
I return the smile.

We talk. We laugh. We connect.

The next week, she comes again.
I smile. She smiles.

During homework time, one of the students, Marc, is confiding how he hasn't done much work, or taken school seriously, his whole time at Banting Middle School.

I understand where he's coming from.

In a while, I find a way in for him to set a goal and complete some homework.

He doesn’t complete the assignment, but he finishes what he'd set out to do in the time that we had.

Small wins matter in instances like these.

On my first day of tutoring with Friends of Simon, we did a colouring exercise built around math equations.

I sat beside one of the older girls in the group, talking with her as she coloured. I asked her if she enjoyed colouring. Her eyes still glued to the page, she said she loved it: "Back at home, we didn't have this. So I couldn't colour."

At that moment, I realized how most of these youth didn't often have these privileges of being able to go to an after-school tutoring program, or to learn math in school, or to even have pencil crayons to colour.

We're able to give them something they can enjoy and learn from. And the gift for us is that we get to do this with them.

The story was about a giant and a giant killer, and it concerned moral ambiguity . . .  and who was the true villain?  Jamal was sure that the story was black and white and obvious . . .  but on further reflection, he looked at me in surprise: and said "Wow! This story’s actually deep and relevant for today."

The story had become a platform for discussion on what constituted right and wrong: was the giant evil because he accidentally stepped on people? Or was it the giant-killer who was evil because he slayed giants?

Our students are capable of having deep conversations: they just need to be given the opportunity, and have someone ask them powerful questions and listen seriously to their opinions.

We have a high school student, Aslam, who came here as a refugee. He’s with us every Tuesday, open-hearted, enthusiastic, and putting in huge amounts of effort.

He doesn't have enough time in the classroom to finish his work, and likely doesn't have anyone at home with either the time or knowledge to help him with his math. So he’s also joined the Friends of Simon Online tutoring program.

The tutors can tell his positive attitude is contagious in the classroom, and see his example as just as powerful for other students as any tutor’s. He and others like him show the positive effects Friends of Simon have on the lives of recent immigrants and refugees who need the extra help to not only learn content but English as well.

A student came in with a math problem she was having difficulties solving. As I was reading it over, I realized that it was a question dealing with permutations—something I hadn't seen for a while.

Eventually, I got to a solution and it was correct, but I didn't understand it. But instead of telling the student to just go with the solution, I told her to ask her teacher why it was what it was; and then to come back to me the following week with the full answer.

The student did just that and the following week and explained to me how the answer worked.

I was able to learn from my student while (hopefully) showing her the importance of understanding how you get to an answer rather than just finding the solution.

I was walking around, seeing which students needed help or attention. Then I saw this little girl, nothing before her, just just looking out the window.

I offered her a word scramble puzzle. I did not know her or her language level. Once I explained how to unscramble words, she quickly finished the whole puzzle sheet in record time.

She taught me not to judge by appearances or make assumptions.  

My first session as a tutor, I noticed one boy, sitting quietly apart from the group, staring at the ground. I approached him, extended my hand and introduced myself, as I had with the other students. 

"What's your name?" I asked

"I'm Santa Claus" he replied " No, I'm Jesus... No, I'm 'I Don't Want To Be Bothered' "

"Ok, Santa," I answered "I won't bother you anymore" 

I walked away, considering how I would reach out to 'IDWTBB.'

Later, someone let slip me that this boy loved video games.

I figured it was worth a try, and asked him;

"Have you played Minecraft?"

This opened the floodgates. He began telling me of all his virtual adventures and experiences, a smile on his face and excitement in his eyes. 

Weeks later, he introduced himself, using his real name (I think), shaking me by the hand.  

He doesn’t seem to want to be there. His mother, who works as a janitor in the school’s library where we tutor, brings him to us while she’s working her shift.

Most of the time, Joe just sits and stares and avoids engaging with anyone, and pushes us away.

We’ve learned to give him lots of space: rather than checking in with him, we ask Joe, at the beginning of the session, what he has to work on, and to just let us know if he needs help.

He’s becoming more open to being here . . .

It was the first time in about a year that I came back to the Guildford site to sub for a lead tutor. As I was walking towards the room, there stood Catherine, from the year before, her face brightly alight to see me again.  

Catherine gave me some drawings she had done and, afterwards, during free time, she sat beside me and updated me on her life.

I’m working with Mo, in grade 7, on her writing.

Today, as she tells me the story, I type it out for her. I tell her she’s a writer.

She says, "No, I’m not.  Anyway, I won't be able to go to school after high school. So . . . no point even thinking about it."

I ask, "Why not?"  

She pauses: "Well, it's kinda expensive isn't it?"

I say it can be, but there are ways to get assistance—like scholarships and bursaries.

She’s surprised to hear about all the opportunities. After we brainstorm the many avenues she can pursue a post-secondary education, she says, "Maybe. Maybe I can do it." 

I was working with a student at Port Moody Middle, and he seemed to be exhausted and distracted.

I asked him if he got enough sleep the night before. He said he couldn’t sleep at night.

Later, when I told the lead tutor about it, he said that the student’s dad had recently passed away and he had not been coping well.

Sometimes we forget that our students are children and youth first and above all, young people with real lives.

I was working with a student at Port Moody Middle, and he seemed to be exhausted and distracted.

I asked him if he got enough sleep the night before. He said he couldn’t sleep at night.

Later, when I told the lead tutor about it, he said that the student’s dad had recently passed away and he had not been coping well.

Sometimes we forget that our students are children and youth first and above all, young people with real lives.