In classrooms where the voices of five- and six-year-olds shift naturally between English and Spanish, Camila Rico and Sandra Pinedo are doing work that runs deeper than vocabulary lists or reading benchmarks. They are helping young learners build two linguistic foundations at once—while quietly shaping confidence, identity, and a sense of belonging.

Camila teaches kindergarten. Sandra teaches first grade—including her own nephew, who arrived in Camila's kindergarten class the year before. Both are graduates of Monmouth-Roseville High School and Monmouth College, and both grew up in the community where they now teach. They bring more than a decade of experience between them, but they also bring something harder to measure: a lived understanding of what it means to navigate school as a child from a Spanish-speaking household.

Sandra is in her ninth year of teaching. Camila is entering her third year in the classroom after first serving as a family engagement coordinator. Teaching was not her original plan, but encouragement from district leadership nudged her toward the classroom. Once there, she discovered what had been missing. Being around the children—their questions, their humor, their growth—changed everything.

Both teachers work within Monmouth-Roseville's dual language program. Students learn to read, write, speak, and listen in both English and Spanish, often moving fluidly between the two. Sounds that exist in one language but not the other. Grammar rules that overlap—or don't. For students, this constant comparison becomes second nature. For teachers, it requires adaptability and humility.

Camila describes moments when students use regional vocabulary she may not recognize—a Puerto Rican student named Leah once used a word for lamp that Camila didn't know. "Every year I feel like I'm learning something," she says. Those moments become learning opportunities for everyone. Language is not static, and neither is culture.

What stands out most is how naturally students transfer skills between languages. Sandra explains that the repetition and reinforcement strengthen understanding. Students read more, write more, and practice more. They may not appreciate it yet, but they are building habits of mind that will serve them far beyond elementary school.

Both teachers see the long arc. Students arrive knowing little or no English, sometimes with limited Spanish literacy as well, and leave the year reading and writing in both languages. Camila recalls testing a student who entered kindergarten knowing no English and no Spanish—not a single letter. By year's end, that same child was identifying letter sounds and reading in Spanish. "I was so proud," she says. The pride was visceral.

Both admit to moments of doubt—imposter syndrome, Camila calls it—wondering whether a lesson truly landed. "It doesn't go away," Sandra says quietly. But those doubts are answered later, when something suddenly clicks for a child who once struggled.

For both educators, this work is deeply personal. Growing up, Spanish was often spoken at home but set aside at school. Formal dual language instruction did not exist for them as students. Camila was the first in her family to attend college. Now, they are helping create what they once lacked—an environment where language and culture are assets rather than obstacles.

Like many young people, Camila once felt restless in Monmouth. Over time, the perspective changed. The relationships, the memories, the shared experience of growing up here shaped her more than she realized. Teaching in the same district where she was once a student has deepened that connection. Sandra echoes the sentiment: while they had excellent teachers growing up, representation and structured language support were limited. Today's students benefit from both.

The children in their classrooms are already doing heavy intellectual lifting—learning how to learn, how to compare, how to adapt. Those skills will carry them into advanced coursework, new languages, and opportunities that may not yet be visible.

For now, the work happens at small tables and reading rugs, in conversations that blend languages and laughter. Neither teacher has children of their own—"These are my children," they say—but they see themselves in every student who navigates two worlds. They are part of a larger story, one that extends beyond their classrooms. As Camila puts it: "You feel proud, because that was once me. Now we're able to give back to these kids and let them have what we didn't have."