Teaching and Truth-Telling

"Our course syllabus states that if I see or hear a phone during a class session, I will ask the owner to leave.  Because I have seen your cell phone out during today’s class, you need to leave immediately and quietly, and you will receive an absence for today.  Before returning to our next class session, you must meet with me during my office hours.  Please email or call to set an appointment time.”

This message is on a slip of paper I handed to a student yesterday. It was our third class meeting.

On Day One, we reviewed the course syllabus. I made sure to emphasize the importance of students leaving their cell phones off and stored away.  Despite these instructions, this student kept his iphone in plain sight—alternating between setting it on his desk and making good use of it.  At one point during class, I spoke with him privately about needing to put it in his backpack.

On Day Three, he repeatedly composed text messages during our class-wide discussion.

Our topic?   The value of a college education.
The course?  College Success.

He announced that this was his second time to take the course, since he stopped attending last semester after three weeks.  On his student information form, he listed one of his other teachers as “witch.”

And I lost count of how many times he said, “I don’t really care” during class.

But as his fellow students were moving into groups, I discreetly gave him the above-mentioned slip of paper.

Suddenly, he started caring.

I’m not certain of all he said, but I definitely heard “drop this class,” this before he slammed the door--hard.  We all heard that.

Later, I received an email saying how unfair I am.   The subject line for his parting words?  666.

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That was yesterday.

Today, do I regret my actions?

Should I regret them?

Earlier in my teaching career, it’s likely that I would have said “yes.”

If someone had described yesterday’s events to the teacher I was two decades ago, I might have said I had sympathy for her.  Secretly, though, I would’ve believed that the teacher could have—no, should have—handled the situation differently. I would have thought that her inability to engage the student, shown clearly by his unwillingness to comply with her expectations, was an obvious indicator of her need to significantly adjust her approach.

I would have believed she needed to be, well, more.
More welcoming.
More winsome.
More relatable.
More patient.
More articulate.
More flexible.

More willing to meet the student right where he was.

I would have put an invisible black mark by her name—a reminder that I would not be modeling my teaching after hers.

I would have viewed her as something other than the kind of teacher I wanted to be. And I would have worked hard—really hard—to avoid coming anywhere close to a situation that would call me to dismiss a student from my class.

That was then.

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Now, I’ve taught off and on for around two decades, mostly at my current community college.  And I love teaching.  Love my students.  Love challenging them to learn, grow, sharpen their skills.  Love watching many of them do just that.  Love the opportunity to perhaps make a small contribution to that process.

But I’ve certainly had my share of classroom challenges:

The student who seems fiercely committed to sabotaging my efforts at helping him learn.

The student whose dogged determination to do good work is overbalanced by significant deficits in foundational academic skills.

The student who mistakes my concern for her as a person with my intention to give her a good grade, regardless of the quality of her work.

The student who resents the whole notion of needing a college degree in order to qualify for a job.

The student whose general disenchantment with our educational system causes her to mistrust anyone claiming to possess knowledge that she might benefit from exploring, learning about, developing.

Such individuals appear in my classroom more rarely than those who are academically prepared, personally motivated, trusting of the educational system.  But the more challenging students do arrive on a regular basis. And though their presence adds a level of difficulty to the experience of teaching, I also believe each one of them offers something important to the classroom.

Why?  I suppose it has to do with my own belief—rooted in my faith—that each student, regardless of his or her abilities or attitude, has unique and vital gifts to offer his or her world.  My world.

So even during moments when a student’s actions make it difficult to view him or her from that perspective, I do try.

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I’m sure the student I dismissed yesterday did not experience my actions as caring.  The email he sent later made his perspective abundantly clear.

But that doesn’t mean his perspective is accurate.

As I tell my classes each semester, I am charged with what I consider a hefty responsibility:  My role as their teacher is to nurture the knowledge and skills that will help them achieve their goals on the job and in life. And each student has something—often many somethings—that he or she will need to learn in order to reach those goals.

This need to learn more isn’t a deficiency. It’s merely a fact. And regardless of whatever “shortcomings” my students might have, I’m confident that they are capable of good things, that they have something valuable to offer their community.  So when a student is selling himself short, or robbing herself (or others) of the opportunity to learn, I’d rather that student hear it from me now, instead of from a used-to-be-employer.

Some will suggest that I should have politely ignored his behavior.  Twenty years ago, I would have said the same.  And what if I had taken the high road, courteously turned a blind eye? Wouldn’t that be the more magnanimous response? 

Consider this:

Pretending along with this student that his actions are acceptable seems a bit like being an accomplice to a behavior that is likely to hurt him in the long run. If malevolence is wishing or acting in a way that will bring ill on a student, that kind of “magnanimity” seems terribly short-sighted, and maybe even selfish:  By turning a blind eye, I’m not taking the high road; I’m taking the easy one—and at my student’s expense.

I have to wonder how, where, and from whom this young man came to believe that such behaviors are going to work for him on the job and in life.  I can’t answer that question (though I have a few theories); however, I certainly don’t want to reinforce that idea.  If I do, I am selling him a lie.

Sometimes telling the truth is going to create discomfort. For all of us.

It certainly did yesterday.

A few decades ago, I would have seen that discomfort as a cue that I needed to be more as a teacher, or perhaps expect less from my students.

Today, I see it differently.