Here’s a dirty little secret: teachers don’t like all their students. Some of them are jerks, and we wish they weren’t in our classes. We try to be compassionate, but despite our best intentions, sometimes we just give up.
Obvious, no? It should be. Teachers are people with emotions and opinions just like anyone else, but I have this teensy-little problem with self-delusion. (See my post about traveling to London.) I left my education program with the absurd conviction that I would change lives, inspire the listless, and turn even the most resistant student into a fervent, life-long English enthusiast. Yeah, right.
My first year teaching high school was a nightmare. (Later, I learned this is true for most newbies.) I was 27, looked about 18, and had absolutely no idea how to relate to teenagers. My optimism gave way to desperation as I realized my so-called “radical” teaching methods were useless without classroom management, and my classes were chaotic. Like so many other young grads before me, I wanted to be the “cool” teacher, but I wasn’t cool. I was a mess.
Evan was the first student I gave up on. He led his best friend Darnell in an ongoing plot to derail my class. They rarely showed up and when they did, they actively tried to upset me. They were totally up-front about this, grinning with satisfaction when I lost my cool. Evan and Darnell never, ever did any work, never even brought backpacks to class, and frequently interrupted me and their classmates by shouting random, rude nonsense. Sometimes they’d just hop up and walk around the classroom. Sometimes, they’d just get up and leave. I didn’t mind, because if they didn’t leave on their own, I inevitably had to kick them out. Even after they’d gone, though, restoring classroom order was nigh impossible. I breathed easier when they were absent.
Midway through the second quarter, I’d given up on my cheerful circle of desks and reinstituted regimental rows. (A useless solution.) I’d positioned Evan and Darnell on opposite sides of the room, and Evan sat front and center. (Bad idea.) One day, Evan stood and left. I didn’t expect him to return, but he did. He sat quietly at his desk for a few minutes before I smelled something burning. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from Evan’s head.
“Evan,” I said calmly, “You seem to be on fire.”
The class went insane with laughter. I quickly reassured myself the fire extinguisher still hung on the wall. Would I actually put him out if he burst into flame? No idea.
Evan stood and, with a sloth-like languor I couldn’t duplicate even if I tried, walked to the trash can. Looking straight at me, he reached deep into the pocket of his jeans and removed a smoldering cigarette, its end glowing red. Apparently, he’d shoved a still-burning cigarette into his pocket. Yeah, he was that bright. He smashed out the burning ash with his bare fingers, threw the cigarette into the trash, and, with the same impossible slowness, returned to his seat.
Naturally, I kicked him out, and later I told the principal he was no longer welcome in my classroom. Darnell didn’t return either, probably in solidarity. Fine with me. I couldn’t be sorry they were gone, but I did feel sorry for failing to reach them. They obviously needed close, personal attention and serious guidance, but I wasn’t able to give it to them.
My second year was better. I learned that logical, clear rules actually help students learn and aren’t always restrictive. I tried desperately to be fair, consistent and not lose my temper. Sometime during that year’s second quarter, I moved the desks back into a circle. For the past ten years, I’ve taught college composition. I still feel bad when I lose a student, but I realize it’s impossible to reach everybody. I know every semester there will be a student or two I just won’t like. I don’t torment myself. Instead, I try to keep a sense of humor, focus on the students who actually want my help, and remember that for every student who drives me nuts, twenty others are great.
Visit Renee Cohn at 2000 Irises
Photo by Rachel Groves
