In another life, 13 years ago, I was a high school English teacher.  In the years since my  immersion in all things classroom-y, I have thought hard about what makes a good teacher.  And whether I was a good teacher.  I mean…I know I was hard-working.  And knowledgeable and competent in my subject.  I also know that I cared about my students and put in many, many hours preparing lessons and grading essays.  But…was I good in the ways that really mattered?  What did my students remember (if anything) about my class years after the fact?

Well, thanks to Facebook, I got some completely unsolicited answers to my lingering question.  I want to share one of those answers–and tell you how it has influenced my thinking about teaching and learning in general.

First, some context.  The school was a small, private, Baptist-run deal.  Strict as all get-out, with high (some would say impossible) standards for student conduct.  For a teacher, this ethos translates into a real danger of equating good conduct with good learning.  I tried hard not to confuse the two–and I was often taken to task by the administration for being too lax.

So, back to the Facebook message.  Paul shared with me, out of the blue, his favorite memory from my class….

I remember one of my fellow students…had written a poem once that he read aloud in your class. He was sort of melancholy for melancholy’s sake and his poem was free form and rife with unpleasant and profane imagery. When he finished, there was an awkward silence, and you thanked him and quickly moved on.

I don’t know if you ever addressed it with him in private or anything, but I always respected that fact that, although you were perhaps caught off guard, you seemed to maintain the belief that if that was the way he felt, then he was entitled to express that rather than pretend he was feeling all “butterflies and roses” and make something up that wasn’t true.

I had forgotten that little incident.  How interesting that Paul didn’t particularly remember Whitman’s or Shelley’s poetry–he remembered his classmate’s poetry.  And my reaction to it.  And somehow, in an unguarded moment…I had passed a test that I was unaware of taking.

Like most moms, I value all that gets “covered” in my kids’ classes.  I esteem teacher competency and want rigorous standards.  But I’ll never forget that short message from a man who is now close to 30.  He was a quiet, slightly lazy, smart, sardonic adolescent who enjoyed doing Beavis and Butthead impersonations when called upon.  And what he remembered most about my class was the comfort that came from knowing that he didn’t have to manufacture something for me that wasn’t true.

I thought back on those times when I have most eagerly lapped up learning–and I saw the wisdom of Paul’s observation.  I learn best when I feel my “true voice” is accepted and respected.  Don’t you?

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