In recent times, I’ve engaged in considerable self-reflection, a process that often accompanies significant life transitions. It’s common to look back on past decisions and consider how they have shaped our current circumstances, and whether they have aided or hindered our aspirations.
Many memories from my years as an educator resurface, particularly during my tenure at a Catholic high school. How I arrived there is a tale for another day; for now, it suffices to say that I did.
The atmosphere in Catholic classrooms is quite distinctive. Dressed in formal attire—ties, plaid skirts, charcoal pants, and button-down shirts—we present a façade that signifies the gravity and sanctity of education. However, often only one individual in the room genuinely believes in this symbolism at a time, and it wasn’t always me.
I taught subjects such as morality and social justice, yet I eventually realized that the most meaningful experiences in my classroom weren’t about memorized facts or dissected principles. They were intangible and not easily quantifiable.
Contrary to popular belief, the most fulfilling aspect of teaching isn’t when students finally grasp the material you’re conveying. Instead, it is those moments of genuine connection. Instances when the barrier of “teacher” and “student” dissolves, leaving two individuals simply listening to one another. Achieving this in a classroom setting is a challenge; teachers instruct and students learn, leading to mutual frustration if either party falters. But to set aside those roles and engage in authentic listening requires immense trust.
As a sixteen-year-old, it’s daunting to have an adult in a suit dictating everything from bathroom breaks to grades that will influence your college admission. Likewise, it’s equally challenging for a twenty-something teacher, whose livelihood hinges on student performance, to truly listen, especially when faced with the reality of late-night grading and the likelihood of academic dishonesty.
Yet, when these connections occur, they are nothing short of miraculous.
I recall a particular incident with a student who passionately debated the topic of premarital sex throughout an entire class. She disrupted my lesson, often coming off as combative and disrespectful. I made a conscious effort to remain composed and resist turning the exchange into a debate. It wasn’t until later that day when she visited my classroom to reveal that she didn’t actually hold those beliefs; she was advocating for a friend who needed to hear my perspective. This act of advocacy paved the way for a meaningful discussion.
Another vivid memory involves a student who initially disliked me but ultimately earned the title of best student in my class. Her surprise at receiving that recognition and our ensuing conversation about her evolving feelings towards my class was enlightening. Despite her reservations about faith and the church, she opened up about her life experiences before turning seventeen. Tragically, she passed away shortly after graduation, but I cherish the bond we developed.
I also remember a moment when students respectfully pointed out a logical fallacy in my lecture about same-sex marriage. While it didn’t alter the church’s stance, it certainly transformed our dialogue. Later in the year, another student confided in me about his sexual orientation and shared how my earlier comments had deeply affected him. My subsequent apology allowed us to reconnect and foster a more open dialogue.
However, not every student found the courage to confront me. It’s unfortunate that bravery is the word I associate with their silence. I often wonder where they are now. Have they closed off from educators altogether because they felt unheard? In my attempts to convey absolutes, I failed to appreciate the complex narratives that shaped their realities.
Every year, a group of youth ministers would come to our school to conduct a retreat, expressing their belief that our institution was particularly challenging because students seemed disengaged. In hindsight, I understand their perspective; if I struggled to listen, why would they feel encouraged to do so?
Since those early days of teaching, I have transformed. No longer the fresh graduate eager to impart knowledge from atop a desk like Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, I have learned to listen better. My views on the situations I described have evolved. Personally, I have come to accept my identity as a gay man, living with my partner, which has further shaped my perspective. Life’s challenges have eroded the rigid ideologies that once confined me.
I’ve realized that knowledge is not static; it evolves over time. The healthiest growth arises from open, honest exchanges. When individuals muster the courage to share their experiences, it is crucial to absorb those narratives without judgment.
To the students I failed to listen to, I offer my sincerest apologies. I regret not being the educator I was meant to be. While I was employed to grade assignments, I ultimately failed in my most important duty—to be present and attentive. I wish you felt comfortable reaching out to share your stories now, as they are undoubtedly valuable. Let’s engage in honest conversation, devoid of uniforms, lesson plans, or notes.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, the author expresses remorse for not listening to students during his teaching career, recounting significant interactions that highlight the importance of connection and empathy in the classroom. He acknowledges personal growth and the evolution of his perspectives, wishing he had fostered a more inclusive environment for all students.