Mr. Emden is a pseudonym for a second-year high school teacher in Brooklyn.
As the first semester of this school year ended, I thought to seek some feedback from my students. I hoped to learn something from them that would inform my teaching next term. As I typed, printed and copied the handout to invite dissent in my classroom, I mentally steeled myself for candid, thoughtful criticism of my teaching practice. Passing it out around the semi-circle of tired, ready-for-Regents week Juniors I felt nervous.
“Take your time, be honest, and don’t write your name” I told them wondering just how much honesty we were all prepared for.
Since I have good relationships with most of my students, I didn’t think I’d need to head off anything nasty, but I worried that our rapport would push them to pull their punches. “Don’t worry about sparing my feelings. If I’m doing something wrong, you need to tell me so I can change it.” And I honestly believe that sometimes the hardest things to hear are the most important ones to listen to. “Remember not to write your name on this and be as honest as possible.”
“Won’t you recognize our handwriting from all of our other work?” Terrell, who has turned in precious few assignments since September, earnestly asked.
The time I took considering a response to his quip felt as long as the awkward silence created by a question that no one in the room could possibly answer. My lips curled to an ironic smirk as my mind pondered its options.
“How would I recognize your handwriting?” I wanted to ask him. Not to be nasty, but “when is the last time you wrote anything in this class, Terrell?” He’d probably laugh at himself and at me, open and shamelessly. Terrell takes pride in his public apathy toward schoolwork though he doesn’t consider himself a bad student. In 11th grade with less than 20 credits, the consequences of his inaction in class have yet to catch his attention. They have, however, caught mine and this moment therefore seems significant.
Terrell needs to know that he is falling, passively drifting downward through the cracks in our small high school. I have to honestly tell him, in a way more powerful than failing grades and parent phone calls that at this rate he might only graduate high school after his peers have two years of college behind them. He should hear that this is serious, that his future demands some drastic changes of him. His question has reminded me that he doesn’t yet realize this. I feel a prerogative to tell him, but suspect that I should do so privately.
Unfortunately though, at this point in the year his frequent public failure has caused his classmates to catch on. His “I forgot and left it at home” and “Can I do it for tomorrow?” are almost as regular as my Do Nows. His classmates are watching me and I want them to know that sometimes the painful truth is more productive than a comforting lie. For their sake, Terrell should hear that I wouldn’t recognize his handwriting though I might with his peers.
I debated whether to model stark honesty for my students or shield Terrell’s misguided self-image and decided to simply dodge the question. “It’s possible, but I assure you that even if you tell me that I’m a terrible teacher and I recognize your handwriting, I’ll respect your honesty and value your opinion.”
As I read through their survey responses that night, I recognized every student’s handwriting and felt particularly disheartened. My students apparently think I’m “great,” “interesting,” and one of them wrote that I am “nobody and nobody is perfect!” Even my worst students, the ones who don’t complete their readings, turn in work, or show up to class regularly told me that my class is “good,” that I’m “fair,” and anywhere they might have offered honest insight into how I can improve their experience in my class, they wrote “I don’t know.”
With this stack of papers in front of me, I can’t help but wonder what kind of answers I would have gotten if I had shown my class the kind of honesty I hoped for. If I hadn’t spared Terrell the reminder that his failure is not funny, would his peers have picked up on the message? Maybe then I would have some more honest feedback and Terrell’s survey would not be left mostly blank.
