Dear Teachers

Dear Teachers,

I know that you have a difficult job. I know that you take what you do seriously. I have a glimpse into your task vicariously through my wife, who is an educator as well. I would however, like to impart on you some insight that has deeply affected my life. I have many scars left by the lashes of verbal condescension or exclusionary methods of discipline that are fresh in my memory.  

I have many stories I could share, but this one stands out as a good, all encompassing example. When I was in third grade I was a part of an emotional/academic support group. There was six of us that would leave class at various times throughout the day for group counseling and assistance with our schoolwork. 

So permit me to just say that I was a handful for my teachers behaviorally. I would frustrate and enrage them on a consistent basis. One day, while my third grade teacher was explaining the processes of division, she paused and went around to each of the six of us special kids and asked:

“do you understand what I’m saying?”

All of us shook our heads that we did not, to which she responded:

“Stand Up! All of you!”

We stood up, and continued to stand there in front of the other twenty five kids in our class while our teacher slowly and condescendingly explained the processes to us. One by one my fellow special friends had an epiphany and said:

“now I get it”

And they got to sit down. 

Me? I was so raddled by being made to stand by myself that I literally felt like the room was spinning. I couldn’t think about anything but the humiliation that was burning within me. I remember trembling with a mixture of self hatred and disgust for being so stupid. Her deployment of the Socratic method broke this small boy on that day. 

She turned to me and became angered in her explanation of the subject matter. I looked down in shame, then I looked around at my classmates. All of them shared a look of disgust that brought me to the breaking point.

I began to cry, to which she exclaimed:

“Don’t you dare sit down!”

Miraculously, what she was explaining came to me, and I exclaimed:

“Ohhhhh!”

I was permitted to sit down, and the class continued. 

I wish I could say that as I’m doing graduate work and I’m feeling uninspired I look back with fondness on memories of people telling me:

“You can be whatever you want to be Ryan, you are bound by nothing.”

More often than not, when I am discouraged, when I am feeling inadequate and small, tired, embarrassed and ashamed of my inability for retention, my mind goes to memories like these. When I relive these memories, my motivation becomes spite. My inspiration becomes an all consuming hatred in which I shout into those memories at those that would belittle me:

“FUCK YOU! Fuck - you! You’re a goddamn liar! You fucking lied to me and I will prove you wrong!”

And with this, whereas my eyes were slowly closing with sleep I become alert and keen. I know that this source of motivation is much like the hot sun. It can only burn for so long before it burns out and becomes a black hole which destroys not only itself but the galaxy around it. 

Before I begin my PhD I would prefer to be inspired by those that love and encourage me, but sadly their love is masked by the sting that was left so long ago. 

So, dear teachers, please consider that you hold the hearts of your students in your hands. Please consider that the small child who disrupts your classroom may be desperately crying out for someone to love them. I have learned, both through my own childhood memories and through my work with at risk children; that the smallest act of care, compassion, and love can still the most desperate of hearts in a child.