I have no formal teaching certificate, and only took one class as a graduate student that was designed to turn me into a literature instructor of some kind, though I decided in the end not to pursue a post. Not because I didn’t think I could do it, and not even because I didn’t want to do it, but because—and this is probably a silly reason, but it was (and is) the reason I opted not to teach at our college—I didn’t like the book they’d chosen for the course I would have taught. And I had the idea that if I wasn’t invested in the material, I couldn’t teach it effectively. Which probably isn’t actually true. I could have faked it. I just didn’t want to.
So what did I teach and when? For four summers I taught at an academic camp for middle-grade students ranging from ages 9 to 14. I taught Shakespeare, playwriting, mythology, Parageography, journalism, and special subjects (like vampire literature). And I was told multiple times that I was a favorite of the students, that parents would call and ask, “What is the Shakespeare teacher doing? My kid won’t shut up about Shakespeare!” and usually add, “I wish I’d had a teacher like that when we had to read Hamlet.” Yes, I liked hearing these things. It made me feel good that my students totally grooved on The Bard once we worked past the language. But it also sometimes made me feel like a big phony, too, because despite lots of research and lesson planning, I was really just winging it a lot of the time.
I teach the same way I parent: by open discussion. I don’t know if this is technically the Classical or Socratic method or anything, but I prefer a classroom dialogue to having to lecture for a couple hours at a time. I do lecture a bit—I talk a bit about the subject, but I’m always open to questions and thoughtful remarks. I like to make my students (and my kids) feel listened to. I like to make them feel like they add value to a discussion. I find that if I take them seriously, they take me and the topic seriously in return and are generally less likely to goof off. They become as invested as I am.
I remember when teaching Romeo and Juliet, the kids began to ask tentative questions about teen suicide. Someone brought up the fact that a friend’s brother had killed himself . . . Someone else mentioned a girl he knew at camp used to cut herself . . . This is tricky territory because I’m not certified as any kind of counselor (though I was a peer counselor in high school), and I don’t want to get in trouble, or get parents angry with me. But I liked knowing my students felt safe enough to want to talk with me about these things. So we did talk about it a little bit, and about relationships that feel so intense, &c. And I was careful to warn the camp director that the students had wanted to explore that a bit so she knew we’d touched on the subject.
Again, when doing Taming of the Shrew, the students began to wonder about abusive relationships. Why was this play supposed to be funny? That was easier to discuss because of the historical context, but it was still a somewhat deep and dark topic. It eventually became an open conversation about human rights, gender differences, and so on.
I found after a couple days of teaching this way, the kids came in armed with questions and topics that had occurred to them. That was always encouraging because it meant they were going home and actually thinking about the material. “Dude, shouldn’t Hamlet have been king?” Well, let’s think about that. Do you think he wants to be king? Is that one of the reasons he’s upset? Would he have made a good king? What goes into making a good leader or ruler?
You see, that’s how I like to teach. Because then you not only learn the material—and believe me, those kids knew Hamlet by the time they were done, knew it and loved it—but you end up learning a bunch of other stuff besides, almost as if by accident. I’m a big proponent of critical thinking skills, so I like forcing my students to consider things, and they like that there’s no right or wrong answer and therefore no condemnation for anything they might suggest (short of hate speech or bigotry, but I never had any problems with that with my students, either).
It’s funny; having just read Quiet, I now realize that, yes, I had several students who stayed mostly, er, quiet in classes. Two or three spring to mind, the types to just take notes on what everyone was saying. Though almost always they spoke up once or twice, particularly if we touched on a subject about which they felt strongly. But a lot of these quiet students would seek me out later for one-on-one conversations instead. And that was fine, too. They’d sidle up to me at lunch or during break and start a chat. And that was kind of exhausting (since I, too, am an introvert), but rewarding in its own way.
I don’t teach any more; I haven’t the time or energy. But I do have children, and I use the same methods with them that I did in the classroom. The other day my six-year-old wanted to know about demons. I have no idea why; maybe something he saw on Scooby-Doo? But we had a very serious discussion about Lucifer being cast out of Heaven, and different ideas of the devil, and fallen angels becoming demons, and whether or not a demon can be “good.” And I think the hardest thing I’ve ever had to learn (though I’m so glad to know it now), is when to say, “I don’t know.” Because our education system breeds this idea that we should somehow already know so much . . . That we’re somehow all stupid for not knowing things . . . And certainly there are things everyone should know, and a little common sense goes a long way, but sometimes you have to say, “I don’t know. Let’s find out. Let’s look it up. Let’s talk about it and see if we can figure it out.” And it’s okay not to know everything. So long as you’re also open minded and willing to learn.
