The last hardest lesson.

“One of the hardest things for boys to learn is that a teacher is human. One of the hardest things for a teacher to learn is not to try and tell them.” Mrs. Lintott, The History Boys by Alan Bennett

The History Boys is a play about a group of middle class boys in England preparing for Cambridge. The play explores simple topics, like the purpose of “history”, the use of an education and the meaning of life. In Alan Bennett’s play, Mrs. Lintott, a formidable history teacher, says this quote to a young teacher who is struggling with finding the appropriate relationship with his students. She’s warning him in a way of the dangers of being young in the classroom- the desire to be seen by the students as a real person, not only a teacher. Mrs. Lintott is the voice of reason in this play- she’s the only adult who doesn’t seem flawed, unless you count cynicism as a flaw. We’re supposed to take her at her word.

At first her words made me sad. They reminded me of when I visited my former high school English teacher when I was a college student. I wanted to tell her about my plans of following in her footsteps- I wanted to be an English teacher. She said, “Don’t do it. You’re too smart to be a teacher.” Ouch. Dr. C_____ became very human in that moment- conflicted, unhappy, full of regret. I was shocked to realize she had feelings about working in a school, and they were not positive! I wanted her to tell me something about me, to praise me for wanting to be like her. Instead, she told me something about her, and it was hard to hear. Dr. C____, who had terrorized and inspired me to write better, read smarter and teach later, was not the idol I imagined. She was a person with complicated emotions and regrets.

I wonder if my former students have similar shocks when they return to visit. They show up every May or so, a few of them, checking in at the end of their first year of college. They come for all sorts of reasons, like I did when I returned to my alma mater to see former teachers. They seek approval and connection, or they want to say thank you in some way to the people who mattered to them. For some of them, their teachers were important adult figures in their childhood, and they want to measure their new adult selves against the adult role models of their youth.

I suspect they are slightly disappointed. If they’ve just come back from college, their world has expanded. They have spent a year in a bigger pond, seen new fish, swum in new ideas. Their minds and senses of self grew in their year away. We hear it in their voices when they talk about the new courses they are taking, or the activities they can do, or the chances to travel abroad. Their world is expanding, but the high school teachers they once looked up to seem still. The world of their former high school is not changing; new students are coming, but the classes are still reading the same books, the teachers are still in the same offices, the conversations about the senior prank are still the same. Returning students often talk about the how the building seems smaller now that they have been away. I wonder if we seem smaller too, compared to what they’ve seen of the larger world. They see we are not as big as we once seemed.

That’s ok. Though I first felt sad when I read the quote from The History Boys, I have gotten more comfortable with it. She says it is “hard,” not disappointing or sad, for a student to learn that a teacher is human. Hard can be good. Hard can be developmentally appropriate. Hard can be like growing up, seeing teachers (or parents) as people and not just superheroes, or realizing one’s hometown has problems as well as strengths. It was the right step for me to learn that my English teacher was not always happy about her line of work but that I still wanted to pursue it for myself. It is hard, but it is growing up.

And the rest of the quote from Mrs. Lintott? “One of the hardest things for a teacher to learn is not to try and tell them.” At first, I thought she was saying teachers should not let their students know they are human. That sounds impossible. How can teachers not be human? But then I realized the key word is “try.” Teachers need to be wary of trying to tell students about their humanity. Because in that moment, in trying to make a student understand about our humanity, we are making ourselves the center of the lesson. That is a trap for any teacher, to make the lesson about himself or herself. The lesson is about the content or the student, but not the teacher. Students will figure out we are human when they are ready to know it. Our responsibility is to be ourselves while we take care of them and their learning, and the rest will fall into place. It’s when we try to control that realization that we lose sight of why we are in the classroom.

I think of Mrs. Lintott when the students come back to visit. I know how the conversation will go, and I know that most of the returning students will not come back again, or many more times. They will realize we are just humans, not superheroes, and that they don’t need our approval or accolades to keep doing good things. It might be the last lesson we get to teach them, without even trying. Which is a relief. I wouldn’t know how to write up that lesson plan.

A New Hope

I did my student teaching at Hope High School in Providence, RI. It was a big urban school, with a grand façade and a run down interior. A new principal had tried to energize the building at the beginning of the year by hanging a huge banner across the front of the school that said “A New Hope for Providence.” By January, when I started my student teaching there, the banner still hung above the front door, but there were big rips in it and it was flapping awkwardly because one of the corners had come undone. Not so hopeful.

I worked with a junior English class, and they gave me a hard time. Students sometimes “test” the naïve student teacher; they tested me. Hard. But my co-operating teacher left me alone with them, and we worked it out. By the end of my twelve weeks there, we were in a great place. I was incredibly proud of them, and I loved them in a way that new teachers love their first classes.

On my last day, before the cake and the soda and after I’d handed back their final grades and a good-bye letter, we had 5 extra minutes. I said to them, “Ok. We've got a little time. Is there anything you want to ask me that you didn’t have the chance to ask during class time?” Like popcorn, the hands shot up and the voices called out.

“How old are you?” “Are you married?” “Are you gay?” and then I heard a few snickers and an awkward silence.

In grad school, one of my professors had encouraged us to tell the truth in classes, and I believed that if a student could ask a question, she could handle the answer. I took a big breath, and I said, “Ok. I’m 25, no and yes.” The room erupted in nervous laughter, high fives, and a few “no way!!”s. After a few seconds, the room calmed down and I continued.

“I’m gay, and so are some of my friends and some of my family members. And every time I was working with you in class and you would make fun of something as ‘that’s so gay,’ it hurt. You did not mean to hurt me or the people I care about, but you did. I think you all are great and I am proud of you; I think we did great work together this spring. But I want you to be careful of pushing away or insulting the people who want to help you. Be careful of what you say, because you don’t know whom you might be offending. They may be people who could be important helpers in your life.” The room was silent.

“Let’s eat some cake.” We turned on the music, we ate cake and drank ginger ale and had a good last day together. And most of the class came up to me at the end of the period to shake my hand and say good-bye. I thought it went pretty well, and I left Hope High School.

I thought that was the end of it, but a few days later, I got a call from my co-operating teacher. She told me the day after I left, her class was still buzzing about what I said. She asked me to drop by so she could give me something. The next day, I swung by Hope one more time and she gave me a letter from Tommy. Tommy was the hardest kid for me to work with. He was a big talker and he really didn’t like to read or write. I’d spent lots of time and energy trying to keep Tommy focused in class those 12 weeks. My cooperating teacher was surprised that this student, who resisted writing so much all year, had written me a letter. Here’s what it said:

Dear Mr. ______.

I like to say sorry if you think I offended you. I understand your situation. So I hoe you forgive me and I hope you come and visit us soon, your favorite English class.

PS- as a friend who was your favorite student.

Your friend Thomas

I hope you’ll be my teacher in the future.

Another PS- you should run ball with us one day.

It was one of the best letters I will ever receive. Every time I read it, it reminds me of how important it is to say who we are. We never know who will hear what we say or how it will impact them. The affects may linger after we are gone, or they may impact people in ways we can’t imagine. Being gay did not define my relationship with that class. I was their teacher and I helped them become better students. But they taught me the power of being honest with students, of bringing my whole self into the classroom. I left that student teaching experience a little more hopeful, thanks to Tommy.