I went out walking late, real late. My son had a party at the house last night. And while the music was delightful, there was no chance of getting any sleep. So, there I was out walking with the temperature as high as the coming south Georgia summer noon sun. As sweat poured off me in a network of small streams, I was in deep reflection about a bunch of things which have occurred during the past two weeks. I was thinking very humbly about Julissa using me as the subject of an English composition class essay on the most influential professor she has had at the university. I thought of Tom bravely standing before the class on Thursday to tell them about how he failed last quarter, decided to challenge himself to repeat the class, challenging others in the class to risk challenging themselves, and offering his assistance in that effort. He got a tootsie pop on Friday. The picture of Kirk popped into my mind. During the quiz on Friday, normally quiet, shy Kirk had called me over to ask me what the word “volatile ” meant. “Don’t ask me,” I replied. “Stand up and ask the others.” He hesitated. The other members of his triad encouraged him. Despite feeling self-conscious, he stood up and asked. He got his answer. Seeing that it was not an embarrassment to ask for help, it was just a few minutes later that another student stood up to ask about the word “sanction.” Then, a few minutes after that still another without hesitation stood and asked about “tacit.” I went over to Kirk and whispered, “See, what you started?” He’ll get a tootise pop on Monday. There was Ray, a non-traditional student who had spoken with me in my “office” one afternoon to explain how a discussion we had in class about slavery had a profound effect on him, and how much he owed to Yemenja, an African-American, non-traditional Muslim student, for her impassioned comments during that discussion. “Don’t tell me,” I told him. “Tell her.” He did. As I was passing out the quiz, he asked if I could stop because he had something he wanted the class to hear. He got up and explained that he had never thought about the cultural amnesia that the slaves and subsequent generations of African-Americans had to suffer, and the damaging impact that had and still has on the African-American psyche. “I went home that night and had a long conversation with my wife,” he said. “I will see to it that my daughter will understand that. It’s not much, but it’s a step. And I want to profoundly thank you, Yemenja, for that understanding. You opened my eyes and I hope I can help open other eyes.” Across, the room, tears swelled up in Yemenja’s eyes. I noticed that hers were not the only watery eyes. After class Ray came to me and said, “Was that OK? I sort of fumbled around and rambled.” I quietly replied, “It was deeply sincere. You can’t ask anymore than that of yourself.” Then, there is Mark, an eighteen year old, first generation college student. Mark had come to me about ten days ago to talk. He wanted to tell me that the reason he didn’t engage in discussions during class was that he had been brought up to listen respectfully to adults. “It’s not considered proper in my family,” he explained at one point, “for the kids to say anything or interrupt or join in when the adults were talking.” I replied, “I can understand that, but you told me that you’re eighteen. When are you going to start becoming an adult? When are you going to start talking so the children listen?” He was quiet for a minute and said, “I never thought about that.” Well, Friday I told Mark that he hadn’t handed in his journal for the week. In reply, Mark said he wanted to talk with me after class. “Dr. Schmier,” he started the conversation as we sat on the steps, “I’ve been wondering what a college education is really for. I mean, I know a lot of people who are making a lot of money who never went to college. If a college education is so important, it has to mean more than a job and money. I’ve been trying to write about that in my journal. What will it do for me as a person?” Boy, talk about being caught off-guard. I thought he was merely going to give me some lame excuse for not having handed in his journal or having missed class on Thursday. Now, I saw he had happened upon the “right” question to ask. I suddenly focused in on every word he said, every gesture he made. My “blueberries” were at full alert. We talked on those steps for over an hour. In the course of our conversation, we talked about him getting out of a college education what he puts into it, about what he wants out of an education and thinks he should want out of it. I told him not to ask what a college education would do for him, but what will he do with a college education. We talked about how, ideally, a college education can provide him new horizons, new flexibilities, new options; about how, ideally, it could teach him how to live, how to grow as a human being, how to learn; about how, if he wanted a real college education, he could have experiences rather than get grades. At the end of our talk, he asked, “Could I hand in my journal on Monday? I have a lot to think about and write about.” I told him to hand in the journal at the regular time on Wednesday. As he got up and said, “Yeah, you’ve given me a lot to think about and write about,” I sat there for a minute or two, a bit stunned, wondering if I was witnessing a creation, thinking to myself “when the heck did all this happen? How does it happen?”

Mark is not in Julissa’s class; nor is Ray or Yemenja or Tom. Maybe the “stuff” project had some catalyzing effect I hadn’t anticipated. “Stuff” is a bonding and self-development project. I got the idea while attending a conference on teaching. I had introduced it as closure at the end of class last quarter. The students went wild for it, but strongly suggested that I start using it about four weeks into the quarter to help the triads bond about. So, to the surprise of this quarter’s students, I had walked into class last week carrying a large roll of butcher paper on one shoulder and a box of color markers under the other arm. “We’re going to do ‘stuff’ today,” I proclaimed. I told them that each triad had to design a “family” symbol or crest, and come up with both a motto and name that would express the collective personality of their triad. They stared at me. From the stunned expressions on their faces, I could tell they were thinking, “where did he come up with this one?” Then, the whole place quickly exploded into a mass of fervent movement and zealous excitement. Some cut a sheet of paper and rushed out of the class.

With coffee in hand, and swirling a tootsie pop in my mouth, I watched the students spread out all over the floor of the class, out in the surrounding hallways, and outside on the entrance sidewalk to the building as they hovered and crowded around large pieces of butcher paper. They were lying prone, leaning, kneeling, sitting. In the classroom, chairs were pushed aside and even piled on top each other. Color markers were scattered about. All sound was drown out by the din of laughter, discussion, small talk, argument, joking. Bodies were hopping about, hands were moving all directions, heads were bobbing and nodding, brows were wrinkling, eyes were staring. The students were pushing each other in friendly banter. Everywhere, splotches of color were appearing in psychedelic delight on the paper.

The place was oozing with concentration, imagination, reflection, hesitation, creativity, adventure, discovery, innovation as the students struggled to find those common bonds. They were having fun exchanging, analyzing, searching, evaluating and deciding with each other, about each other, and about themselves. They discussed, argued, and pondered as they grappled to design a crest and come up with both a motto and name that would best express their triad. As they worked feverishly and vocally, faculty and students passed by, stepped over, walked about. Most gave them strange looks. A few even stopped and talked. The students thought it was interesting. The faculty who passed by thought it was “cute” or “silly.”

One colleague from another department, however, asked with a scornful smirk on his face, “Schmier, not again. What’s it this time? Looks like kindergarten.” Not appreciating his comment, a couple of the students gave him hidden scornful glances in return.

“No,” I answered with great enthusiasm. “It’s a bonding exercise to create a feeling of family and to help strengthen the sense that the class is a mutually supporting learning community. They’re getting to understand each other better and to get closer so they can work with each other and help each other better.”

“You’re crazy as hell,” he laughed with obvious suspicion about my sanity. “I thought you taught history.”

“I teach students,” I proudly informed him.

“You’re no professor. You’re a teacher.” I took that as a compliment. I don’t think from his tone of voice and body language, he had meant it as one. “Maybe, when you retire you ought to go to the elementary school.”

He didn’t get it. But, the students did, and that was more important. As I wandered about, I saw normally quiet, unsure, frightened students smiling and participating. I saw students ever so slightly opening that door and getting a peek at their inner potential. I saw students who “don’t like to rely on others for their grade,” relying on and coordinating with others. I saw cooperation and compromise as triad members trusted each other and divided up the responsibility: one coming up with a motto, another with the name, a third with the design, all of them modifying and adjusting their suggestions. I saw teamwork as students listened to each other and respected each other. Followers became leaders; leaders were told to lay off and, as one student forcefully told another in her triad, “trust us and give us a chance to show off what we can do.”

After two days of working on this project, to cheers, applause, and whistles each triad presented their “heraldry” before the class. No list of their names or mottos, no verbal description of their crests, can do justice to their creations, but take my word that they were something else. I can say that from the reactions in class and comments written in journals, that the class experienced a growth in comradery, respect, a sense of closeness, community, family, a sense of mutual responsibility. Few thought in terms of less creative, or more artistic, or more this or more that; few thought in terms of competition. They were surprised that they had put so much effort into something that was not graded. The students themselves felt that the class took a great leap forward, and the subsequent discussions and openness seemed to indicate they were right. At least, for the moment.

It has been a powerful two weeks in class. I think seeking the acquisition of information is important, but “book history,” as one of my students called it, is not ultimately the most important thing. At least, not for me. I’m not sure I know why what happens when whatever happens. I do know things happen, and I stand back amazed that they do. I wonder about it constantly. I’m not sure I want to analyze it, break it down into charts and statistics, rip it apart into its components. Dissecting any living entity merely gives you access to the structure, but it destroys the living spirit in the process. I much prefer the excitement of the unexpected, wondering what will or might happen on any given day. I think the spirit would be dampened by a predictability. Maybe it’s that unknown that gives me a sense of adventure. I think that these events occur only as the students become aware of or feel the appearance of a sense of community, a “learning community” as it is called, in the class that is both mutually supporting and larger than themselves. As the class evolves, students begin to share their fears, their weaknesses, the murky part of them, their strengths, their light, who they are. Certainly, this is not true for all the students. As for me, I have to constantly be reminded by the serenity prayer of the struggle to change the things that I can, accept what I cannot change, and to know the difference. Nevertheless, a few, or some, or many, it varies from class to class, from quarter to quarter, seize the opportunity to start becoming whole. That’s a healing experience for them. Except for those occasional visits from students and unsolicited letters, except for their journals, except for the personal and confidential conversations, I can’t prove it; it’s something I feel and experience. I can only share what that experience has been and what that feeling is.

I do, however, work hard to create whatever it is that is created. We are each a gift to each other. As my son was to me, I am hopefully to them, they to me, and they to each other. We are human beings, and to separate and isolate the students in the traditional asocial atmosphere and setting of the class, I think, is unnatural. Because of them, I have a much greater sense of the value of life and of what life can be, and the role an education as I understand it plays. I only hope that whatever it is I am doing for them and whatever they are doing for each other is as deep and lasting as what they are doing for me.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

Well, it’s Saturday. What a fabulous walk today. It was over before it started. Though it is a “cold” 56 degrees and the air was clammy because of yesterday’s rain, nothing could chill or dampen my spirits. I have been on a high all week because of Julissa. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. I want to share with you in celebration of her success at facing and successfully meeting a personal challenge, the appearance of joy in her heart, a growing confidence in herself, an increase in her performance, and my pride for her. Julissa was one of those students who come on our campus thinking they’re not bright, who find the path difficult, who become unnecessarily discouraged, who come into class believing that they’re destined for lesser things, and who play out that constricting role. If those same students, however, are encouraged to face and overcome difficult challenges, to see the potential that lies within each of them, they can become confident, productive and fulfilled people. They can become filled with that awe and wonder. Julissa started on that road.

I suppose the story starts with my apology to the class a week ago Friday. I had received an inkling of how some students felt as I handed out the quiz and roamed about the room for the rest of the class time. James had said to me as I passed by, “Nice going Doc. That was really smooth.” Bill had stopped his argument over an answer to a question long enough to catch my arm with his hand, press it, and say, “I really appreciate what you did.” Karrie, with a surprised admiration in her face whispered as I passed by, “that was something else.” There was a glance here and a smile there, a slight nod, a thumbs up. And finally, Eleanor came up to me at the end of the class and said, “You’ve earned yourself a tootsie pop.”

The students handed in their journals on Wednesday. About 45 of the 60 students had written something about that day. Here’s a sampling:

“That was pretty cool…I was pretty leery about this triad stuff, but now I’m going give it a chance. No, I’m going to do more than that.”

“What Doc did to own up to a mistake was neat. Maybe that will give me help to do better in class.”

“Wish other profs had the same amount of guts. Maybe I can find the same stuff inside me.”

“Boy, is the grapevine ever wrong. No son of bitch of a professor who didn’t care for students would have done something like he did.”

“Dr. Schmier apologized for accidently poor-mouthing a student on the first day of class. Interesting. That was more than show.”

“I know I should say something more than “Wow,” but that’s all I can think of right now. Now, I am going to try to wow him like he did to me.”

“Hell, I’ll work my ass off for that guy now except I know if I tell him that he’ll say I should work it off for me.”

“Talk about a lesson in eating humble pie. Who would have thought a prof had it in him. Their (sic) never able to admit to anything except that they’re right.”

“That’ll be one I’ll long remember. I bet I’ll never see another teacher do that.”

“Dr. Schmier apologized in front of the class. He didn’t have to do that. No one forced him. He just wanted to. I’m really impressed. I told my folks about it. They were surprised. I told them that I’m going to give it everything I’ve got in this class.”

“I was really surprised. It proved to me that he really cares about us. I now know he wants me to care about me enough to make the effort to do my best.”

“I wish more professors were as personable and caring. I truly admire what he did today. He showed tremendous respect for us.” “To have that kind of trust in us students, no other professor or teacher has ever shown me that he thinks I am worth that much. I don’t’ think I can let him down now.”

“I was really moved. Now I am going to start moving myself.”

“I guess I owe it to myself to be just as dedicated and give 110% to this class and myself as he does to himself and to us.”

“I really respect the Doc for what he did.”

“Today the prof apologized for saying some remarks to students. That was real big of him. Most teachers I’ve had are so small.” “Most teachers won’t admit when they are wrong. I didn’t think until today that anyone of them knew that the word existed much less what the word meant. Dr. Schmier does.”

“That was the most sensitive and kind thing I have ever seen a professor do. It makes me feel I can trust him.”

“Damn, he’s for real.”

“He puts his heart where his mouth is. Now it’s my turn.”

“I’m going to buy him a bag of tootsie pops before this quarter is over.”

“I didn’t know professors had a conscience. Well, Dr. Schmier sure as hell does. He’s got heart. I wonder if he really is a student disguised as a professor.”

“Personally, I think he is quite brave and very admirable. If he can do that, maybe I can face my fear of talking in class like Julissa did.”

“The doc gave Julissa courage by showing his.”

As I read those journal entries I remembered something a friend, a philosopher at the University of Alabama–Birmingham, once told me and often said by my wife. They both say that Eric Segal was wrong. Love is often having to say you are sorry, and meaning it. I had thought that saying you are sorry to students would be just as easy as it is for me to say to my wife and children. I was wrong. It still is not as easy as it should be. As I look back, the need for the apology in class was obvious; and I thought the apology would not have been that big a deal for me. I guess I still have a ways to go before I am able to see easily what has to be done. He reminded me that for me it is still not easy to make saying I am sorry easy to do, and that it is still not easy to easily pursue truth, goodness, and beauty, and to share publicly that pursuit with others aside from my wife and children without fear or embarrassment. I think it is important for students, and for professors or anyone else for that matter, in the midst of forming themselves, as we all are, to see that struggle in themselves so they can embrace it in themselves, instead of ignoring or dismissing it.

It was important for Julissa. Julissa is an exchange student from Honduras. She is a conscientious student. But, until Monday, she was quiet. She never talked during the discussions. She always had a look of insecurity. She seldom contributed to the triad during the quizzes. I almost got the sense she wanted to contribute, but was afraid to try. She reminded me of one of those students who would prefer to hide in the back of the classroom. But, I noticed that she always came to class prepared. She had done her share of the chapter write-ups, her share of the outside reading assignments. As I roamed about, I noticed the highlighting in her textbook. I knew she had at least read the material. Once, I called upon her during a discussion. She became momentarily paralyzed. She stammered to say something, but nothing came out. A look of fright overcame her face as her lips tightened, her eyes bulged open, and the muscles in her neck became taut. There was look of disappointment with herself.

Monday, just before I entered class, Julissa stopped me. I had just turned on the boom box. It was very softly playing “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” from the soundtrack to BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY. The meat of our conversation went something like this:

“Dr. Schmier, can I talk with you for just a second?” she asked with great concern.

“Sure, what’s up?” I answered.

“I have a great problem,” she said with nervous hesitation. “I was afraid to come to you before because I thought you would think I was dumb, but not after what you did Friday.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it,” I answered.

“I’m from Honduras,” she explained. “I only finished with my English lessons last year. I don’t speak English so well. It is hard for me to read the book. It is slow. I sometimes read it two or three times. I use a dictionary a lot. I don’t understand everything.”

“Neither do I or any one else in the class. Maybe you should ask questions in class, or least ask the others in your triad for help. If you want, I’ll answer your questions outside class. We’ll get together and I’ll give you some tips on how to study.”

“I would like that, but I am afraid to speak up in class because of my poor English.”

“Your English sounds fine to me,” I softly and assuringly replied. “But, you won’t learn to speak better unless you practice it. Start with talking about things with Jason and Flynn.”

“But, I get embarrassed. I’m not very good with English.”

“You got up and sang on the first day of class, didn’t you?” I reminded her.

“Yes.”

“Well, nothing can be more embarrassing than that in this class. And you did it. What does that tell you about you. Once you did that, what else could be more embarrassing? Be honest with yourself, what’s really troubling you?”

She hesitated and then said reluctantly, “I am afraid I am not good enough. I am afraid I will make a mistake and say the wrong word and the others will think I am stupid. I don’t know what to do. When we talked about women, I wanted so much to say something about how women are treated in Honduras. But, I was so afraid. I couldn’t. The same thing happened when we were talking about the Indians and slaves in Latin America. I so much wanted to say something, but I was so afraid.”

“You had a lot to contribute to the class and you could have taught the others. But, until you stop worrying about what others will think about you, you’re just like the colonial slaves. You have to trust yourself and trust the others. Believe in yourself. You have the ability, but it’s not important that I believe it. You must believe it. Take the risk. Raise you hand and speak, or don’t wait and just blurt out what you want to say. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. And, you can help the others by sharing your experiences.”

“But what if I say something silly?”

“You know that, at least in this class, there is no such thing.”

“I have another professor who makes fun of people who ask questions or say the wrong things.”

“I’m not that professor. I guess you have to trust me, too. Has anyone been made fun of in this class for attempting to improve him or herself?”

“No.”

“Have we ridiculed anyone when they made a mistake?”

“No.”

“When Chris told me that he stuttered, what did I do?”

“After Chris said it was alright, you told the class and asked them to understand and help him. But, what if I look stupid?”

“To whom? It’s not what you say that is important right now. It’s that you make the effort, that you meet the challenge and see for yourself how able you are.”

“What should I do?”

“What do you really want this class to be for you”

“I want it to help me learn to do my best and be a good person.”

“Then let it. Do you believe in yourself?”

“Yes. I think.”

“Then act on your belief. Remember what I always say, ‘You can’t learn how to climb mountains as long as you practice on mole hills.’ This is your first attempt at the mountain. I can’t tell you what to do. I am me and I know what I would do. I can’t tell you to be me. I can help you to climb. I can show you how to climb. I can even tell you that you have the ability to climb. But, you have to decide whether to climb.”

“What should I do?”

“I think you know the answer. That’s why you wanted to talk with me. You just wanted me to reassure you. Well, I am. You can do it.”

And decide she did. We went into class. I turned up the boom box. As I was seeing who was in class, I saw Julissa talking with the other members of her triad. They were making shoving motions. I then asked the class, “Ok, chapter 3 today. What are the issues you want to bring up?” A few hands went up just as Julissa hesitantly rose from her chair and asked, “Dr. Schmier can I talk to the class?” I gave her the floor. “She’s going to do what I hoped against hope she would decide on her own to do.” I thought to myself. I felt a sudden rush of excitement. Flynn pressed her arm in an act of encouraging faith. As Jason looked with great support and admiration in his eyes, Julissa continued, “I am very nervous. I am not sure I can do this.” She stopped and looked at me. I didn’t say a word. I just made an encouraging nod. But, I was screaming in silence, “go, go, go!” Taking a deep breath, she straightened up and went on, “But, I think if Dr. Schmier could say Friday that he is sorry for something he said to the entire class, I think I can stand up and ask for you to understand me. I am Julissa and I am from Honduras and I only finished my English training last year. I am not sure about my English. I need your help. I want to talk with you in class and learn from all of you, but I will make mistakes with the words. I need you to correct me if I do and to tell me the right words.” Then, with a smile beaming from ear to ear, she ended, “I feel good and I will talk more in class now. I promise.” She sat down to the applause and whistles of the class. A few stood up as they clapped. I even heard a “bravo.” The other members of her triad grabbed and hugged her. She had such a feeling of relief and self-satisfaction. I was on the side of the room. I felt a lump in my throat thinking what courage she had just displayed. She looked in my direction. I nodded my head approvingly, smiled admiringly, raised my right arm and made a fist as an expression of my pride in her. I said, “Julissa, that was a true act of courage that set an example for all of us. We’ll all be here if you need us.” From various parts of the class came a supporting “You bet,” “Show us what you got, Julissa,” “We’ll help,” and “We need you.”

During the discussion on slavery in colonial America that followed, a student asked why didn’t the slaves just get up and revolt. Julissa hesitantly raised her hand. With anxiety written all over her face, she answered the question with one phrase, “didn’t believe in themselves.” That was great. The ice was broken and the river flowed. You could see a nourishing sense of satisfaction flooding into every cell of her body. A few minutes later, as the discussion continued, she raised her hand and spoke a sentence. A few minutes after that, she asked a question. I said to myself, “Julissa, today, this is your class.” By the end of the class, Julissa was taking a position and making a lengthy statement. I was so proud for Julissa. As she left the class, she turned to me and said, “Thank you.” I replied, “No, thank you.”

Each day this past week, she came into class a bit stronger, a bit more relaxed. Her face had more of a soft glow where once there was a pallor of fear. Her lips curled upward with a smile more often where once they continually dipped with a frown. Her confidence grew stronger each day as her inhibition grew weaker. She participated in the class discussion every day. On Wednesday and Thursday, I watched her take an active role, a leadership role, in developing a triad symbol, motto, and name that is part of an in-quarter bonding exercise I have instituted.

I marvel at how deeply inhibited most students are. I ask them to show their true selves to others in a variety of ways. This is tough for most of them because they’ve been told that if they don’t excel in everything, they are nothing; if they don’t conform to someone else’s ideal, they’re not ideal. Here was an instance when I witnessed the awesome power of humility. Once Julissa confronted and overcame her groundless fear, trusted herself, trusted the other members of the class, she started to learn to appreciate herself and her own uniqueness, and she started to truly learn.

I think in one respect the classroom is a microcosm of life. We all have choices of being productive in a stressful situation or laying back and watching life go by. I don’t think anxiety in the classroom comes from what professors do or don’t do, or from what students do or don’t do. It comes from how we each react to what we and the others do. I think the classroom is a stressful place not because it is a stressful place, but because the support system seldom exists wherein everyone is concerned for and cares about everyone else, wherein everyone assumes the responsibility for the success of each other.

The essence of teaching is in making the visceral connection with the student. The challenge is, then, to make teaching so powerful, so dynamic, so passionate, so alluring, so purposeful that it touches the student’s emotions. For my part, at my son’s school I learned that if I am to make a serious commitment to the students, I must make a serious commitment to the truth, to recognize the value of being honest with myself, of being honest with them, of sharing my strengths and weaknesses, my visions and emotions, and surrendering the images of myself and of them that keep both me and them from being genuine.

I was reminded by a conscientious high school teacher that in our conservation conscious society, we discuss ways to cut down on our energy usage. The electric and gas companies have come out to my house, taken an energy inventory, and have offered me cash incentives to become “energy wise.” Their motto is “more efficient, costs less.” That may be true for using our fossil fuel resources. It is not applicable to the utilization of our human resources. Human growth is not energy efficient. Nor can the assistance in this growth be energy wise. In terms of an energy investment by both the student and professor, it is so expensive. But, in the long run it makes for both good sense and good cents.

In her journal, Julissa wrote, “Everything I did I owe to my professor.” She’s wrong. She owes it to herself, to believing in herself, to trusting herself and her classmates, to wanting to develop the character necessary to bring out her potential, and doing whatever it took to start striving for that goal. I am so proud for her. If I must evaluate Julissa and give her a grade, as I must, I will measure her and the other students more by the number of challenges they confront and struggle to overcome than by the grade on their assignments and tests.

On Tuesday, I gave Julissa the highest grade at my disposal as both acknowledgement and encouragement. At the beginning of class, I approached her, kneeled next to her chair, and quietly said, “This is for you for being so courageous in meeting your challenge.” Her eyes lit up with a confident pride and joy that I do not expect will disappear. I quietly handed her an orange tootsie pop.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

It was a delightful walk this morning. It had just rained and the air smelled clean and sweet. The flowers were glistening in the moonlight of the clearing, pre-dawn sky. Reflections from the drops of water that clung to their petals sent off a multitude of micro-bursts of light as if they were saluting me as I passed by. As I passed a batch of twinkling, trumpeting amaryllis, without thinking, I turned my head, slightly nodded, winked my left eye, and briefly raised my left forefinger as a returning gesture of appreciation. Actually, it was I who I was saluting. I felt good. I felt clean and sweet. I felt relaxed, relieved, satisfied, and at peace with myself. And still do. I flew over the asphalt like a bird which had just left the edge of a cliff and was soaring high and free. I can honestly say to myself that Monday will be the first time I will feel at ease, truly at ease, with one of my classes since the first day of the quarter two weeks ago.

That’s curious because my classes had been going very well. In fact, devoting the first week of the quarter to introductory bonding, trust, and critical thinking exercises was successful beyond my wildest hopes. There is a greater sense of a learning community in the classes than at this time in past quarters. Most of the students have a greater sense of trust and openness with themselves, within the other members of their triad, with the entire class then in previous classes at this point in the quarter. Most of them are seriously journaling. Most of them were already struggling to assume responsibility for each other’s success. We’ve already had some good, honest, heated, and respectful debates and discussions about early slavery and racial prejudice, the contributing role of religion in the early American experience, the position of women in developing American culture, and whether the rebelling colonists were unreasonable extremists. Some of them are starting to make discoveries about the subject–and about themselves. Many of them are taking those first uncomfortable steps to come face to face with their prejudices about gender, race–and themselves. They should be pleased with their progress, their development, their discovery, their growth. I am.

Yet, there was something that had been nagging me in one of my intro classes. I always felt slightly unfocused in the room. The sharpness of my “blueberries” was ever so slightly dull. Every time I walked into that class, I felt slightly off-balance, on the defensive. That didn’t make sense. I always looked forward to that class with great anticipation wondering, “what will they come up with next?” This is the class in which one student got up to share an article she had read that discussed an accepted tale in one southern family of how one of their innocent young belles during the Civil War had gotten unintentionally pregnant after a Union sniper’s mini-ball had pierced her sweetheart’s scrotum while they were out walking in the woods, had ricocheted off a tree trunk, and had entered her uterus! You can imagine the wild discussion that started about sexual mores and practices in both past and contemporary American society. Yet, every time I passed over the threshold, I felt slightly ill at ease. What it was, I didn’t know, but it was there. I swept it aside saying to myself that “it’s just the adjustment jitters of getting used to each other.” Deep inside me I knew it was more than that. But, I tried to ignore it.

Then, two days ago, I had a discussion with James (not his real name). He obviously had not been prepared for class and had not participated in the discussion to the extent I felt he was capable. He wasn’t challenging himself to reach for his best. His facial expressions betrayed the fact that he was in another world. When he told me that he had not been journaling, I told him we had to talk. So, after class, in the hope I could encourage him, we sat on the steps. We talked for about an hour. He told me that he had a lot on his mind because a lot of responsibility had been dumped unexpectedly on his shoulders when he became Treasurer of his fraternity. “It’s so damn distracting. I can’t get this stuff out of my mind,” he said annoyingly. There were federal tax problems, serious issues of incompetent leadership, and “now its my job to figure out a way to throw a brother out of the house who refuses to leave because he was caught taking a class for another person.” But, he assured me that he should have his act together by the weekend and asked if I could bear with him. I told him that I understood. “Yeah, I know.” I said sympathetically, “Sometimes shit happens and you can’t do anything about it except slog through.” I went on to tell him how when my youngest son was at risk it was almost impossible for me to keep my mind on my work. I explained how in class I always had one ear cocked for the secretary coming through the door with a message that Robby was in trouble; in my office I was always snatching secretive glimpses at the telephone, waiting for its ominous ring. I gave him a few suggestions like talking with the other members of his triad and asking for their support, studying in the library instead of at the frat house, drawing up a weekly calendar and setting aside 45 hours for only class and study time, getting together with his triad to study, and dropping by just to talk and suck on tootsie pops anytime he felt he needed to. Towards the end of the conversation, James said, “Doc, you’re pretty cool. After your comment to Bill (not his real name) the first day of class, I was really pissed with you. I was ready to drop the class. I thought you hated all Greeks. Even when we talked later in the hall and you explained yourself, I thought you were bull shitting me and just covering you ass. Now, I really know differently. Thanks.” We shook hands. As James walked away, it hit me like a revelation.

James was absolutely right. I think by now the students know that I take great joy in bringing excitement and enthusiasm into my classes. I play an eclectic selection of music at the beginning of class to set the mood, to tell everyone, “I’m ready. Let’s go!” I find that humor is an antidote to stress, an ice breaker, an instant respite, a simple introduction, an entryway, an image destroyer. But, they didn’t know that on the first day.

So, there I am taking role, first names only, starting a bonding process of familiarity and comfort, and I come to Bill. Bill was wearing a ….. fraternity shirt. Last quarter, his fraternity, whose reputation was not the highest on campus in the first place, had been involved in a scandal involving alcohol at a frat-sponsored event, a DUI, traffic accident, and serious injuries. Consequently, it had been placed on indefinite social probation and its members have to perform untold hours of social service. When I called Bill’s name and he responded, I looked up. Seeing his shirt, and trying to be humorous, I said, “You sober today?”

As soon as I uttered those words, I tightened my stomach, quietly mashed my teeth, tightened my lips, and screamed silently among other things to myself, “Oh, shit!! Are you stupid.” I had inadvertently stepped over the line and I immediately knew it. There’s an old saying about sticks and stones breaking bones, but names never harming. Of course, that is not true. Words can harm if they are hurled intentionally or otherwise as weapons. What I said, I knew instantly, wasn’t witty. It was a wounding weapon. At best, it was embarrassing, probably a humiliating dart. I so desperately wanted to lunge forward and grab those words before they reached anyone’s ears and stuff them back into my careless mouth. Bill nervously chuckled. What else could he do? Although I was prepared to accept any response in kind with good humor, laughter, ribbing and jokes, he didn’t know that at the time. He could not have known he could retort in kind. It was too early. We didn’t know each other; we didn’t trust each other. I was Dr. Schmier, THE PROF. He only knew that I was weird: dressed in jeans, sucking on a tootsie pop, sipping a cup of coffee, playing music in a history class, and bantering with them. But, I was still THE PROF, one of those “hungry wolves,” the bestower of the grade who had their future in my hands. And, for all he knew, the grapevine was right, that I was a mean, evil, demanding son-of-a- bitch of a professor. Besides, all that didn’t matter because what I said was inappropriate and I was wrong. Period. No argument. End of discussion.

Instead of stopping and apologizing, I whizzed through the role almost like running away from the scene of an accident, hoping against hope no one had noticed or everyone would have a sudden attack of amnesia or that the saying about being out of sight out of mind was true. That was my first mistake. Immediately, after I took roll of the class, we settled into an introductory biographical exercise. About half way through the class, as I walked around, I said, “OK, this is about getting to know each other. Here I am. What do you want to know about me? I’ll tell you anything.” They asked me about my family, my religion, my background, my dog. Some of the questions got personal, but I answered them honestly. Then, James asked, “Is it true you’re anti-Greek?” My “blueberries” caught the signal, but I ignored it. That was my second mistake. I instantly convinced myself that I could deal satisfactorily with what I had done by the indirect, safe and, hidden way, by talking about my belief that fraternities and sororities had their place in campus life though academics had a higher priority. I was afraid that if I were honest, if I admitted my mistake, the students wouldn’t understand and my credibility would suffer. After class, I apologized to Bill and explained myself. The next day, as Bill came into class, I asked, “Are we cool?” “Yeah,” he nonchalantly answered, “no sweat.”

Six days later, journals came in. As I sat on the floor of my office, listening to some music, tapping my pen to the rhythm, sucking on a tootsie pop, I read James’ journal. Those words on the first day of class came back to the surface to haunt me. In it he wrote how angry he was with my comments towards Bill and was ready to drop the course because obviously I was anti-Greek. The only reason he didn’t was something about me, my honesty in answering personal biographical questions, the “turn-on” I brought into the class, told him to give me another chance. Besides, he had gone up to Bill the next day and had talked to him about it. Bill had told him that he and I had talked, and everything was okay. He accepted Bill’s assurances and he figured everything was settled. Again, I didn’t act on that signal. I merely talked privately to James in the hall. Mistake number three. I had convinced myself that it had been a small matter that had been settled, but it weighed heavily on my soul because my conscience knew better. It knew that explaining and apologizing privately to both Bill and James was inadequate, unacceptable, and safe.

This last conversation with James, however, pricked my conscience once again and there was no laying it to rest. I could no longer ignore it. No, I knew I had to step up and do what had to be done or be a hypocrite, be like one of those “do as I say not as I do” people. It was another mountain to climb. I knew I had to get past the inertia of caution, ego, image and authority. I thought how painful it is when I hear students say in their metaphor exercises or during conversations that they feel professors are often irrelevant to their education, that they’re irritants, the enemy, the obstacles to an education. Yet, though I pride myself on being none of these, I may have given the impression, however subtle, I was in those ranks, that my style was not substantive. I knew if I didn’t act on my conscience, not worry about my status, I would remain one those unacceptable “closed books” or one of those “mothers with dried up breasts.”

I had a restless sleep. I went walking Thursday morning, real early, to sort things out. The black, thick fog helped envelope me in my own deep thoughts. I started taking an inventory of my personal teaching philosophy. So what was it that I believed, I asked myself as I roamed the streets. I answered that I believe that it is more important to ask if the student learned than to ask if I taught. I believe that no subject matter is more sacred to me than a student’s growth. I believe that teaching and learning is an act of human relationship, the cornerstone of which must be an honest bond of trust between teacher and student, and to forge that bond I need to share with the students, not just my subject, but me and the truth of my life. I believe that the student, the whole student, is my prime subject. In handling the situation, I realized that I had submerged the more vulnerable side of myself. I had used my authority somewhat subtly and abusively. And, I realized that to be a truly meaningful teacher, I had to face the students with that truth. I had to expect to struggle and share my growth in the same way I asked of my students. There are always going to be mountains out there that need to be climbed. The question was whether I had the humility to take James’ subtle criticisms deeply to heart and had the courage to heed them. I guess I realized that if I wanted to be that spiritual teacher, I would have to be prepared once again not only to reap the unimaginable rewards, but endure the arduous and painful demands and costs of dealing with the truth about myself, my commitment, my abilities, my life. As my walk came to an end and I rounded the last corner, I knew that my imbalance was the result seeing Bill in his chair every time I walked into class and being subliminally reminded of what I had to do but feared doing. Now, I knew what I had to do. More importantly, it was what I wanted to do. It must have been about 5:00 a.m. when I came in from my walk. I sat down and wrote.

I walked into class about three hours later, quiz in my hand, smile on my face, the sound of MEATLOAF resonating throughout the room from the boom box, nervousness in my heart, and a little weakness in my legs. I wondered how the students would react to what I was about to say. Would they respect me or think I was a jerk. Would I make a fool out of myself or a hero? No matter, it was important what I thought. I needed to say it for myself. Then, I turned off the boom box and said, “Before I hand out the quiz, I want to share something with you that I wrote this morning.” I didn’t read what I had written. I spoke it, but this is what I wrote:

Something about this class has been nagging me, tugging
at my conscience, since we began two weeks ago. Unlike
my other class, every time I walked in here, I felt
something was wrong. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know
what it was, but I knew it was something. Well, actually
deep down I did know, but I chose not to know it, maybe
hide it from myself. Yesterday, James showed me what it
was. It wasn’t any of you. It was me.

You know, life in general would be so simple and being a
teacher would be so much easier if you don’t make any
mistakes when you try to do the right thing and if all
sins were caused by fiends who delighted in hurting
people. But, we all have clay feet and none of us has
earned a gold medal in the sport of surface water
walking. Whenever you try to do something, there’s a
risk that someone will not benefit. That goes with the
territory of trying. There are always going to be those
times when you will unintentionally make mistakes, when
you will hurt someone. The first day of class was one of
those times, and I made one of those mistakes. I think
you know by now that I like us to joke with each other
about ourselves and each others. That way we don’t take
ourselves or each other so seriously. But, on the first
day in the class, however sensitive I am, I inadvertently
screwed up and momentarily forgot to take seriously the
unequal relationship that exists between me and you when
I made the comment about Bill and his fraternity. Just
for a second, I forgot that my words as a professor
weighed a heck of lot more than yours as a student. I
don’t like it, but that’s reality. However I struggle
to change that relationship, it’s still there. However
I try to diminish the weight of it’s presence, I cannot
totally succeed so quickly. You always talk about my
authority in different ways: “you’re the prof”; “is this
going to be on the test”; “will it affect my grade”;
“what do you want”; “will this be acceptable.” You
showed your distrust of professors in your metaphor
exercise at the beginning of the quarter. And on that
first day, I regretfully showed you that you might be
right.

Everyone tells you that there are limits placed on you
students by your status as students and by the authority
granted to me as a professor. It doesn’t matter if we
recognize that fact or not, it’s there. I knew it. I
just momentarily forgot about it. My awareness, honesty
and sensitivity about our relationship are an important
part of my teaching. Common courtesy and respect is
never out of place. On that first day, I was out of
place. I have to pay at least as much attention to what
I say and how I say it as to what I do. We can use a
word here or there. But, this classroom is not a saloon.
It’s not a rowdy party. It’s not a company picnic. It’s
not a matter of infringing on free of speech that should
allow me as the professor to say whatever I wish. I do
not say certain things in class because I’m afraid one of
you is going to sue me. I am not sensitive because I’m
afraid that you will complain, that your parents will
call, or that one of my bosses will ask me to explain.
It’s not even a matter of being politically correct.
It’s simply a matter of decency and of respect. It’s a
judgement call. And, on that first day I accidently used
bad judgement and I was disrespectful to Bill.

I’ve told you that I see my mission is to teach to both
your mind and character. To see each of you as a person,
not just as a student. That means being understanding,
demanding, fair, civil and sensitive. I’ve already said
that when we have discussions in class, when I use an
innovative teaching technique, when we attempt to bond,
it is not an excuse to ‘get personal’ and belittle each
other’s status, beliefs or associations. I ignored my
own warning on that first day. Even though I realized
what I had done and privately talked with both Bill, and
later to James when he courageously, yes courageously,
confronted me and told how angry he was with my comment,
and everything is cool with them, it’s not cool with my
conscience. My conscience tells me that the insult was
made publicly and so the apology has to be made publicly.
The right thing to do is to read this entry to you and
publicly admit what I had inadvertently done, apologize
to Bill, and demand that if ever that happens again you
have my permission to spin my tail to the wall.
I then said to both Bill and James with a tone of deepest sincerity, “I’m sorry for having offended you. My only excuse is momentary stupidity. In this case, Ph.D. does mean ‘piled higher and deeper.’ And if you told others about my comments, please either convey to them my sincere apologies or, if you wish, I will come to the frat houses and personally apologize. Your call.”
After a few minutes of silence, I then continued in a perked up voice, “Now, clear the decks. We have a quiz to take.” As I passed out the quizzes, I danced around the class as if the shackles had been taken off my feet and a weight lifted from my soul.

I don’t think it’s unhealthy and dangerous for faculty to risk being open with their students and each other. Acknowledging a mistake is not a sign of weakness, and I found that my status among the students was anything but weakened. It’s merely treating the students with the respect and dignity to which they are entitled. We’re professors, but we’re not finally formed individuals. I admit that it’s personally threatening, tough, to review constantly a lifetime of work and a sense of commitment. But, now, as I think about it, if I and those people in my classes are ever to find the place in class, in any class, in life for that matter, where we can march onward hand-in-hand in supporting cooperation rather than engage in fierce, back-stabbing competition, where we can create rather than merely uncover, where we can transform rather than improve, I have the responsibility to serve as a role model, a facilitator if you will, for insight and self-discovery, not only of the subject but of themselves as well. I must be concerned not only with the logic of the mind, but the illogic of the heart. I am an agent of the personal, as well as the intellectual development of my students. I think the impact I may have on a student’s academic growth is but a small part of my contribution to the total person. I know, after having read student journals, that my essential mission as an educator is to attempt to be that person for whom so many students are looking, who can show them the way to become the whole person into whom they are capable of developing.

After class, I went back to my office, dropped the quizzes on the floor, and closed my door. An unusual act, but I wanted to be alone for the hour until my next class. I walked over to my desk, leaned back in my chair, propped my feet up on the desk, unwrapped an orange tootsie pop, stuck it in my mouth, put my intertwined hands behind my head, closed my eyes. I felt like I was floating just above my chair. My senses were alive. I twirled the pop very slowly in my mouth. As my tongue felt every irregularity on its surface and savored the taste of every molecule of the tart juices swirling in my mouth, I relived the feeling of those opening moments of that class. I think we became a learning community at that moment. I hope we did. Maybe I’ll find out when I read their journals.

I know there will be more mountains to climb, more thresholds to cross over, more mistakes to face, more failures with which to contend. But as I learn to deal with each as they come, those that are to follow will be less difficult to face because teaching, learning, discovering and transforming my life and those of others are a bit more a part of my life. Anyway, on this day I feel good.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

Trick or Treat! I’ll bet that you didn’t know it is still halloween. At least, it seems that way on our campuses. That realization came to me this rare but deliciously nippy April morning as I walked through a slight fog that cast a supernatural haze over the landscape.

I had left the house with what I thought was little on my mind except anticipating the agonizing effects of a week’s layoff because of a knee I had wrenched while gardening last weekend. Anyway, about a couple of blocks into my walk, I was startled momentarily almost out of my grubbies. I stopped to catch my breath. My heart fluttered a bit. I dared to look across the street. On the curb was a darkened, irregularly shaped mass ominously looming out from the ground. Its contorted shadows seemed to reveal concealed grotesque demons. As I approached it, I saw that it was the heaping results of what was obviously a weekend of robust spring cleaning. Then, I saw what had caught the corner of my eye. In this pile of shadowy garage sale rejects, reflecting the light from the street lamp from across the street, shone a bright orange plastic jack-o-lantern. It was secretly peering out from under the slightly open lid of a city garbage container. It’s two sharply angled black eyes glaring at me with sinister mischievousness as if it had been laying in ambush for some innocent to pass by and now was about to jump out at me to rip out my throat. I chuckled and started off again.

But, as I regained my pace I began to think mischievous thoughts about that pumpkin and how so many faculty would love to place it at their door to ward off a particular hobgoblin that is haunting the halls of ivy. Its presence makes so many faculty jittery. They walk nervously about, constantly glancing over their shoulders, their ears sharpened for its slightest sound, their eyes roaming to detect its slightest movement. They are ever on the alert for the presence of this phantom, ready to make a mad dash for their lives should it suddenly appear. They sit tensely at their desks, behind the protection of heavily barricaded doors. They stand behind the lectern, casting nervous glances at the door, fearful that it will enter their classrooms when they least expect it and they are the most exposed. Their blood turns ice cold at the thought of confronting its twisted, snarled gargoyle features. They shake with uncontrollable fright as the eerie sound of its ghoulish moaning and groaning that reminds them that it never rests in its quest for fresh victims.

The hobgoblin’s minions of students and administrators, disguised to look like normal people, are everywhere, ready to betray the presence of weakest soul. They’re running about knocking on every door. They dance tauntingly about any faculty who dares to travel the campus. They teasingly wave wads of questionnaires, computerized answer sheets, portfolio models, grade surveys, student grape-vine sheets, enrollment figures, salary endorsements, and promotion and tenure recommendations in the sweating faces of the harassed faculty. Their high pitched cackling betrays the sadistic glee they get out of their torment.

With fearful resignation, professors know that there is no place to hide from this dreaded phantom. Ultimately they know that they will fall prey to it. When it has them in its clutches, they fear it will pluck out their hearts, tear them limb from limb, and condemn their souls to torturous purgatory. Oh, it is a fearsome creature, a heinous gremlin, a merciless ghoul, a profane demon, a pernicious fiend. Its very name strikes terror in their hearts. It is called the “faculty evaluation.”

To protect themselves, the faculty offer magical incantations to banish this monster and its serving hordes from the campuses. “Nobody really knows what good teaching is, so how can anyone measure it?” they chant. They supplicate, “There is little to teaching beyond knowing the subject.” “Student evaluations are worthless,” they sing,`” because they’re related to the grades the students receive.” They cry out, “Students do not know what’s best for them.” “We have to keep the amateurs, the politicians, and administrators out of the classroom,” they wail in anguish.

We can be facetious and smirk about the irony of professors being so nervous about being evaluated when they always are saying that they are in the business of evaluating the performance of others. I think, however, there is something to be said about questioning the validity of the measuring instrument, about being skeptical of any call for faculty evaluations of teaching when all the other signals on our campuses seem to indicate a general administrative disinterest in both classroom teaching and the creation of the campus as a learning community, about being anxious about its misuse and abuse, and about being suspicious of the true and hidden purpose of it all. But, I think there is more to this issue of evaluation of faculty than meets the eye.

All that skepticism, cynicism, and anger about evaluations hide fear, a fear of being judged for something that most of faculty do not think they are. For the truth is that few professors identify themselves as teachers in the first place. “It’s a case of mistaken identity,” they protest. They are not teachers of this or of that. They are scholars in this or that field; they are professors of this or that discipline. They find themselves in the classroom, but feel far more comfortable in an archive researching this or in a lab experimenting on that, or writing this, or presenting that, or consulting that this. Their sense of purpose, accomplishment, and success has little to with the classroom. Few were hired for their classroom mastery. All too many of them cringe at being evaluated for doing something about which few of them know very much other than writing an essay called a lecture, standing up in front of a class, and talking. They’re being measured on something for which they were not trained to do, about which they seldom reflect, and on which they seldom articulate.

Let’s face it. Almost all learning about teaching takes place on the job, often at the expense of students. Without few, if any, alternative classroom models, or without any training, most professors fall back on their own experiences as students and base their own teaching on the model of their lecturing professors. “Hey, that’s the way I was taught,” they proclaim. “And Dr. so and so was a damn good teacher. He knew what he was doing. Look how much I learned. And, if it was good enough for me, it’s good enough for them.”

Faculty know how to comb archives or to run experiments in labs or to draw up surveys. They can analyze a document or the results of a lab experiment or the outcome of a clinical study. They were trained to present conference papers, publish scholarly articles and books, and talk in a professional jargon. They were educated to reflect on the sophisticated issues associated with their disciplines. They were not trained to articulate a philosophy of education.

They were not trained in the processes of learning. They were not taught how to use the tools of teaching. They were taught so little that would allow them to make intelligent choices about teaching, about ways to introduce a variety of instruction other than lecturing, about involving students in a variety of roles other than as passive note takers, about evaluating students, about using new technologies, about doing so much more in the classroom other than lecture. The future scholars were not shown how to be future teachers; they were not shown how to communicate their knowledge to those who are not knowledgeable; they were not shown how to find the intellectual, attitudinal, and emotional entry passageways into the students hearts, souls and minds.

It’s little wonder that faculty are far more secure talking about their discipline. They have the virtual unassailable control of the expert and they have a greater sense of who they are. In effect, it seems to them that amateurish outsiders are doing more than just changing the rules of engagement on them without a protective grandfather clause. They are challenging beloved values, altering priorities, stripping away control, exposing weaknesses, ripping away masks, revealing amateurishness, eroding authority, questioning identity, challenging purpose, and establishing new goals. They are threatening the very souls of the professor. They are attacking the meaning of professor’s existence.

All that skepticism, cynicism, and anger about evaluations hide fear, a fear of being judged by the students. Can you imagine resting your salary, your promotion, your tenure, your future on the opinion of some teenage kid or some older uniformed adult whom you don’t know and who doesn’t know you? One of my colleagues phrased it this way, “If they know so much about what should be going on in the classroom, why aren’t they teaching the course. Who’s the professor here? I mean, if they know so much about what’s good for them and what I am supposed to do, what am I here for?” For those professors who don’t care about the students, who don’t want to know them, who don’t even want to learn their names, who are not going to be “touchy-feely” with the students, for those professors who exercise power over students rather than be in a state of mutuality with them, for those professors who meekly stand by without protest as classes grow in size while they and the students become faint specks on the horizon to each other, for those professors who do not forge bonds of trust with their students or create learning communities in their classrooms, for those professors who see no need to reconstruct one-way dictation into two-way communication, for those professors who have little mutuality and relatedness with the students, for all those professors such anonymity and distance is coming back to haunt them. They don’t know who is evaluating them anymore than they believe those who are evaluating them know them. They see it as an intolerable situation of inept suspicious strangers judging knowledgeable, suspicious strangers.

But, at the heart of it all, all that skepticism, cynicism, and anger about evaluations hide fear, a fear of looking at themselves in a mirror, a fear of how their professional and personal lives might be changed or have to be changed if the world talks back. Professors say they are agents of change in society and the classroom, but are fearful of changing themselves; they talk so much about that world out there, but cringe at attempts to understand the world inside themselves. Evaluation in its highest form is not so much about subject knowledge or technical competence of classroom delivery, as it is about inner drives and desires, a reminder that an education is, as I have said so often, an inward journey. We academics have so arrogantly, so long promoted the myth of objectivity, that accurate judgements can only be made disengaged from afar, that claims truth can be attained only if it is untainted by personal bias, that insists on a form of personal and professional distance learning that holds only from faraway can we truly evaluate and accurately know things. For “things” read not only subject matter, but students as well. We have so distorted our view of life by believing that we can easily remove ourselves from ourselves and students.

We live, however, in a world of subjectivity, and I think that scares a lot of us because subjectivity makes demands on our personal lives. It requires that we acknowledge our involvement with the world around us, that we recognize that we are frail humans no less than are the students. I think so often we forget that our humanity and subjectivity was not erased with the bestowal of the hood.

And so, evaluations make us address the detached, impersonal, inanimate teach-talk” that we are fond of unconsciously using. In this professional jargon one human being becomes a separated lifeless thing called “teacher.” Another becomes a faceless image called “student.” It’s like we walk through a wax museum. We disengage from ourselves; we stand apart and look at ourselves and students as something else, a place outside of us and them where education supposedly takes place. When we teach-talk, we lose our connection with ourselves, our humanity, our past, present and future; we lose our connection with others. Evaluations can have the uncomfortable impact of proclaiming that learning, education, teaching is a human, personal experience of living which takes place within both the teacher and the student. What happens in the classroom happens to a ME, to a HIM or a HER, not to an IT or a SOMETHING. And when we evaluate teaching, we are evaluating what goes on inside of us, our being, not something out there. The evaluation forces us to confront the need to surrender power over the students and create a mutuality with them. We are in charge of our classes. Whether we use that responsibility creatively and productively to foster a relatedness to them is another matter. Imagine how much our lives would be changed if we let the students talk back to us and establish a relatedness which has hitherto either been lost or never had existed. I will repeat that I believe teaches are care-givers. To be a care-giver, however, you must trust; to trust, you must understand; to understand, you must listen; to listen, you must hear. You must understand, listen to, and hear yourself; you must understand, listen to and hear others. It we do not, we cannot care for ourselves; if we cannot care for ourselves, we cannot care for others.

Teaching, I think, is a vulnerable act of “spilling your guts” by which the personal becomes public. For me to properly teach, I have to reveal things about which I feel very deeply. Sometime that means even the intimate details of my personal life, but more often it means issues I find crucial and compelling which have helped shape who I am. Such vulnerability requires a lot of courage to exercise among strangers. To do that, I risk the judgement that comes with the exposure of my passions to public scrutiny.

I like to hear from students. I want to hear from students. I think that is important. Too many of us professors talk too much. Too many of us listen too little. I think there are two general categories of teachers. There are those who are very much taken with themselves and are the same with everyone and, therefore, oblivious to the human diversity with whom they deal. There are others who are concerned with those with whom they deal and are different with different students and vary themselves to meet the needs of the students. In a caring environment you must listen. If you listen, you’re groping to find out what students need and what they say about their current education. I’m a better teacher if I am informed. I encourage students to be open and honest in their comments, to be frank with me about their feelings, their angers, their fears, and their disappointments. It’s part of the process of learning who we are in our professional lives. I have found deep insights in student’s comments if I have the courage to listen.

So, I think we should welcome such evaluations. I don’t see them as tormenting gremlins and threatening hobgoblins to be combatted, but I greet them as soothing angels of renewal. I have found that the sense of defenseless exposure wanes proportionally to the growing strength of a trust bond in the classroom. For an effective and honest evaluation, faculty have to draw students into community with them. I work very hard to establish a bond of trust in my classes. It’s the life’s blood of the learning community that emerges. I spend the whole first week or two of class with personal introductory, trust, and bonding exercises in which I also partake. During that time, we have, as one student insightfully commented in her journal, “started stripping away our fears, defenses, and excuses for not doing things because we’ve started to know and trust each other and feel relaxed about things.” I guess that’s one reason I’m not afraid of evaluations and why my students almost always demand that they sign them. To the contrary, I welcome my students’ comments. I have confidence in their judgement because I know them and they know me. I respect them and they respect me. I trust them and they trust me. My classes are one big, ongoing evaluation: weekly evaluations, weekly journals, daily personal discussions, open class evaluations, final evaluations, and unsolicited personal letters. I’m constantly asking my students “How’s this working?” “What do you think?” “Should we adjust this, drop that, add this?” “How do you feel?” “Am I doing my job?” I find it’s marvelous, uneasy, exciting, exhilarating, nerve-wracking, adventurous, uncomfortable to let the world talk back to me.

No, the evaluations are not the hobgoblin out there. The real hobgoblin is here inside us. I need that evaluation to help me avoid stagnation. It helps me to forever climb my mountain. It helps me to change and to grow, and help nurture the new that is coming behind me. I need that evaluation, that feedback, that assessment, whatever you want to call it, to help me teach and live both fully and well. I need that evaluation to help me reflect on how I label myself, how that labelling affects how I perceive myself, how I expect myself to behave, how I label students, how I perceive them, how I expect them to behave. I need that evaluation to help me assess my skills in getting to both myself and the students. I need that evaluation to help me to see if I know how to use those skills, if I have the courage to use them, and what I have to do to improve them. Evaluations help me to understand my own inner drives and desires; why I do what I do. Evaluations help prevent me from removing myself from both myself and the students, and to stay in a state of relatedness with both. Then, and only then, can I create that bond of trust among students and between the students and myself which I believe is so essential to true learning. Only then, can I create an authentic learning community with my students, my own spirit, my subject and hopefully my fellow teachers.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–