It was warm this morning. So much for our three days of south Georgia autumn and winter. It was not a very good walk this morning. At least, it wasn’t relaxing. Everything looked bleak. The darkness seemed blacker than usual; the quiet seemed less comforting. The shadows in which I usually find great delight seemed foreboding. Even the moon seemed ominous. My muscles were tight. My feet felt heavy. With every step, I felt like I wanted to pound my foot through the pavement. I started feeling once again that surge of a mixture of some unpleasant emotions I felt yesterday: sadness, confusion, and frustration, maybe even helplessness, mixed in with a touch of anger. I had started thinking again about a conversation I had yesterday with a non-traditional student who was in my class last spring. I’ll call her Amanda.

I had been strolling across campus, sucking on a tootsie pop. As I was approaching my building, I heard someone call my name. I turned to see Amanda clumsily running towards me while struggling to hang on to her backpack. I knew something was wrong. Her face was twisted with anguish. There was a fire of anger in her glassy eyes that the accompanying tears of obvious hurt could not extinguish.

She told me that she was still having problems with her a professor in her first year math class and needed advice. “That abusive ass hole hasn’t changed. There’s no Thanksgiving in him. He did it again with the material he assigned over the break,” she angrily proclaimed though her grinding teeth and snarled lips.

Maybe I should back up. A few weeks before Thanksgiving break, Amanda’s class had reached a difficult section in the material. She had struggled with her homework assignments with little success. All of her classmates that she had contacted had been in the same quandary. So, she had gone to get the help of the professor. But, when she went to him during his office hours, she was turned away. The gist of a part of our conversation had gone something like this, and don’t hold me to every word:

“He told me he had more important things to do at that moment and left me standing in the doorway with my thumb up when the sun don’t shine. It was office hours. That time is supposed to be for us to come see him, not for him to do his work,” she exclaimed loudly in anger. “You always said that there nothing more important than a student wanting to learn. Not for him. That damn abusive son-of-a-bitch thinks more about his precious equations and computer than he does us!”

She proceeded to tell me that when she went to class, she raised her hand and asked a question about the homework.

“You know what he said,” she asked. “Said, hell, almost yelled. He said that he had no time for me. He had to cover the material before the course ended, not the homework, and that I was not letting him do it. He told me that if I didn’t know it, to get a tutor. Then, he said in front of everybody that maybe I didn’t belong in his class or in even in college. He was so damn rude and insulting. He made me feel this small,” as she pinched her fingers nearly together. “He was annoyed at me because I wanted to ask a question like you said I always should. He stood there in front of everybody and told me in class that I was hurting the other students who were trying listen, and that I should not to do it again. It was so embarrassing. And I’m not the only one he’s done that to this quarter. You’d think we had done something criminal by interrupting his f–ken, precious, boring lectures. Hell, he had just finished taking role and hadn’t even started making love to the blackboard! That damn ABUSIVE (her very strong emphasis), son-of-a-bitch!!!! Who the hell does he think he is!”

I asked if she had spoken to the department head.

“Yeah,” she answered. “Big deal. He didn’t believe me. After all, I’m only a student. He treated me like an hysterical little sniveling child. He asked me questions in way that said Dr. ……… didn’t mean what he said, that I had misunderstood, I was confused. I had misinterpreted. Bull shit!! If I did, so did all the others who came up to me after class and said Dr. ……… shouldn’t have done what he did. The coward is too afraid to do something or he doesn’t care or he’s protecting Dr……..’s ass. Hell, he’s just as bad as Dr. ………. by letting it go on!”

I suggested that she go talk with the Dean.

“What for? Last time someone went there, they just got a song and dance, and was told that he needed something in writing so he can talk with the department head and they can keep a file. Meanwhile, he goes on insulting and abusing his students and treating them like shit or as if they aren’t there.”

I had told her that we had a new acting Dean and to go see him.

“No way! You’re asking me to put my ass on the line knowing that when Dr. ………. finds out he’ll get even, and they’ll let him figure out a way to give me a poor grade or flunk me. I’ve got a 3.8 and want to go to med school. No way, I can’t risk it.”

There was little I could advise her to do besides either grin and bear it or raise a loud stink. Knowing this professor’s reputation from past experiences and student journals, I knew she had not misinterpreted either his words or intent.

That conversation a few weeks ago, and its repeat yesterday, brought back a flood memories of journal entries, and several similar and recent occurrences. One was of a time last spring when a student stopped me in the hall with tears, streaks of black mascara steaming down her face. Her tenured, political science professor, known for his in-class foul language and verbal abuse of students, had screamed at her when she asked a question about his condemnation of the religious right’s role in American politics, questioned her right to disagree with him, proclaimed his expertise, and threatened to flunk her. Two students had walked out of class; she sat there and cried. And though I talked to the department head on her behalf and convinced her to put her story in writing along with those of other student eye witnesses in the class, nothing came of it except that his file of over twenty years grew a bit thicker. Another memory that came to mind was of a learning disabled student who had been in one of my classes. The student was not officially enrolled in the school’s program for students with special needs. When he told his psychology professor of both his reading disability and his willingness to work hard without demanding any special considerations, the professor told him that he belonged in a special school. He went on to tell the student to get out of the class because he was tired of watering down his course to satisfy the needs of students with their “touching sob stories” who didn’t belong in college. And I could go on and on.

Try as I could to the contrary, I couldn’t get this out of my mind. One uncomfortable word that Amanda had kept using over and over haunted me. So, I want to use that word. We think it is inapplicable in all too many of our classrooms, but it describes vividly the damage and hurt so often inflicted by those at the head of the classroom on the students. That hurt may be inflicted intentionally or subconsciously or both. It may be the result of insensitivity, unawareness, or just plain indecency and heartlessness. Whatever the case, I think this word refers not only to a single outstanding and unusual event, but to a general pattern of behavior as well. I think this word refers not so much to a single individual as it does to a pervading psychology that exists on far too many of our campuses and in far too many classes. This word describes the designed or otherwise process of reducing a student’s self- concept to the point where so many students consider themselves unimportant, unworthy of respect and consideration because they are treated that way. That word is “abuse!” How do I define abuse? Is it too strong of a word for our classroom? Am I using it in the manner of a shopworn cliche? Maybe, I’m not sure. If you can find a more applicable–or comfortable word–for yourself, that’s fine. But, whatever terms you want to select be sure you are describing the intentional or unintentional diminishment of one human being who is powerless by another human being who wields the power and authority. Now, I don’t mean physical assault. I am not merely referring to the more obvious and in vogue issues of racial or gender or sexual preference prejudice. And, I don’t mean only biased attitudes towards the learning or physically disabled. To be abusive, you don’t have to lay a hand on a student; you don’t have to demeaningly call a women “sweetie” and ask for physical favors in return for a good grade; you don’t have to act as if African-Americans or Hispanics or any other ethnic group are tearing down the quality of your institution; you don’t have to act as if accommodation for the physically challenged or learning disabled is a disruption or diminishment of your class. To be an abuser, you don’t have to wear masks of monsters and don faces of evil that have ghoulish eyes, sutured cheeks, greenish skin, or blood dripping mouths; to be an abuser, you don’t have to wear villainous costumes replete such accessories as black capes, coned hats, pitchforks, broomsticks, black cats, or bats. A normal looking face, normal attire, respected positions of academic and administrative authority, or academic titles may be equally terrible masks.

All you have to do is prostitute your position. All you have to do is be cynical and negative, negative, negative. All you have to do is say in so many words and gestures is: “you just don’t belong” or “you are a loser” or “you’re disappointing,” or “you’ll never get it” or “you don’t count” or “we really don’t want you.” One of the best ones I’ve heard is “if you don’t care, neither do I.” All you have to do is to act like a weeder instead of a nurturer. All you have to do is to pepper your thoughts and statements with unending “can’ts,” “won’ts,” and “don’ts.”

Emotional abuse can be as deliberate as a verbal slap across the face Amanda experienced: “that’s a stupid question,” “you’re wrong,” “can’t you ever get it right?” It is the incapacity to see that an inadequate response or performance does not reflect an inadequate person. It is the far more subtle forms of abuse that are far more tolerated or unrecognized, and, therefore, are more pernicious. It is the far less obvious and less selective amputation of the heart and soul that are ignored. It cuts across racial, gender, and special needs lines. It can as subtle as the academic equivalent of neglect, a sin of omission, the disregard of students’ humanity and individuality in the crowded herds of large classes, a professor’s disinterest in teaching, long lines at registration or payment of fees. It can be as passive as a sense that institutions of higher learning are organized far more for the convenience of administrators and faculty than to serve the needs of students. It can be as random as getting students caught up in turf battles between departments and schools or colleges, or making pawns in personal conflicts between professors, or counting them as no more than impersonal numbers in the funding games. A student can be a deliberate target of a supposedly “harmless” blooper joke. And it may be a combination which increase the negative effects geometrically. It may be verbal or behavioral, active or passive, frequent or occasional. This type of emotional abuse, is one of the cruelest and longest-lasting off all forms heaped upon the students. It leaves no physical scars, but it is often as painful as a fist or a kick. And, the consequent debilitating pain, “no one gives a damn about me except for my check and their job”–as one student put it– lasts a heck of lot longer.

It has been my experience that a professor’s concern, someone’s concern, anyone’s concern, is important to a student. It is so important that withholding the sense influences a failure to thrive and strive; it influences the decision to stay or leave. Maybe that explains why in their journals students constantly express surprise with a professor, or anyone, who cares for and respects them and treats them as human beings. To avoid being a target, instead of learning and exercising such qualities as risk- taking, challenging, question asking that every students needs for success both on campus and beyond, students learn “their place” in the viciousness pecking order. They learn the ropes and how to play the game. They learn how to cut corners in order to achieve the grades and create a deflecting image of achievement we so demand. Or, they seek the silent almost unseen appearance of the shadow or wallflower which would not make them targets. Or, they just up and leave.

I think emotional abuse is the most pervasive, least understood, least addressed form of student maltreatment. Students are often dismissed simply because their wounds are not visible. In an era of political correctness, when we are ever more sensitive to the needs of the individual, the pain and torment of students who experience “only” emotional abuse is often trivialized. We understand the victims of physical or sexual abuse. We talk about battering and date-rape and the need for specialized treatment. We provide special services for students with learning and physical disabilities. But, when it comes to the quiet student, the underachiever, we are more likely to blame them or believe they will get over it or call it immaturity or label it laziness or decide they just don’t belong.

Emotional abuse damages the soul, scars the heart, enchains the spirit. When it comes to damage and disability, I don’t see much of a difference between the various categories of abuses, It’s only a matter of the choice of weapons and targets.

The cost of emotional abuse can’t be measured by visible scars although it can be sensed by diminished effort, lack of performance, poor grades, low initiative, fear, stress, obvious lack of self-confidence.

What’s the solution? Of course, there are the seminars sponsored by whomever on awareness, sensitivity, ethics, and so on. But, all these will be of little avail unless we all start looking less for numbers, dollar signs, and “students,” and look more for individual human beings. A little caring can go a long way. I think should stop accentuating shortcomings, and be willing to teach and deal with real people; to ask: who are the students, what do they need, how can we help them, what do they want, what can we do. I think sincere decency, sensitivity, and recognition is the key to effective response. It is half the battle of the campus to acknowledge that every student, without exception, is endowed with a gift of importance, with a birthright to respect, with a right to strive unhindered for his or her fullest potential, and that it is our task to help them with their individual growth, development, and success.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

I slept in this morning and woke up with a gastric hangover caused by too much turkey, stuffing, and other Thanksgiving table delights. It was with a less than determined “ho-hum” that I sluggishly put on my walking grubbies early this afternoon. I think “yuk” would a better way to describe my attitude towards walking. I kept trying to talk myself out of walking as I opened the door. Hitting the unexpected crisp and invigorating 38 degree air, however, was like a splash of cold water. I woke up and off I went. All along my route, there was an unusual stillness in the air. It was as if everything was in a holiday repose. Only I disturbed the pristine sun-cast shadows of the bare, interlaced branches of the water oaks, dogwoods, and pecan trees that marbleized the streets. I had been thinking about blessings a lot lately, not only because of the Thanksgiving season but in an attempt to prevent a family crisis from casting me into the depths of despair. So I wasn’t surprised that I started thinking about an assignment an e-mail colleague from England had given me a few weeks ago. She charged me to answer, “with clarity, brevity and a lively presentation,” the question, “What do think are the rewards of good teaching.” The assignment was due yesterday, but since it was a holiday and classes were out, I suspect that she will give me a day’s grace.

Given the fact that with rare exception the academic culture places little if any value on teaching or rarely goes beyond lip service in support of non-researching and non-publishing teachers, I don’t think the rewards of good teaching can be measured adequately by such institutional methods of recognition as salary increases, promotion, and acquisition of tenure. I’m not even sure the good teacher would get so simple a thing as an appreciative “thank you” and a handshake.

Remembering my colleague’s instructions, I will only say that I think the real reward of good teaching has a human face. Nothing can better convey what I mean then a story about one of my current students I’ll call Susan.

Susan is a 35 year old wife with a supporting husband and a mother of two adoring teenage girls. She came into class straight- jacketed by an obvious overwhelming self-consciousness and weak self-confidence. They were written all over her face and screamed out in her body language. She acted as if she wanted to sit in the back of the room by herself where no one would notice her. She was visibly upset when she was placed in a circle of other students and discovered that there was no hideaway recess in my classroom. She was uncomfortable sitting in group circles with others looking at her and she having to look at others. She wouldn’t smile and would sit tightly upright. She would talk with the other members of her group only when it was required. She volunteered nothing easily, and was hesitant about participating in the biography exercise we use to start getting to know each other. Her eyes were constantly roaming as if trying to see if anyone was looking at her. On one of the bonding exercises I use to begin forging a learning community in the class, she wrote that she was nervous, confused, frightened, and unsure. She was not sure that she had the ability to be a college student. After all, she had been at best a poor to mediocre student in a rural Georgia school system that had yet to discard the separate but equal concept in education, and that it had been over fifteen years since she had been in school. Moreover, she was not sure if she made the right move of coming back to school so long after she had graduated high school, not sure if she could carry the burden of both school and family however supportive was her husband and children, not sure if she was being selfish, not sure if she was capable in the first place.

When it came time for her to do the signing exercise, one of the ice-breakers I use at the beginning of the term in my class, she would not stand up and sing solo before the class. She was the only student to refuse. She was terrified. “I can’t,” she exclaimed as she vigorously shook her head. A few others in the class urged her on by saying that they had been scared but had sung and they had survived. She still shook her head and refused to stand up and sing. “That’s OK,” I quietly said in a calming voice, “sing while you’re sitting down.” She shook her head. Then, two other students from different parts of the room spontaneously got out of their chairs and walked over to her as I carefully approached her. We knelt down and one of the students whom she did not know said, “Let’s be a barbershop quartet and sing some of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” We did with Susan hesitantly whispering the words so quietly no one could hear her. Nevertheless, we all understood and applauded her efforts. I gave her a tootsie pop and said, “Good. That’s a step.”

“She may be scared silly,” I said to myself in my written notes, “but she’s here. I don’t think she realizes the courage and strength she has within her. I’m going to keep my eye on her.”

Her lack of self-confidence leaked into everything she did in class. She was quiet as stone during class discussions, sitting motionless and without expressions. During the quizzes, she would go along with whatever anyone said in the group. When the group divided the daily assignments, she did what was assigned to her by the others without an utterance. One day, I pulled her aside after class. We strolled out to a bench, and as we sucked on tootsie pops, we talked. She admitted that she lacked self-confidence. She had been talking about that very subject with her husband the day before. It was driving her up a wall. She knew it was obstructing her efforts and performance. She was always worrying about what others would think and about that proverbial “what you wanted.” She admitted that she had to think less of what she feared others thought of her and more of what she thought of herself.

“I was always like that all my life. I know it has to change, but,” she asked, “how do I do that?”

I answered by asking her why she came to college. “To make something better of myself. I want to be a better and more informed person so I can be my own person. I want to grow!” she answered.

I was stunned. That wasn’t the answer I expected. “That’s a hell of an answer,” I replied. “I don’t know anyone who could have said it better.” I asked her if she ever thought about what it took for her to make the decision to come to college, to have the courage to admit she was not satisfied with her life, to have even more courage to act on that realization, to accept the burden of being wife, mother, and now student. “What does your being here say to you about you?” I asked. “What does your going to college say to your children about you? Concentrate on those answers when you come up with them,” I then advised, “and then screw whatever anyone else might think or say.”

Slowly over the next couple of weeks I noticed a different look begin to appear on her face. She struggled to make a comment here and there during a discussion. A word grew into a phrase, a phrase into a sentence, a sentence into a statement. Smiles began to replace tightly closed lips. The look in her eyes changed. She began actively discussing the answers to questions during the quizzes within her triad and even volunteered to help other triads. She increasingly took on a leadership role in her triad. Every time she’d look at me I’d give her a slight nod of my head, a loud “that’s good Susan,” a wink of an eye, a subtle thumbs up sign, or even a tootsie pop.

Then her triad had to put on a skit before the class. There she was, standing up in front of the class, having the largest speaking role. She later wrote in her journal that she wanted to have that role in her triad’s skit; she wanted to get in front of the class and, as she wrote, “blot out my fear.” She went on to write in capital letters, “I CONVINCED MYSELF THAT I CAN DO THIS AND I DID! I feel more and more confident about myself.”

A week later, she wrote in her journal that she had given a speech in her Communications class. And though she was nervous, she said she kept thinking about the faith I had expressed in her ability, the support and encouragement she had received from those in her triad, and how she had talked up in front of our class. She got an “A” for that major presentation, and was so proud of her peer evaluations that she clipped them in her journal for me to see.

I have an e-mail colleague from Australia who says that all professors have these opportunities. But, it’s the good teacher, however, he goes on to say, who takes the opportunity. It’s a heady experience to see people grow and be a part of that growth. Once you begin to feel the students in the class, to start touching each other’s souls, when you have that electrifying occasion to see the students reach out and grab and be transformed, there are no question marks. There are just exclamation points, and a sense of wonder and fulfillment. No publication, no grant, no conference paper, no length of resume, no amount of salary increase, no promotion can match the exhilaration of that sense of accomplishment.

Yes, the real reward of good teaching has a human face to it. It is the knowledge that you’ve made a difference. When that happens, it doesn’t matter one bit what anyone else says or even if anyone else knows.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

Well, this is the third part of the assignment my students have given me. Blast them. They are pushing me to think as hard or maybe even harder than most of my colleagues. I think these three assignments rival, maybe surpass, my doctoral orals. I passed the assignment about what an education boils down to. They gave me an “A.” I also got an “A” on the part about what teaching boils down to. I thought I was finished with their course. But, they weren’t finished. They were still not satisfied. Then, they asked me to describe “the good teacher.” I looked at them.

“This is your final exam,” one of them asserted. “It’s worth forty per cent of your grade. Each exam was worth 20 percent. Attitude and effort is worth 20 percent.”

I looked at them.

“Why not ask me to define ‘love’ or ‘beauty,'” I replied in an exasperated tone.

“It’s due in two weeks,” was the answer as they ignored my statement.

“Can I have more than two sentences?” I begged.

“Yes,” was their compassionate reply. And then added as smirks began to appear on their faces, “But, don’t make it too long. After all we have to read and grade it.”

I’ve been struggling with this assignment for almost two weeks. It has almost become consuming. I’ve even started to dream dreams about “the good teacher.” I think my problem is to weave together what I see as the two distinct, inseparable, and interrelated aspects of defining a good teacher. There is the artistic aspect of the good teacher who enters the classroom as naturally gifted as a Mozart. This “born” talent is creative and subjective. It cannot be taught or learned. It’s almost impossible to measure and defies definition. It can’t be graphed out on a chart, inventoried, piled up and counted, or in any way quantified. It’s a “born” feel for the flow of the class, a native ability to recognize issues before they appear, a special rapport with students, a innate talent for knowing when to encourage or to challenge or to speak or to remain silent a bit longer or to accept.

There is also the scientific aspect of being a good teacher, of having both the conceptual and concrete tools as an artist has brushes, paints, and canvas; of learning all the nuances of their tools. I don’t know of any great artist who has come to their art unstudied and untrained and unpracticed. Leonardo da Vinci studied human corpses. Rembrandt drew sketches. Rubenstein played scale drills. Callas rehearsed arias. Astaire practiced his choreography. Benny Goodman took lessons. Good teachers, however innate their ability, do not come to their craft untrained any more than a great ballet dancer comes on stage without knowing how to perform safely a particular step with both precision and beauty. Good teachers, artists that they are, sweat as they study the basics of their art and convert their raw ability into talent. The good teacher learns that at his or her finger tips there are so many possibilities of what can be done in the class other than lecture and information presentation. They learn about the processes of learning, about varied ways to introduce concepts, to involve students in their learning, to assess student progress, to utilize advances in technology, to be sensitive to the changing academic student population, to assess themselves and their performance. They study to know all the nuances of their tools no less than the great artists have learned the options offered by their tools; how different brushes making different brush strokes using different mediums on different materials create different effects.

Well, with all that said and done, I’ve finally been able to put something down on paper and submit it to my “student professors.” Here’s my essay on my kind of a “good teacher:”

In some non-descript, intuitive, immeasurable, non- quantitative, inexplicable way I have begun to sense who the good teacher is and who is the journeyman that merely shows up and makes a presentation. The difference is not so much what each knows, what information each has stored in his or her brains, or what knowledge each has available at his or her finger tips, or how each presents the information. It is what each brings or does not bring to the student as a human being. Being human is not an arrangement of flesh and bone. It is a way of thinking, acting, and doing.

The teachers are those who rise above the others with something extra. They are competent and know their subject, but do not identify so strongly with their discipline that they lose their humanity. They go beyond the mechanics of presentation, of organizing a class, writing lectures, being prepared, making up quizzes and exams, grading performance, being prompt, and so on. They interplay on the mind, heart and spirit, for they believe that teaching without love is both shallow and hollow, perhaps wrong and meaningless. They are “wholeness” teachers who realize that learning is not separated from other aspects of human activity. They are concerned with feelings and thoughts. They are concerned with the spirit and emotion of the student as well as the intellect realizing that they are all interconnected and interacting parts of the same person. They believe that love and caring is good teaching and don’t let technology or technique substitute for caring. They believe that helping students is more important than how they feel and what is comfortable for them. They are more concerned with the learning styles of the students rather than their teaching style. They come as lovers of learning, as classroom stimulants rather than barbiturates. They find benefit and the positive in all student efforts and attitudes, and don’t know what a “wrong” or “can’t” is. They do not look for students in their classes and therefore find only individual human beings. They are more concerned with the question “who are you” than the statement, “I am the professor.” They are more concerned with the question, “are you learning” rather than the statement, “I am teaching.” They are in a relationship with the students rather than with the subject, textbook, and/or class presentations. They do not entice, seduce or threaten with penalty or reward, by popularity, by grades, or by “feeling good.” They earn respect rather than exercise authority and power. They care not only about their subject, but what goes on in the hearts and souls of each student. They listen more than they talk. They proclaim far less their ideas than help students to generate theirs. Their actions are designed to meet the needs of the students, not their own.

These teachers are nurturers. For them, everyone has potential. Everyone belongs in their classes. No one is a loser. No one is poor. No one is worthless. Their classes offer every student the opportunity to succeed. Their classes are filled by the enthusiastic spirit of humility, concern, trust, care, encouragement, community, respect, challenge, growth, and dignity. Their classes are cluttered with creativity, vision, and imagination. Their classes are loving and nurturing worlds of adventure, worlds of growth, worlds of transformation, and worlds of discovery.

They are never in a comfort zone, never satisfied with themselves. They are demanding of themselves as they are of their students. They make teaching seem so artful and effortless because they never stop working hard, never stop studying, never stop reflecting and examining themselves, and never stop carefully reflecting. They struggle to understand why they became teachers, struggle to articulate the purpose and goals of their care, and always asked “Why do I do what I do?” They care about what goes on inside their own heart and soul, and understand that they are not unending fountains of wisdom or sacred caretakers of knowledge. Boredom, routine are not their companions. They get up excited each morning and can’t wait to get into the classroom. For them teaching is a calling. They struggle not to be imprisoned in their own personal and professional ivory towers.

They are humble. For them there are no sacred cows. Change is a welcomed challenge. They leave the classroom convinced a better job could have been done. They assume responsibility when something doesn’t work in class. They are sufficiently defined inwardly that they know how to say to students, “I don’t know, but let’s find the answer together.” They are learners who realize that they teach best not what we know but what we want to learn.

They act the way they want the students to live, with a value for themselves and each other, with values greater than the selfish, competitive, material rat race. They somehow understand the spirit of each student and touch that spirit. They come closer to the students, treat them with respect as individuals, and talk about themselves as human beings. They add to the stature of the student as a thinking, feeling, contemplating person. They embark students on unending voyage of discovering new interests and powers within themselves. They understand that education is not just a preparation for a career, but for a meaningful life. They dream big dreams, dreams not limited to the timely life of the classroom, but expansive, daring, and timeless dreams of life beyond the classroom.

That’s my feeling of what a good teacher is. I’ll hand in my assignment tomorrow. I hope they like it. I have to maintain my “A” in this course to keep by scholarship.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–