Tuesday, February 25th. About five in the afternoon. Just south of Dublin, Georgia, heading home. Stuck in a long, two-lane traffic jam.” Accident ahead. Looks like I’m going nowhere fast for a while. I had leaned back in my seat, closed my tired eyes, and listened to “Beggar At The Feast” from _Les Miserables_ as it drifted through the car. How appropriate. I’ve just come from emotional, intellectual, academic, personal, and spiritual–as well as the unending culinery–feast. For the past three days, I have been gorging myself at the no-fat national First Year Experience conference at the University of South Carolina. I met rejuvenating people who have put their money down on students, whose scrumptious ideas and programs rest on the unshakeable belief that each and every student has a sacred worth. The last plenary speaker, William Willimon, Dean, Duke University Chapel, really grabbed me. I can’t get out of my mind and my spirit his proposition, echoing Aristotle, that it is impossible to learn anything important and meaningful from someone who is not your friend, from someone who doesn’t join with you in a respecting relationship of community on the journey, from someone who is distant from you and/or disdainful of you.

Sat up, took out a pad from the glove compartment, turned off the engine, and started randomly jotting down stuff that has been swirling in my head like a vortex for the past couple of hours. I was just thinking that….

maybe the true character of a teacher is shown by the extent to which he or she reaches out to teach and teaches to reach out to the “least” in the class;

the real miracle in the classroom is not in the technique or the teacher, but in the most powerful message any teacher can deliver. It has little to do with the subject matter or words, and it cannot be restricted to the confines of the cubical classroom. It is the resounding statement shouted out by example to a person to whom it’s has been at best whispered and at worst denied: “YOU….ARE….VALUABLE!

one major responsibility of the teacher is, as John Gardner said, to help the students turn their heads so that they can look ahead instead of behind. I would add that we teachers also have the obligation to change our taste in music so that we will listen more to the triumphant chorals of their unique potential rather than to the dark dirges of their past;

the uniqueness of each student is in his/her “unique-IS” rather than in his\her “unique-ain’t;”

how you see students, as Irene Honey of the University of Colorado once told me, depends on whether you look down at them, look at them, or look with them; how you communicate with students depends on whether you talk down, talk at, or talk with them. Neat;

how you see students depends on how you first see yourself. I think our deepest prejudices are about ourselves;

excitement with each student can never get worn out if it is worn in;

Cathie Hatch of Bemidji State University is right. We really are not teaching until we see the sparkle in the students’ eyes, not the sparkle in ours. Yeah;

when you have touched a student, altered a life, changed eternity, you have achieved immortality. You don’t become extinct because you have become forever a part of someone else;

Vanesse Brown-Stevenson of the University of South Florida hit one of those nails on the head when she said in passing that so many of us teaching in higher education have yet to realize that we are not teaching graduate students in those undergraduate courses;

it’s not really fair that students pay tuition and we only pay lip-service. It really is amazing what garbage students take from faculty, staff, and administration;

a good teacher wants to nourish the student, not merely fatten his or her reputation; wants to do important things, not only to be or look important; wants prolong a student’s college career, not just lengthen his or her resume;

for a teacher–or anyone for that matter–there are no words like “You….made….a….difference….in….my….life;”

how Scott Morrow impassionately said over dinner that a teacher has to be careful not to be so spectacular, not to speak so brillinatly and loudly, that the students are deafened to the words he/she speaks and blinded to what he/she is struggling for students to learn;

Doug Williams of the University of South Carolina, with equal passion, realizes that his voice is not the only one in the classroom and that the good teacher never speaks so loudly that the students don’t have, don’t see, and don’t learn to use their own voice;

we can never forget the deep humanity present in the silence of the classroom. That silence says more than words. We should listen to it intently and pay close attention to it, for that silence had little to do with being dumb or unprepared;

teaching, like playing a musical instrument, is not just performance–a method here, a lecture there, a technique anywhere–as it is also emotion, feeling and sensation;

the real greatness of a great teacher is not in transmitting information; it is to get students to see and move to realize their own greatness;

and I would add my two cents by saying that the great teachers are not the ones who are the most brilliant, but the ones who most sincerely care and love each student.

Traffic is starting to move at a slow crawl….

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

A quick story about an experience I had a few years ago that I had forgotten until last week and then shared on a discussion list. I thought you might be interested in reading it. I don’t why I let it slip from my mind and heart. The experience had taught me a great deal. Remembering it yesterday was a great reminder. I’ll let you decide why I won’t forget it again.

I had a wheel-bound student in my class. The first day she “rolled” merrily in as I was handing out Tootsie Pops. I gave her one.

She said to me, “thanks–on both accounts.”

I replied, “Both accounts?”

“For the Tootsie Pop and the respect?”

I guess she saw the question mark in my face and continued, “Because you cared enough not to look down on me, I’ll always look up to you.”

My face still was wracked with a question mark. She nodded towards the floor. I looked around. Then, I understood. When I gave her the Tootsie Pop, I had dropped to my knees without thinking so I could look her straight in the face. I told her that I had not done it consciously.

“All the more reason,” she replied with smile and rolled off to meet other students in the class.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

It was last Friday morning. I had just gotten out of my second early morning class. With two hours until my third class, I went to the Union to satisfy a craving for some sticky glazed doughnuts. As I entered I noticed a bunch of first-year students who had been in my first year history class during the past few quarters sitting at a table.

“Hey, Schmier,” one of them yelled with a wave of the hand, “sit with us. We were just talking about you and your class.”

“Only about the good things, I hope,” I said with a smile as I approached.

“What’s this we hear that you’re doing some new stuff in class. How come you didn’t have us come up with advertising campaigns for Hamilton’s federalism and Jefferson’s republicanism?”

“Always trying new stuff. Gotta keep the juices flowing,” I answered as I grabbed a chair.

“Neat. We were wondering how many times have you taught History 200?”

“Oh, about seven to nine sections a year for the last fifteen years,” I answered.

“Teaching the same old course over and over and over. Some of us were wondering why aren’t all you professors burnt out. Doesn’t it bored you after a while?” One student asked.

“I’ll can’t speak for anyone else. But, for me? No,” I quickly said. “Why?” another student jumped in.

“It’s short and simple. I don’t have to deal with burn out because I don’t let it happen. It’s not about the course or how many times I’ve taught it, it’s all about me; it’s in the spirit I create and attitude I have, not so much what I do. I suppose I would get burnt out or be bored if I thought of teaching only as a monotonous job like being on a producation line, or if I thought it got in the way of more important things I wanted or had to do.”

“Well, what do you think teaching is?”

“It’s me. It’s who I am. It’s why I’ve been put here you might say. It’s something sacred, a joy, a privilege, a mission. I don’t just do it; I feel it.”

I went on to describe how I think and feel excitement and fun in my bones. I feel in terms of engaging with different people. Teaching touches me down where my guts are. I explained how I’ve learned to go into a classroom and instead of seeing only an anonymous herd, I look at sixty separate and distinct and interesting people with different names and faces; I get to know them; I hear many distinctive voices each telling his/her own story. I told those students that I’m intoxicated with people and addicted to students; that I love each one of them; I respect each one of them; I hold each one of them valuable and sacred. No, there’s nothing dull in the classroom for me because people aren’t dull. So, I don’t see myself teaching the same old anything. Instead, I see the classroom as a human arena, a dramatic place, a dynamic place, an exciting place full of energy, a place of growth and change, a demanding place, a wondrous place of becoming, a risky place, a place of surprises, a place of promise and possibility, a catalyst for learning. It’s an amazing place for touching people; it has a mysterious capacity for changing lives and a magical power for altering the future.

“I have a friend,” I explained, “who I once heard say that she is sometimes disappointed when she enters a classroom and doesn’t see a burning blackboard and hear a voice telling her to take off her shoes. She’s right because, most of all, I see the classroom as a sacred place where I have the opportunity to give people hope, get them to believe in themselves, have faith in their ability, and make a difference. All that gives me a high, a kick, a rush. That’s what keeps my fire constantly burning. I have a burning bush in my gut and I constantly hear that voice inside me.”

In the course of the conversation that continued on, I explained in bits and pieces that teaching is more than just a spectacle for transmitting information and giving a grade, more than just getting up there and talking about the same old stuff over and over and over, day in and day out. It also involves a lot more than just knowing the subject. It’s a complex process that constantly involves a lot of time, significant intellectual and physical and emotional investment, considerable preparation and effort. It’s not a fixed recipe. It’s a creative and imaginative and ever-changing mixture of many ingredients. To me, I described, each day is filled with a newness that keeps my juices flowing because each day is different, each moment is different, each student is different, each class is different. Each difference poses a new challenge. Each challenge can only be met new effort. Each teaching move must be new and unique. By the time I feel comfortable with an approach or technique, things begin anew, making it time to move on to try new things to master new situations or learn new, processes and reach inside for a newness. About the only thing that’s the same about the classroom, I told them, is the walls, floor and windows. It’s constant movement and creation.

“But, doesn’t it get easier?” one student asked.

“Don’t let anyone tell you that. I never let my teaching get easier–or old. I’m always on the move refining, searching, experimenting, perfecting, staying on the edge, risking. Anyone who tells you that teaching gets easier or that they can teach in their sleep is suffering from sameness and have stopped giving birth to life, and already is burnt out inside. I don’t see anything old, stale or routine about people and about engaging with people. Routine puts people behind restricting bars to breath stale air, and they lock the door behind them and throw away the key when they accept it. If there’s a routine to teaching, it’s a routine in which nothing is ever routine and no one ever becomes anonymous!”

We talked some more. “I’ll give you a short and simple recipe I’ve concocted only for myself,” I finally told them. “I find that it keeps the flames from flickering: if it’s going to be, it’s not up to the system, it’s not up to the course, it’s not up to someone else. It’s up to me! I’m the only one who can keep me fresh and alive and on the move. I am the only one who has the authority to give birth to or sign the death knell to my excitement and dreams and life. I’m the only one who can strengthen or weaken the kick, pick up or slow the rush, or raise or lower the high.”

“No, you’ve said it’s that short and simple a couple of times. It can’t be,” one student protested. “You weren’t always this way. You told us yourself in class that you changed about six years ago. My mother, who had you years ago, cringed when she heard I had you for history. She said you were a great professor but a son-of-a-bitch who always smiled but deep down really didn’t care about them unless they were already good students!

My life in 70s and 80s flashed before me as if I was suddenly drowning. His words hurt for an instant. The harsh truth usually does. His mother was right although I didn’t realize it at the time because I had convinced myself otherwise. He went on.

“When I told her about the great stuff we do in class, how we got to know each other at the beginning, the great projects, no lectures, no tests, just lots of learning, and how you respect each of us and never stop believing in us, she couldn’t believe I was talking about the same person. She flipped–I thought she was going to have an attack or something–when I told her how you always acted like you believed more in us than we believed in ourselves and were more interested in helping us become better persons than better students and that you loved each of us and nothing we could do would change your mind. What changed?”

“To make it short and simple, I changed me.” I hesitated for a minute. Then quietly admitted, “But seriously, yeah, you’re right. It is a lot longer and more complicated. But, you’re pushing me to my deepest confession and admission of my gravest sin.” I looked at my watch. Ninety minutes had flown by. Thirty minutes to class. I quickly ended our exchange. “Next time I’ll fess up,” I said as I got up. “Right now I’ve got to meditate and get ready for class.”

And, I left. Never did get those doughnuts.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–