Lesson Learnt From My Experiences In Teaching
An imposter the moment I stepped onto the stage, they stared at me critically. I was a third grade boy with remnants of an Indian accent in a talent show whose performers had long exclusively been fifth grade Caucasian girls. The students of Gill Elementary waited for me to reveal whether I was singing as a prankster or prodigy. My mind was preoccupied, frantically recalling my lyrics, and all I could muster for my introduction was “Abhi, Mrs. William’s Class”, leaving them clueless.
As I stood at the front of the classroom scratching my sprouting stubble, they eyed me judgmentally. I was a half man who did not resemble the adult fathers they were biologically inclined to listen to, or the female school teachers they had socially accepted. The fourth graders of Kids Are Scientists Too waited for their new instructor to reveal whether he was a friendly child or a strict elder. My mind was preoccupied, frantically recalling my notes, and all I could muster for my introduction was “Hey, I’m a Junior at Novi High School”, leaving them clueless.
My introduction verse was out of tune, but I was taught in the school choir to keep going. Some of the crowd lost fear of being punished by their class teachers and now rebelled. They made faces, stretching their mouths with their fingers. I remembered what choir had taught me about audience engagement, and made direct eye contact with the rebels. As soon as I finished glaring at them, however, they instinctively made faces again to regain the power they loathed losing.
My opening jokes fell flat, but I assumed that I should keep going. Some of the class lost fear of being punished by me and now rebelled. They daydreamed, looking intently at their desks. I imagined how a teacher would engage students, and walked over to talk to the rebels. After I finished speaking to them, however, they instinctively day dreamed again to reimmerse themselves in the imagination they loathed escaping.
I felt omnipotent as I drew out the last note, dictating the song and the audience. Once finished, however, I stood powerless to the momentary silence of the crowd, begging for its mercy with applause to appreciate my performance. It obliged, and, as I stepped off the stage, I smiled satisfied. The PA announcer cut me off mid sentence to usher my students away one bus at a time. I helped zip up backpacks and strap on jackets then stood at the door smiling, hoping a kid would profess how much fun he had learning today on his way out. No one did, and, as I stood alone in the classroom, I questioned if my lesson had been worthwhile.
Teaching relies on observation, contemplation, and implementation. My experiences prepare me for lessons as much as my notes. I learn how to energize bored students from sporting events, control lengthy discussions from political debates, and manage first lessons from talent shows. Detailed lesson plans and sporadically arising nerves sometimes isolate my classrooms, but when I overcome such obstacles and consciously draw from my past, I cultivate authentic, impactful classes. While my experiences equip my teaching, they struggle to impart wisdom on disappointments at the end of classes. Life lessons about the intrinsic definition of success are overwhelmed by my childish desire for external confirmations of my contribution. Standing alone in my classroom, I remind myself that my performances, even with their confusing introductions, out of tune verses, and audience rebellions, are valuable. And so, I keep stepping onto my stage.
