I walked into my first independent school teaching job thinking I knew what I was doing. Actually, I thought the school was lucky to have me. I was a couple of years out of graduate school, where I had done some teaching, and was brimming with knowledge about writing and literature. I had a folder full of lesson plans. I had a writing award and a few publications under my belt. I had spent the previous year working as a journalist, writing news stories, features, editorials, book reviews, the occasional column.
Even though the headmaster had said to me in my first interview, with a deep sigh, “English teachers are a dime a dozen,” I was sick with confidence. And when hired, I assumed the school had confidence in me, too — since no one felt the need to talk with me about the broader curriculum, the school’s mission, preferred teaching methodology, or even the needs of the students the school attracted. Once I knew the courses I was to teach, I simply mapped out the syllabi, handed them to the department chair, and got to work.
Now, of course, I look back in dismay. My knowledge of literature, passion for writing, and general concern for the well-being and academic growth of my students counted for something. But I had no idea what I was doing. I just made it all up as I went along. Some days, the classes felt right. Some days, they felt wrong. On the latter days, I’d find myself babbling on about, say, Transcendentalism or my understanding of race relationships in the South before the Civil War or on the brilliant structure of a John McPhee essay. I assigned too much reading. I graded papers too harshly and mechanically. I talked and lectured way too much, assuming that, if I could entertain students with wit and wisdom, they would, somehow, learn — or at least admire me. Some did learn, no doubt. But there were others who seemed lost or bored or frustrated — and I had no clue how to help them. Worse yet, it took months before I thought to talk with colleagues about the struggling students. I felt that I was just supposed to know how to teach — that all the other teachers knew how to teach — and asking questions would only expose my ignorance.
I wasn’t alone. A young, first-year math teacher had the classroom right next to my basement office, where I helped produce the school’s publications. Somewhere in the middle of his first semester, I couldn’t help but hear him, on more than one occasion, scream at students. I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know what to say besides, “It’s not a good idea to scream at your students.”
In the classes I’ve taught since those early days, I’ve been far more humble and honest in my approach. Best of all, I’ve had very good, seasoned teachers visit my class and talk with me afterwards — offer sage advice and useful insights. I’ve sat in on department meetings where thoughtful, supportive exchanges about the craft of teaching have taken place. I’ve been involved in conversations about how the work of one department connects with the overall mission of the school. I’ve learned to stop classes a couple of weeks into a term to talk with the students about how we were doing. It has all felt.... more professional.