Remember that last semester in college when you stepped in front of students, seemingly prepared to “run the show” for the first time? You dressed the part, spoke in your best teacher voice, and used effective proximity, pretending to know what you were doing? And you fooled them—well, some of them anyway.
Theoretically, we should get better at teaching, way better than we were that last semester in undergrad. Everyday, we approach the craft with more hours of experience. We face fewer first-times, fewer unfamiliars. With the experience comes more confidence, credibility, and—perhaps the most undervalued aspect of teaching—the ability to think on your feet. So why with each passing day and year does the act of teaching seem foreign or, at least, unfamiliar territory for many veteran teachers? Why do we walk into every lesson a little nervous, no matter how scripted our plans are? Why aren’t we perfect yet?
Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe we will always be student teachers. Maybe we will always look at ourselves under a microscope and feel that others are judging us just as critically. It makes sense. We are performers in this trade, each day stepping onto a stage before an audience of eager and not-so-eager faces. The pressure is on. We must do well, work our magic, provide learning opportunities, and we, as teachers, must earn a passing grade by the end of the semester or school year. No matter how many years we have practiced the art (and science) of teaching, we are still students of the game; we will always be student teachers.
It is our duty to self-reflect. Introspection is important for any student in any field. In baseball, a batter doesn’t achieve greatness without thinking about his mechanics—the stance, the quick wrists, the opening of the hips. And teachers must do the same. As students in our own classrooms, we must identify our weaknesses to pinpoint what’s not working for our learners and to make adjustments. I’ve often thought the best teachers question every move they make in a classroom; the less effective teachers rarely question anything other than their students, often blaming the learner for the lack of learning.
So if you feel like a student teacher, despite being a seasoned veteran, you’re not alone. And the scrutiny of your own work—your stage presence, your design of curriculum and assessment, your ability to reach and change lives everyday—might be the most effective strategy of your trade. This isn’t an invite to beat yourself up or to arrive and leave the parking lot in tears; instead, it is affirmation to all of us who are still learning, as teachers, on a daily basis.
Theoretically, we should get better at teaching, way better than we were that last semester in undergrad. Everyday, we approach the craft with more hours of experience. We face fewer first-times, fewer unfamiliars. With the experience comes more confidence, credibility, and—perhaps the most undervalued aspect of teaching—the ability to think on your feet. So why with each passing day and year does the act of teaching seem foreign or, at least, unfamiliar territory for many veteran teachers? Why do we walk into every lesson a little nervous, no matter how scripted our plans are? Why aren’t we perfect yet?
Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe we will always be student teachers. Maybe we will always look at ourselves under a microscope and feel that others are judging us just as critically. It makes sense. We are performers in this trade, each day stepping onto a stage before an audience of eager and not-so-eager faces. The pressure is on. We must do well, work our magic, provide learning opportunities, and we, as teachers, must earn a passing grade by the end of the semester or school year. No matter how many years we have practiced the art (and science) of teaching, we are still students of the game; we will always be student teachers.
It is our duty to self-reflect. Introspection is important for any student in any field. In baseball, a batter doesn’t achieve greatness without thinking about his mechanics—the stance, the quick wrists, the opening of the hips. And teachers must do the same. As students in our own classrooms, we must identify our weaknesses to pinpoint what’s not working for our learners and to make adjustments. I’ve often thought the best teachers question every move they make in a classroom; the less effective teachers rarely question anything other than their students, often blaming the learner for the lack of learning.
So if you feel like a student teacher, despite being a seasoned veteran, you’re not alone. And the scrutiny of your own work—your stage presence, your design of curriculum and assessment, your ability to reach and change lives everyday—might be the most effective strategy of your trade. This isn’t an invite to beat yourself up or to arrive and leave the parking lot in tears; instead, it is affirmation to all of us who are still learning, as teachers, on a daily basis.