Editor’s note: This commentary is by Peter Berger, who has taught English and history for 30 years and writes “Poor Elijah’s Almanack.” The column appears in several publications including the Times Argus, the Rutland Herald and the Stowe Reporter.
There’s no single reason that teachers become teachers. Some of us are inspired by our own old teachers, and I can trace my first big desk imaginings to Mr. David. He taught us English, from Thoreau and Dostoyevsky to adverbs and semicolons. Along the way he called us “Mr.” and “Miss,” he wore corduroy suits, and he teared up when Dr. King died.
I’ve also known colleagues whose ambition was kindled by memories – sometimes accurate, sometimes exaggerated – of teachers they didn’t admire. Poor Elijah’s niece, for example, regards herself as a guardian of students’ imaginations. She recalls being chided in first grade that grass was green after she’d colored it purple, and she’s made it her professional mission to shield elementary children against the art class trauma she remembers.
I recently read an essay by a middle school teacher who, based on his own particular middle school memory, resolved that he’d be especially zealous to “uphold student dignity.” He contends that today’s students face a “wide array of stressors” and “mounting pressure to fit in” and therefore need teachers “committed to lessening” their “burdens.”
Based on my 1960s junior high school memories and what I’ve observed at school over the intervening years, I don’t think the pressure on most adolescents to “fit in” is more or less excruciating than it ever was. That said, I try to make my classroom as hospitable as possible. I remember enough about being 12, and 62, to want my students’ days at school to pass as pleasantly as possible, given that the nature of learning means we commonly have hard, sometimes less than pleasant work to do.
Our dignity-minded advocate details five “important policies” that he’s instituted in his classes. For example, coming to his class without a pencil, paper, or other customary materials “is not a big deal.” Extra supplies are “situated around the room,” and students have “open access” to any materials they’ve neglected to bring, “no questions asked.” He acknowledges that students “could take advantage” of him and his policy, but as far as he’s concerned, “the risk is worth it.”
I don’t jump up and down if a student leaves his notebook in his locker, and I keep extra pencils in my drawer. In addition, our school, like many, makes provision for students whose families can’t afford supplies. But there’s a difference between an occasional “oversight” and chronic apathy and irresponsibility. As far as I can tell, the chief risk isn’t to me. The risk is to my students if I let them leave my room mistakenly believing that carelessness has no consequence and that there’s no cost in life to being unprepared.
Another of our advocate’s policies prohibits “public humiliation,” by which he means he never raises his voice, belittles a student, or “calls attention” to a student’s mistake. He also thanks students when they “comply” after he “corrects” their behavior.
I don’t relish humiliating anybody, including my students. When I can, I deal with them privately with patience and humor. I often speak in whispers and stage whispers. Sometimes, though, as most parents will tell you, a raised voice is appropriate, especially when you’re dealing with 20 people at a time. Some misdeeds are so public that they require a public response. Some offenses are so deliberate and grievous that “thank you for stopping” makes a mockery of what should be reasonable expectations and standards of conduct.
In sum, none of his suggestions are outrageous, but I don’t advise treating any as absolutes.
Our English word “dignity” derives from the Latin word for worthy, as in worthy of respect. Whether in middle school or middle age, I’ve always found that I’m the clearest and most present threat to my dignity.
When it comes to school supplies, it’s not dignified to be unprepared and irresponsible. When it comes to behavior, it’s not dignified to be lawless and inconsiderate.
None of this necessarily means that his students aren’t learning as much as mine, or that mine will turn out to be better citizens than his. Respect can look different in different people. My two grandmothers’ each acted and spoke to me in notably different ways, but I knew they both loved me. More pertinent to our discussion here, I trusted their intentions. In the same way, while teachers’ mannerisms and policies will vary from classroom to classroom, students need to trust that their teachers are endeavoring to help them and mean them no harm. Teachers like me need to earn that trust, and our students need to be patient while we do.
Given the way public education too often works, our dignity advocate’s suggestions will likely morph into a formulaic approach to classroom management that program-minded principals will impose at faculty meetings and teachers desperate to quell their corner of chaos will embrace. When and where this happens, we will once again have missed the point.
Dignity doesn’t reside in Mr. David’s “Mr.” and “Miss” or in handing out extra pencils. It resides in taking students seriously. This doesn’t, however, mean treating them like adults. There’s no indignity in treating children like children. It also doesn’t mean there’s no room for humor. I can’t imagine teaching without any laughter.
It certainly doesn’t require allowing students to set their own behavior standards, or demand that teachers tiptoe around misbehavior or avoid exercising moral and ethical judgment. All behavior isn’t equally acceptable, or respectable. It’s especially crucial, given the present moral and ethical decline in speech and conduct at the public pinnacle of American society, that teachers do their share to make clear where the limits rightly lie. As we mark those standards of civility, it’s equally crucial that teachers’ speech and actions are civil, respectful, and respectable.
I want my students’ words and deeds to demonstrate their dignity.
That’s why I do my best to help them grow to be worthy of their peers’ respect and mine, even as I try to be worthy of theirs.