Step into my classroom. A barrage of bright, colorful pages bearing quotes scripted in funky fonts clutter the walls, skillfully concealing the dull beige paint. The words are impossible to ignore, but there is one phrase many of my students can recite from memory: “Only the educated are free.”
Like the Greek philosopher Epictetus, who authored these words so many years ago, I believe we are the masters of own lives. This goal, truly only attainable through education, became the baseline of my philosophy as a first year English and journalism teacher.
Epictetus’ vivid words are joined by others. Among them, those of Voltaire, Juan Ramon Jimenez and Ray Bradbury. Looking over these quotes, many would see a common vein: rebellion, deviation from the norm, even defiance. I, however, see only empowerment and responsibility. Instead of placing the burden of education on the teacher, why not share it with the students? We are, after all, talking about their lives, are we not?
This idea began when, upon meeting my students, I quickly found that few exercised analytical skills. They didn’t ask questions, didn’t wonder. For the most part, they understood education to be memorization and mechanical note-taking—a monotonous, colorless world of little sound and light.
It’s no wonder they fell asleep in their classes. I want to fall asleep just thinking about it.
Instantly, I was troubled. I didn’t want a group of kids who knew only how to answer chapter review questions and copy down definitions. What kind of a future were we creating for our country if that is what were encouraging? Many say it is a teacher’s responsibility to instill in their students democratic values and ethical responsibilities; to create forward thinking citizens. In that case, I felt we were failing many of our kids miserably.
I had to be different. I don’t think I ever vocalized the idea—not at first, at least. But I felt it from the beginning, passionate and difficult to suppress. I have to be different. So I printed away quote after quote. I told them they could say whatever they wanted as long as they maintained a boundary of respect. I cursed in class (only occasionally), sat cross-legged on desktops, and asked for their opinions. I turned off the lights, lit candles, and played Enya while they wrote in their journals.
At first, it didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped. Many, unaccustomed to having their views validated, hesitated or hung back. They looked at me cryptically wondering—I think—whether or not I was “for real.” Their eyes seemed to say, “Don’t you have the answer?” It was as if they were all afraid to speak up, unsure of their ability to make a valid point, and hesitant to question authority.
And then slowly, I began to understand why they felt that way.
One reason is simply that they are teenagers and few people actually care what teenagers think. Teachers, their biggest source of information, often talk at them rather than to them and those students that do voice opinions are often corrected, or even berated, when they voice an opinion different from the traditional norm.
Another is the fact that students are accustomed to finite topics. Subjects like math and science do not really lend themselves to much opinion or interpretive analysis. There is only one answer to a problem like 2+2. You are either right or wrong and life, luckily, has a few more shades to it than that.
English and journalism do, however, lend themselves to questioning and interpretation, even though many teachers do not approach them that way. I expected my students to think as far outside the box as possible, to take nothing at face value, and challenge everything, including me. I remember telling them, “As long as you’re ignorant, someone else will always own you because you won’t know any better.”
It’s amazing what a few challenging statements can do to a group of teenagers. Gradually they settled into the more open atmosphere of my classroom. In my English classes, they wanted to talk about why an author would’ve constructed a character a certain way instead of just how he or she constructed the character. They wanted to apply themes across different fronts of life, speculate on the author’s agenda, and discuss a text’s application to current affairs. In my journalism classes, they wanted to address the “taboo” topics: abortion, sexuality, censorship. They debated the application of the First Amendment. To publish or not to publish? They wondered not only about their rights as journalists, but their responsibilities as well. On the whole, my students stayed after class to ask questions, regularly wrote more than the minimum on assignments and corrected me (politely, of course) when I made mistakes.
It was blissful.
Easy? No. But blissful. The challenge lay in balancing discussions on racism in To Kill a Mockingbird and student interpreted performances of Romeo & Juliet, with grammar lessons and practice essays for the state’s standardized test. How to not give them too much and yet, not too little?
The community around me posed another obstacle. As it turns out, there are other individuals who do not share my philosophy or agree with my techniques. More than once, a visitor would poke his or her head in my room and wonder—I’m sure—just what the hell was going on in there. Occasionally, one of my students would be reprimanded in another class for questioning his or her teacher or asking the controversial question. And I’d be lying if I told you I don’t worry about what will happen to my students this coming year if they should all face that kind of teacher, one who prefers a student who listens, rather than questions.
All I can hope is that they show the discipline to not overstep their boundaries while retaining the analytical skills they have recently exercised until they can express themselves freely once again. Part of education, not to mention life in general, is learning to recognize that although situations are not perfect, you make the best of them while you must. It was my students who best taught me that as they overcame obstacle after obstacle, leaping language barriers, learning deficiencies, and preconceived notions to take me on, head to head. During my first year of teaching, they kept me on my toes more than anyone ever has and that, more than anything else, is what I thank them for and will take with me wherever I go.
I know I made mistakes in my first year; I won’t lie about that. I did not have the most exceptional lesson plans or keep the most precise student folders. Still, I am hopeful that, if nothing else, I inspired my students with the desire and the hunger to educate themselves. And however idealistic it makes me, I’d like to think that—within the walls of my classroom, at least—they were truly free.