Lately, I’ve found myself deep in reflection. It’s a natural response when life throws significant changes your way. You start to examine your past choices and how they’ve shaped your present, for better or for worse. As I reflect, many memories from my teaching days flood back—especially my time at a Catholic high school. How I arrived there? That’s another story for another time. For now, let’s just say it happened.
Catholic classrooms have a unique atmosphere. We donned our formal attire—ties, plaid skirts, charcoal trousers, and button-down shirts—believing it represented the sacredness of learning. But more often than not, only one person in that room truly believed in that symbolism at any given time, and it wasn’t always me.
I was tasked with teaching morality and social justice, yet the most significant lessons weren’t the facts or principles students memorized. Rather, they were the moments of genuine connection we shared. It’s a struggle to reach that point where the teacher-student divide fades, and we simply become two individuals listening to one another. Teachers are meant to instruct; students are meant to learn. Yet, if I was too busy lecturing, how could I expect my students to engage?
At sixteen, being under the control of a man in a suit who dictated everything from bathroom breaks to grades that could determine their college futures makes it hard to listen. And as a young teacher focused on evaluations and late-night grading, it was equally challenging for me to hear their voices. Yet, when we managed to connect, it felt miraculous.
I recall a particular instance when a student debated me passionately about premarital sex, disrupting my lesson for the entire class. She was argumentative, perhaps even rude, but I maintained my composure, resisting the urge to win the argument. Later that day, she confided in me that she didn’t genuinely believe what she argued; instead, she wanted her friend to hear my thoughts. That friend, witnessing our exchange, became open to discussion.
There was also a student who initially loathed me but later won the award for best performance in my class. She was shocked when I presented it to her, and we ended up having a heartfelt conversation about her journey. Although she had her reservations about God and the church, she learned to trust me enough to share her struggles before turning seventeen. Tragically, she passed shortly after graduation, but I’m thankful we found common ground.
Another moment stands out when a few students pointed out the ad hominem fallacy I used while discussing gay marriage. They approached me respectfully, and while it didn’t shift the Church’s stance, it changed the tone of our discussion. Later, a boy confided in me about his sexuality and how my lecture had hurt him deeply. My genuine apology opened the door for us to listen to each other again.
Sadly, not all students had the courage to confront me. It’s disheartening to think that I failed to listen to those who needed it most. I wonder where they are now—if they’ve stopped reaching out to teachers altogether because they were never truly heard. I was often too busy outlining the “black and white” of the curriculum to acknowledge the shades of gray in their lives.
Once a year, a group of youth ministers would host a retreat at our school, and they often lamented that our students were the most unresponsive. Looking back, it’s no surprise. If I struggled to listen, how could I expect my students to do the same?
I’ve grown significantly since those early days of teaching where I tried to channel my inner Robin Williams, perched on a desk, eager to impart knowledge. Over time, I learned the importance of listening. My perspectives have shifted, and I now embrace the value of open dialogue. When someone bravely shares their story, it’s crucial to absorb that without judgment.
To the students I didn’t listen to, I sincerely apologize. I know my role went beyond just being a teacher; I should have been a mentor and a listener. I regret not being better at that. I wish you felt comfortable enough to reach out and share your stories with me now. They deserve to be heard—no uniforms, no lesson plans, just genuine connections.
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In summary, my teaching experiences have taught me invaluable lessons about the importance of listening. I reflect on missed opportunities for connection and growth, wishing I could go back and change my approach. The stories of my students matter, and I hope we can create spaces where they are shared openly.
Keyphrase: student-teacher connection
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