In recent times, I’ve found myself delving deep into my past, a natural tendency during significant life transitions. I’ve examined the choices I’ve made and their impact on my journey, both in terms of what has propelled me forward and what has held me back.
During this reflective phase, vivid memories from my teaching days have resurfaced. I spent a couple of years teaching at a Catholic high school—a story in itself, but for now, let’s focus on that experience.
Catholic classrooms have a unique atmosphere. We donned our formal attire—ties, plaid skirts, charcoal trousers, and button-down shirts—symbolizing the sanctity of education. Yet, often, only one person in the room truly embraced this idea at any given moment, and it wasn’t always me.
I focused on morality and social justice, but I ultimately realized that the most significant moments in my classroom weren’t about facts or theories. They were intangible, unquantifiable interactions—those moments when I stopped being “Mr. Thompson” and they ceased to be mere students. We became two individuals genuinely engaging with one another. Achieving this level of connection is challenging in an educational setting; the traditional roles of teacher and student create a barrier.
It’s daunting to be sixteen, with an adult in control of everything from bathroom breaks to grades that can determine your future. And as a twenty-something educator, it’s equally hard to listen when your livelihood hinges on student performance. To complicate matters, you know a significant number of them might try to cheat on the very tests you’re grading late into the night. Yet, when genuine communication occurs, it’s nothing short of miraculous.
I recall a student who passionately debated me on the topic of premarital sex, disrupting my lesson for an entire period. She was combative, even rude, but I maintained my composure, striving to avoid a winner-loser dynamic. Later, she approached me after school and revealed that she didn’t actually hold those views; she was advocating for her best friend who was struggling with the topic. Witnessing my patience encouraged her friend to engage in dialogue for the first time.
Another memory involves a student who initially disliked me but went on to earn an award for being the best in my class. We had a heartfelt conversation about her journey and how she learned to appreciate my class despite her initial reservations. Tragically, she passed away shortly after graduation, but I’m grateful we built a connection.
Then there were the students who bravely confronted me about an ad hominem fallacy I employed during a lecture on same-sex marriage. While my beliefs remained unchanged, their respectful disagreement transformed our discussion. I vividly remember a boy who later confided in me about being gay, expressing how my lesson had hurt him deeply and caused him to withdraw from participation for months. Our subsequent apology and willingness to listen allowed us to reconnect.
However, I can’t help but think about those who didn’t find the courage to speak up. It’s disheartening to realize that I may have unintentionally silenced them, merely because I was too preoccupied with delivering my lessons. I often wonder where they are today. Have they given up on reaching out to teachers? Did my inability to listen lead them to feel unheard?
Annually, a group of youth ministers would come to our school for retreats, consistently commenting on how disengaged our students were. Reflecting on this now, I understand their perspective. If I struggled to listen to my students, why would they learn to listen to others?
Since those early days after college, I’ve evolved significantly. I’ve honed my listening skills, and my views on the aforementioned experiences have shifted. Life has taught me that understanding is fluid—perspectives can change, and growth necessitates open, honest dialogue. When someone courageously shares their experience, it’s crucial to receive it without judgment.
To the students I didn’t listen to, I sincerely apologize. I wish I could turn back time and approach our interactions differently. My role as a teacher was only part of my responsibility; I was meant to be a mentor and a listener, but I often fell short. I failed you in that regard.
I wish you felt comfortable enough to reach out again and share your stories. They are valuable, deserving of attention—no uniforms, no lesson plans, just heartfelt conversations.
For those interested in family planning, check out this guide on artificial insemination for more insights. Additionally, for in-depth information on pregnancy and home insemination, Healthline offers excellent resources. For a more comprehensive understanding of this topic, visit Modern Family Blog.