Usually, when a student writes a letter to a former teacher,
it’s a letter of thanks, expressing gratitude for great life lessons learned. Such
letters usually open with a story of the Life Changing Event that lead to the
Great Lesson. Then, the story is followed by an explanation, a testimony of how
that Life Changing Event had a positive impact on the former student, with
examples of how that lesson was used in the student’s life. These letters
usually end with thanks, and a sentence or two declaring that the former
student will always remember what they learned, and how the lesson will stay
with them for the rest of their lives.
This is not one of those letters.
The things expressed in this letter do not indicate that you
are a bad teacher. Just that perhaps your preferred method of teaching doesn’t
quite work for some students. It certainly didn’t work for me.
Your chosen method of motivation is criticism.
Not constructive criticism, not guiding criticism, but
plain, negative criticism. You seem to think that by telling students only the
things they did wrong, that will inspire them to change and do better. For some
students, this works.
High school students are notorious for having self-esteem
issues. It’s practically a requirement to be a teenager. And with so much
pressure from society and the media and each other, it’s no wonder. There are
varying levels of low self-esteem, of course, and some people’s self-esteem is
much lower than others. I am one of those people.
Now, I’m not asking you to cater to every single student’s
needs and emotional state, and baby those students whose self-esteem is lower.
That’s impossible, impractical, and it’s not actually helping anyone. What I am
asking you to do is perhaps consider a different way of offering criticism and
critique.
One of the things I had the most trouble with in theater was
giving a performance my all. I was afraid of looking stupid in front of my
peers, and as a result, my acting was very reserved. I didn’t take risks in my
performances, I kept everything safe. One teacher I had called this “being
afraid to go for it”.
You called it “being a wimp.”
I knew what you meant, of course. I was well aware of my
reluctance to take chances. Shoot, I even joked about it. You’d say “And Grace,
what’s your problem?” and I’d laughingly reply “I’m a wimp!”
I wasn’t laughing in my head. No, instead I was wondering, “Am I really a wimp?”
After a while, it stopped being a joke, and started to
become the truth. Or at least, the truth as I saw it. I started to internalize
it, and it became another thing on the list of criticisms running through my
head.
You carry too much
stuff.
They probably thing
you’re annoying.
You don’t fit in here.
You’re a wimp.
It’s not like I could ask you to stop. You were the teacher,
the adult. Obviously you knew best. If you said it, it must be true. So I sat
there, and you’d say it, and I’d repeat it, and I’d believe it.
“What’s your problem, Gracie?”
“I’m a wimp.”
I’m a wimp.
This kind of criticism, this name calling, can be incredibly
hurtful for some students. Beyond the lack of positive reinforcement found in
your classroom, calling students names like “wimp”, however jokingly, however
well-intentioned, may not always have the desired effect. Sometimes, it may
actually have the opposite effect.
I want to tell you (and myself) that I am not a wimp, and
that I’ve never been a wimp. I am stronger than you or I give myself credit
for.
I’m not grateful for what you said. Calling me a wimp didn’t
motivate me. It didn’t inspire me to change, it didn’t teach me to be strong, and
it didn’t improve my acting. Calling me
a wimp only caused me to feel worse about myself. Calling me a wimp only gave
the tiny little voice of criticism one more thing to whisper in my ear, and I
can’t thank you for that. I won’t thank you for that.
