At its best, teaching is structured socializing about things that matter

Back in 2016 I wrote about why teaching can be a wonderful career for introverts like me. That post would have been much better with illustrative examples, so, nine years later, I’m going to fix that deficiency with two anecdotes — one from 1986 and one from ten days ago.

1986 was the year that me and many of my fellow 8th-graders encountered Algebra I as taught by Mr. Wierzbicki at Rutland Junior High School in Rutland, Vermont.

Mr. Wierzbicki was nicer than our 7th-grade math teacher, Mr. Loyzelle, who once made me cry when I failed a test for mixing up Greatest Common Factor and Least Common Denominator. Still, Mr. Wierzbicki didn’t seem like a guy to be trifled with. His tan, head of grey hair trimmed short, and rough voice suggested a retired general settling into civilian life. When we started our homework in class, not everyone was comfortable asking him questions. Sometimes they asked me instead.

While I wasn’t yet a good teacher, I was an excellent algebra student who could almost always get the right answer. Some of my classmates, who usually ignored nerds like me, sensed my utility in this context and asked me for help, and I was happy and even excited to have something to offer them for a change.

In hindsight, this algebra class was a real turning point — a time when I discovered that the act of helping others with academic material felt really good both intellectually and socially. And in the ensuing years, as I stumbled toward adulthood and adult jobs, I eventually had enough of these “teaching moments” to discern that I belonged in a classroom, interacting with students.

Ten days ago I was reminded of this yet again.

A new term had just begun at Everett Community College, and in my Human Physiology (Biology 232) class we were starting to tackle some biologically relevant chemistry, a topic dreaded by most of my students.

About 30 minutes into the class, we were discussing polar and nonpolar covalent bonds. I was trying to determine whether my students understood that the terms “nonpolar” and “polar” respectively referred to the equal and unequal sharing of electron pairs between atoms. I thought of an analogy, then rejected it.

“I, um…I think I will spare you my inappropriate joke about the kids of divorced parents,” I said.

“Wait!” a student called out. “Actually, could you tell us? I learn better when things are made more personal.”

I looked out at the class. Nobody seemed agitated or upset.

“Uhhhhh…OK, I guess we are doing this after all,” I said.

“So, ah, juuussst to be clear,” I stammered, “there’s not necessarily anything wrong with getting divorced, right? …OK, so when the parents get divorced and the kids spend 50% of the time with one parent and 50% of the time with the other parent… What kind of covalent bond is that?”

“NONPOLAR!” the class responded enthusiastically.

“OK, good! And when, after a different divorce, the kids spend 80% of their time with Mom and 20% of their time with Dad, what kind of covalent bond is that?”

“POLAR!”

I looked at the student who had made the request. “So…did that help?”

“Yes!” she said. “I really get it now!”

I exhaled audibly and smiled with relief. “Well, I guess that metaphor worked out OK after all.”

Another student spoke up. “You know, Dr. C, we’re the trauma generation,” she said. “It’s not that easy to scar us.”

“Fair enough!” I replied. “I think, with everybody’s permission, I’d like to post about this exchange on my blog. Possible title: Our Students Are Not Quite As Fragile As We Think They Are.”