Delaying My “Teacher” Instincts to Optimize Student Growth

I remember a particularly anxiety-provoking experience from my undergraduate days. In a third-year psychopathology class, the professor asked the class a question and began her onslaught of calling on students to answer. I said a quick prayer that she would not call on me. I knew the answer, but the thought of having the entire class’s attention turned to me was truly frightening. And then it happened: She pointed to me. My voice trembling, I answered the question, “A personality disorder, like maybe histrionic personality disorder.” 

“Bingo!”

I died. I remember looking down at my chest and seeing my sweater move in and out as my heart raced. I was panic-stricken. I felt awful. I wanted to escape.

In hindsight, I wondered about the professor’s motive for calling on students at random. She’s a clinical psychologist; she would know that some people are affected by social anxiety and fear of public speaking. Did she not care about her students?

I think care is a key term here. 

As an educator, I am sensitive to the fact that there will be students in my classes who are experiencing similar struggles, and of course, I want to do whatever I can to make sure those students are comfortable. Like many educators, I have a strong instinct to care about people. To an extent, I can use introspection to predict what classroom situations might make students uncomfortable, but I understand there are innumerable situations that I cannot predict. So, since my undergraduate career, I have upheld that erring on the side of caution when it comes to student comfort in the classroom is the right thing to do. Under no circumstance should a student be subjected to an environment where they are at risk of having their psychological wellbeing threatened or compromised. Students who are not at risk of psychological distress in a university classroom are privileged, and that privilege should be extended to all students. Early in my role as an educator, I became attached to this idea and would argue fiercely in its favour. However, after working alongside educators who had different principles in mind, I was encouraged to reconsider my philosophy.

Being engaged in academic research for several years, I have learned that a theory that explains everything explains nothing. Theories serve as frameworks for testing research questions, and they should be modified or rejected based on research outcomes. The issue this raises about my approach to student comfort in the classroom is that my approach explains everything; it doesn’t allow me to be wrong or to modify my approach. Under my approach, any classroom behaviour or course content that could potentially cause a negative emotional response in any student would be off the table. Admittedly, this seems a bit over-the-top, so I wanted to test my theory to see if there could be any exceptions.

Returning to my example of being called on as an undergraduate student, I ask myself: Did the professor threaten or compromise my psychological wellbeing? The short answer is yes. Did she care about me? The short answer is no. But the long answer to the former question could be no. And the long answer to the latter could be yes. Both questions are probably better suited for long answers anyway. It can be argued that the professor in this case caused me a significant level of psychological distress. However, it can also be argued that she did me a favour. For the previous two and a half years I had sat through some classes in fear, anticipating that I might be called to speak in front of the class. I was too anxious to even speak to other students or professors directly, unless instructed to. I got in and out of my classes as quickly as possible, and this was without question to my detriment. 

I was reinforcing avoidant behaviours, which only grew my anxiety. I was missing out on learning opportunities and chances to meet other students or mentors. I wasn’t going to change that on my own, but things did change. I did not overcome my anxiety, but at the very least, that professor opened a door for me. She let me know that it is within the realm of possibilities that I can do social things without literally dying.

As for the question about care, it’s hard to know whether the professor cared about me; I think you’d have to ask her. Care, as I experience it, is instinctual: It’s about stimulus and response. I care about something, I do caring things. I see a student who is shy and avoiding eye contact, I don’t push them. I see a student who’s excited and raising their hand, I give them an opportunity to speak. But my caring behaviour as a teacher has changed as I’ve begun to focus more on student outcomes. I’ve moved away from the stimulus-response form of caring to a more calculated one. 

If I really care about students, I want to do not what’s best for them in the moment, but what’s best for them in terms of their cumulative student experience. If I really care about students, I want them to be able to learn and grow in ways that are going to equip them to show everyone what they’ve got. If I don’t care about students in this way, I might nurture the same habits that lead me to miss out on important learnings during the first few years of my undergrad. I’d do anything for a mulligan on my undergraduate degree. And the more I think of it, I wish I’d had more professors who cared less (as in more) about my personal growth.