Essays & Reviews

I don’t think I can call myself a teacher. I have taught things, sure, but I think that is different from being a teacher. I’ve had a lot of teachers in my life. They were all dedicated to their role, despite all of the struggles and lack of support teachers are often faced with (my fourth grade teacher made me swear to never go into teaching). They pushed me to work harder, do better, grow, all while supporting me in ways I often didn’t realize.  ​ After my aunt died, I took some time off of school. Before I left town one of my professors brought me a home baked sweet potato pie, and told me to do whatever it was that I needed, that she would handle the fallout. When I returned, I found the simplest assignments completely overwhelming. I met with my professor, and told her I didn’t feel like I could complete the projects- I doubted my skills, was lacking in motivation, and was incredibly emotionally fragile. She managed to boost my self confidence and convince me to start working with such gentleness and subtlety it is difficult to put it into words. We talked through my technical questions and concerns as she sat with me in my studio and helped me with the mold I was working on without any sense of pity or judgment. We talked about the weather, New England, and she and my studio neighbor swapped small town sports stories. Slowly, I started to feel okay again. ​ However, kindness and empathy is only one part of teaching. This professor is also one of the most demanding instructors I’ve ever had. In a letter I wrote nominating her for an excellence in teaching award, I said “Her classes would not be a great fit for any student that’s just hoping for something easy, but for anyone interested in a thoughtful and intensive dive into the world of clay and/or socially engaged art will find that she will always go above and beyond.” I often joke that my favorite teachers are the ones that everyone else thinks are mean, but really, my favorite teachers are the ones that consistently push me hard and push themselves even harder. It is difficult for a student to take a teacher's expectations to heart if they don’t think the teacher is doing any work. Teaching is empathy, guidance, and leading by example.  ​ I taught a short ceramic intensive last month. While this is not my first time teaching, it is my first time teaching a class of my own design. I spent hours on the syllabus, three different printed calendars spread across my desk as I rewrote the schedule over and over. On the first day of class, I finished everything I had prepared 30 minutes into the 90 minute class and proceeded to ramble about anything that flew into my head to kill time. After I finally dismissed the students early I went home and immediately wrote a back up activity for almost every day. We only had to use some of them, but having a written out just-in-case plan helped keep the random ramblings under control. I came to understand the frustration of students arriving late, as the awkward silence with every student staring at me while waiting for three more people felt as though it lasted years. I felt completely overwhelmed the first time we had an open work day and ten fifteen year olds all needed something from me at the exact same time. I was once again reminded that for some reason, no one ever answers their email.  ​ But, after the first day, at the end of every class I would stand alone in the open studio in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe how much time had passed so quickly, how completely enthralled in the class I was. While there, with my students, there was nothing else in the whole world. Come hell or high water, I was going to get these kids to finish their tiles. And they did. On the day of final critique, our last day of class, every student displayed a series of ceramic tile pieces that were interesting, thoughtful, and all completely different from any other student’s. I did my best to coach them through how to give helpful, constructive feedback and watched in amusement as they would dramatically spin around to reread what I wrote on the chalkboard before they spoke. Together, we worked to make the class silly and fun while still focused, some students using emojis to help make their point. At the end, while thanking them for all of their trust, bravery, and dedication, I felt the urge to cry. The class was over, and I wasn’t sure when I would have an opportunity like that again. I don’t think I can call myself a teacher, but I hope that someday I can (sorry Ms. Amanda, fourth graders can’t be held to their promises).