As you all know, this semester has been a tough one for me. Hell, this year has been awful, but that’s not really the point of this post.
What has kept me going this semester has been my teaching. Even though there have been many days when all I’ve wanted to do is stay in bed and pull the covers over my head, once I made it to campus and started my day, I felt better. The hours in the classroom were a welcome respite from all of the emotional and mental turmoil I’ve been experiencing. During those hours, I was able to block all of that from my mind and focus only on something that gives me a lot of joy–teaching writing.
While all of the classes I’ve taught this term gave me that release, one of my basic writing classes was particularly special. Honestly, I think this might have been the best group of basic writing students I’ve ever had, and by “best” I don’t mean the best writers (though they are pretty good). I mean the best students–the most engaged, the most responsible, the most hard-working, the most respectful. I frequently tell students that I would rather teach 100 students who struggle with writing but who work hard than 1 student who is a gifted but lazy writer, and this particular group of students proved why I say that. No, they’re probably not among the best writers at my university–not yet!–but they were truly a pleasure to teach.
On the last day we met together, I wanted to express to them what they have meant to me this semester. While most of them will be continuing on to my first-year writing class next term, not all of them will, so I wanted to take the opportunity while I had it and tell them how much I enjoyed our learning together.
I opened my mouth, started to talk, and promptly burst into tears.
I don’t think I’ve ever lost my composure like that in front of students; I’ve teared up, sure, but this time I was flat-out sobbing. The students were stunned, and I was mortified. I managed to get myself under control just enough to say what I wanted to say to them; I also added that I had had a tough semester personally and that their class always gave me something to look forward to on what were otherwise tough days. Given my apparent emotional distress, I felt like I had to explain. I quickly gathered my things and got out of there so they could complete their student evaluations and so I could recover my composure.
Although I was embarrassed at the time, I feel better about it now. I’ve been conferencing with these students since then, and several of them have told me that they were touched that I cared about them enough to become emotional. One student even added a P.S. to her final assignment, in which she told me not to feel bad about crying in front of them and added, “Every other teacher I have never shows that they care that much about their students, which leads me to believe that they don’t really like being there. The fact the you did shows you really like helping us, and you care about us, and you really want us to succeed.” I’m glad the students recognize that I truly do care about them and want them to succeed on their own terms, and I’m glad they see me as a multi-faceted person, not just a talking head on a stick. I think it’s important that we recognize the affective nature of teaching in general, as well as our own particular pedagogical strategies. The role of emotion is an important one in a writing classroom (or any classroom, for that matter, though I do think it’s especially important in a writing course).
But something that a couple of students have said has also been interesting to me; their comments have indicated that they picked up on my emotional state this term, even though I thought I hid it very well. When I teach, I usually feel that I get to know my students better than they know me; after all, I read their writing, which is often an intensely personal act. Because I read so much of their writing, observe them in class, listen to their discussions, etc., I believe that I usually get a pretty good read on the students, can predict how they’ll react to certain situations, and the like.
However, I also feel that students don’t usually get that same kind of “read” on me. Of course, that’s not their job–they don’t have to think about ways to motivate their professors to do their work, for example (though wouldn’t it be funny if they did?). 
I think some of that feeling is also due to the lore we professors have about our students. I remember being told as a brand-new TA not to worry too much about what students thought of us if we had an off day in class, for example; the exact words were, “We spend way more time thinking about them than they ever do about us.” I do still believe that to be true.
However, that doesn’t mean that they don’t spend any time thinking about us. I’ve been thinking more this semester about how students perceive me, and this most recent episode, which confirmed my private turmoil has not been hidden from students as much as I had thought, triggered these thoughts again. Partly, I suppose it’s because I’ve been concerned about keeping up my usual teaching persona (enthusiastic, extroverted, optimistic, energetic) during a time when I am even more withdrawn, introverted, pessimistic, and exhausted than usual. My hyper-awareness of the performative aspect of my teaching has had me thinking about students’ awareness of it, I guess.
S0me of it is also connected to my weight loss. While most of my students do not say anything to me about it directly, it’s pretty obvious that they have noticed the changes in my physicality. A colleague has mentioned to me that students have brought it up with her; I think she suspects a student or two might have a bit of a crush. I share that suspicion. This doesn’t bother me, as I see that type of attraction as very normal, but it has surprised me. I’m not sure why; after all, I do think a student crush on a professor or teacher is a normal part of their maturation process and intellectual growth, so why wouldn’t it happen?
I guess I’m just surprised that I am the recipient of such a crush. I can totally understand it when it comes to some of my colleagues, but not me. I don’t see what about me would draw the students in, I guess.
It reminds me of a conversation I had with a former student a few years back; she was looking at Ohio State for grad school and wanted to visit, and I went with her. As we were driving over to Columbus, we talked about a good number of things, and I made some off-handed, derogatory comment about my weight or appearance (I can’t remember exactly what). She stopped me and said very seriously, “But you know you’re beautiful, right?”
I shrugged off her comment and reminded her that I was overweight, to which she responded, “But Sara, you are beautiful. And it’s not just me who thinks so! We all talk about it!” She then went on to name several former students of mine.
I was absolutely gobsmacked by this conversation. I changed the subject very quickly, partly because I was uncomfortable with the topic and felt like we were veering into, “So, tell me how wonderful you think I am” territory. But it was also astounding to me that students–even majors who had spent a lot of time with me, taken multiple classes with me, etc–would sit around discussing me on their personal time. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear they were talking about my grading, my reading load, or that sort of thing, but this topic of conversation definitely went against the whole “we think about them way more than think about us” mentality I’ve always had.
As I’ve thought about it more, it has started to make more sense. I think some of our students, especially those we’ve had for multiple courses, develop a curiosity about our “other life,” aka our life outside the classroom. I’ve heard students talking about a colleague’s wardrobe (he is very fashionable); they wonder where he shops, what labels he buys, and the like, but most of them are too in awe to ask him. I’ve overhead other students talk about a faculty gathering and make comments like, “If only I had an invisibility cloak!” Twice now, I’ve invited upper-level or graduate courses to my home for an end-of-semester gathering, and the students get very excited about it; I think they’re intrigued to see where I live and how I interact with my family. I think they enjoy taking a peek into the lives of others, behind the curtain of the professional persona.
I don’t know why this is surprising to me, however. When I think back to my own undergrad days, I felt the same way about my professors. I remember being very excited to go to a professor’s home for the annual English department “welcome back” party. I also remember being enthralled by my Shakespeare professor; well, she taught every single one of my Brit lit courses, but her Shakespeare course was legendary. She has a larger-than-life presence, and her clothing reflects that. I loved going into class each day and seeing what she would wear, right down to her glasses; she had probably hundreds of pairs of glasses to coordinate with each outfit. My best friend–also an English major–and I would always talk about what she was wearing, what she said, etc. We were absolutely fascinated by her.
In retrospect, we both probably had a platonic crush on her, even though I am about as straight as can be and my best friend from those days is a gay man. My former professor is extremely intelligent and charming, a gifted teacher, and has a plethora of interests (she’s a self-taught expert on art history, and I acted in campus plays with her as well). To top it off, when she swept into class (and she always made an entrance), she was absolutely dressed to the nines. How could any student not adore such a professor? No wonder we were enamored.
While I certainly do not live up to her standard, my own experience reminds that yes, students do notice us more than we think. They talk about us in ways that might surprise us. They care about us, too. My students have taught me that, especially this term.
I guess I shouldn’t be caught off-guard by students’ interest in my other life, the life they don’t see in the classroom–especially when, given the Google searches that lead to this blog, I suspect some of them are reading along (and hello if you’re here). This, too, seems to me to be part of their maturation process.
