Even Good Students Need Strict Teachers
Learning and growing aren’t always synonymous.
There’s a teacher in every school that students dread. It could be for their pop quizzes or overwhelming perfume, it really depends on the competition. In my public school that teacher was a man we’ll call Mr. Lion. He was strict and known for his roar!
He’s the teacher that changed my life the most.
When I read my name under his class listing a week before summer’s end, I grew faint. The rest of my waking vacation was spent devising a scheme to weasel my way out of his class.
Afraid to break character with begging, I reluctantly submitted to my grade eight enrollment. I told myself, “if only for the first couple days…” and I am so glad that I stuck with the scariest teacher in school. He’s the teacher that changed my life the most.
Mr. Lion was an older (but not elderly) man with a round belly, balding head, intimidating mustache, and a strict persona. That last descriptor is key. What you say and what you do aren’t always the same, and strict teachers can hide great amounts of compassion beneath a rough exterior.
For all his “guffaws,” Mr. Lion was a heavy believer in mutual respect. While other kids in my class were only obedient out of fear, they inhibited themselves from forming a true connect with him. Mr. Lion was stern and straight forward but all he really wanted was to see kids try their best.
It’s a pity to realize now, that children were too intimidated by him to ask for help on their homework. They would rather get the question wrong than risk asking for answers. It’s ironic, to fear that exposing their lack of knowledge would somehow call down Mr. Lion’s wrath for stupidity; like a gateway would open and they would suffer embarrassment for it, every day for the rest of the year. Absurd… but that makes complete sense to children with anxiety. I know, because that’s how I felt too.
“What if I’m wrong for once? What if I have to try again? Will I be humiliated?”
I was scared when I entered Mr. Lion’s class. I couldn’t believe I’d been so unfortunate as to get stuck in a class with a man who actively and randomly called on students to answer questions (or so the rumors said).
I shriveled in my desk and answered, “I don’t know.”
Mr. Lion was a nightmare for any child slacking on their homework (which meant nearly every other public-schooler) but I was frightened for a different reason…
Every year I spent in school, my anxiety got worse. Being prompted to speak in class was panic inducing. The year prior to Mr. Lion’s class, I’d all but perfected the art of shrinking into my seat to become invisible… or so I thought.
My first week with Mr. Lion was spent hiding behind the heads and hands of other students. I never raise my hand if there weren’t already a dozen others present, but that didn’t fool Mr. Lion for very long.
My greatest fears came true when he decided to call on me when no one else would raise their hand. I shriveled in my desk and answered, “I don’t know.”
Mr. Lion wasn’t taken in by my attempts to avoid talking. As the school year’s “buffer week” passed and he started collecting assignments, certain patterns became clear. One thing the homework told him was that in no situation did I ever “not know” the answer.
I was an exemplar student — on paper, anyways. I understood each subject quite well. I got A’s in everything except gym. And Mr. Lion noticed something else too…
Mr. Lion taught in an older time (he was nearing his retirement) and I can only imagine it took him a confounded couple of days to reason through my social reluctance.
At the end of the day Mr. Lion gave the class periods to work on projects before going home as he circled the room. It was obvious I didn’t take advantage of that time. I doodled on a scrap piece of paper because, as the other students started their homework, I was already finished.
Thankfully, instead of confrontation, Mr. Lion didn’t ask why I feigned ignorant when every question in my notebook was already answered. It must have seemed absurd to him, that all I needed to do was read off my page but I wouldn’t.
Mr. Lion taught in an older time (he was nearing his retirement) and I can only imagine it took him a confounded couple of days to reason through my social reluctance. But he did, because he surmised one thing: pressuring me to answer questions wasn’t driving me to do better or work harder on my assignments.
Like I said, Mr. Lion believed in mutual respect. He wanted to see me improve myself, and that, beyond his regular understanding of the task, didn’t include academics. We slowly formed an unspoken agreement: He would never randomly call on me in class so long as I volunteered to answer at least one question a day. And when I raised my shaking hand, he always picked me first.
I think that’s the hallmark of a great teacher. Mr. Lion acknowledged the courage it took me to practice speaking, and I had enough respect for him to continuously try.
All the teachers I had throughout my childhood never encouraged me to strive for more. Being a straight A student was decidedly “enough,” and they didn’t feel the need to push further. As much as my anxiety appreciated floating by on shyness and grades, it hadn’t helped me grow. Mr. Lion was the first teacher to understand what I needed as an individual as well as a student.
I hope this story warmed your heart, and maybe brought a new light to the teachers we unfairly dismissed as children. Teaching can be harder than it looks, and their personas certainly can be too.
