That First Class

The other day I was talking to a group of teachers who are teaching for the first time in our writing program. Since our teachers come to us with a range of experience—some have taught college-level classes before, some have taught high school, some have never taught before—if they are new to our program I always go over with them the logistics about the end of the semester. When I got done talking about how to submit final course grades, I asked if there were any questions.

“Where and when does the support group meet for missing your students?” one teacher asked. We all laughed. “Really,” he said. “I’m going to miss them when the semester ends.”

“Was this the first time you have ever taught?” I asked and he nodded.

“Your first class is always special,” I said.

And it is. I taught my first class almost twenty years ago and I can remember the room, the students, our discussions, and their writing as clearly as if it was this semester. I remember the first day of class, what I wore, and how nervous I was. I remember how uncomfortable I felt standing at the “teacher” desk and then amazed when after asking the students to get into groups they did. I remember writing their names neatly in my grade book, of reading their essays multiple times before writing my comments. I remember agonizing over discussion questions and then surprised that the students actually began a discussion with them. I remember the silences, the days when everyone looked down at their books to avoid looking at me. I remember my anxiety of grading their papers and then the fear of returning them. I remember arguing with a student who decided to challenge the grade I gave him. I remember wanting to give up on those days when nothing went well. I remember the last day of class when I thanked them for a great class and told them I had never taught before. “Really?” one of the students said. “We thought you had been teaching for years.”

Why do we remember our first class so vividly? Why does this first class stay with us throughout the years?

For me, I think it’s because that very first semester when I entered the classroom I was someone who wanted to be teacher. And over the course of the semester, thanks to the students expecting me to show up to every class meeting with a lesson plan, expecting me to answer their questions, to give them homework, to grade their papers, I gradually began to take on that teacher role. Throughout the semester the students were generous and forgiving, but also were willing to challenge me if I wasn’t being clear and falling a bit short.

By facing that group of students three times a week, week in and week out, even when things didn’t go as well as planned, I learned more about teaching than I taught them about writing. At the end of the semester when I walked out of the classroom, thanks to them, I had become a teacher. That’s why I remember and will remember that frist class.

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