It Doesn’t Get Better Than This

The first day of class is vitally important. It sets the pace for the rest of the semester. If the tide of student opinion slides slightly left or right, you sink. There is no recovery. In fearing the worst, I’m assaulted by visions of the Titanic – as if we could metaphorically veer off course, hit an iceberg, and slowly disappear.

This kind of thinking is not helping, I tell myself as I stand in front of the class.

Setting expectations

My first task is to greet the students and organize a seating chart, while simultaneously attempting to cast the agenda for the first four weeks of class.

I give a brief overview of the course, infused with light humor. Making a comparative study of world religions sound interesting to a room full of hormonal teenagers is challenging, even under the best circumstances.

I keep reminding myself all things are possible with a sense of humor and a lot of coffee. At the beginning of the academic year, I set high expectations, achievable workloads and confer the idea that in my classroom, students are invited to leave their armor at the door and be themselves. There’s an edgy vibe circling the room. A student who seems hostile gets up and makes a big production out of taking off her jacket – as if it’s armor –­ and the class erupts in laughter. Now that’s rich.

I join in the laughter because now I know I have them. A slew of copycats gets up and takes off their jackets, too, including the student I thought was a loner, but who has now moved cryptically into the fold.

Late entry

The classroom door suddenly bursts open. A student stumbles into the room, late, flustered, and red-faced. She has a crumpled agenda in her hand. Her backpack is unzipped, which she, unfortunately, plops on the side table, and a pencil, cell phone, and binder crash to the floor.

I smile (what can you do). This is an upper-division class, and clearly, this is a lost freshman. She looks around after retrieving her phone from under my desk and realizes she is in the wrong room. A horrified expression seizes her entire face.

After walking over to her and giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze (thinking she’s about to burst into tears), I grab the nicest student I can find and tell her to escort our lost freshman to the right room.

Before they leave, I grab the guide’s arm and whisper in her ear, “Be nice,” in a kind but unapologetic tone. I help the freshman gather her things, and several of the students tell her not to worry, we’ve all been there, and that by next week she’ll have the lay of the land. My heart melts.

New idea

And that gives me a fabulous idea: totally off plan, but that’s why teaching is the best job in the world.

The mood in the room shifts. I can feel it: catching the wave, so to speak. I ask the students to share their most embarrassing freshman moments in small groups. We’re calling it a community builder. And while they’re sharing memories, I ask them to exchange contact information, so they’ll have someone to call if they get lost and need assistance.

The conversations explode. Apparently, this is a highly relatable moment, and everyone has a story. The classroom is not a place – it’s an irrevocable condition, and one that the teacher defines from day one. Several students ask if they can share their memory with the entire class.

We’re still bonding over our past humiliations when the bell rings and brings us all back to the present. While I’m gathering my notes and slipping them into my computer bag, my formerly hostile student saunters by my desk and says, “Thanks. That was a great class.”

It doesn’t get better than this.