After 20 years of teaching, I got my first student-teacher (yay!)—which would mean daily observation (boo!). How surprising, then, that these observations have brought me professional growth and unexpected joy.
In general, we teachers hate being observed. Perhaps it stems from memories of our own student-teaching when the university observer scrawled notes on a yellow pad: Face the class. Don’t read off the board. You know all the students’ names. Well done! Leave longer wait times—don’t be afraid of the quiet.
Feedback then was memorable. Anything I was told, I absolutely believed. A single comment could make or break my day. If an observer noted something, I made entire lesson plans to address that issue. Those earliest observations had an outsized impact on my professional choices.
Fast-forward through the early-career years, and I learned that observations were fairly arbitrary. Administrators signaled how insignificant observations were. In fact, the mark of a “successful” new teacher was the lack of observations. Conversely, getting observed by admin frequently was a dark sign—evidence of poor teaching.
The message from admin was clear: Frequent observations meant they were developing a body of evidence to create your pink slip. Stay off their radar. Teach so no one is watching.
How different, then, to have a student-teacher this year. He looks up to me. He tries to copy my methods, my pacing, my style.
At the beginning of the school year, I set myself a simple goal: “Be a good mentor by being who you are: compassionate, professional, organized, and flexible.”
This goal put my negative and intrusive thoughts in perspective. My job was not to somehow create the perfect teacher nor model skills I didn’t have. My job was to be comfortable being me.
At the same time, I anticipated explaining parts of my teacher craft that I had never formally verbalized before.
- My classroom management is a strength, but how would I describe my style?
- I have a peaceful, work-focused environment. How did I make that?
- Former students report that they were ready for the next level. How did I give them that confidence?
I wasn’t ready in the beginning to name exactly how I created a rigorous and engaging classroom, but I had the confidence to know that I had one. I trusted that the skills I’d developed wouldn’t suddenly stop just because someone was watching—and that the explanations would come.
And they did.
News alert: I know things! Some of the questions I anticipated while others have come as surprises. Here’s a funny one my student-teacher brought up: “You run a lot of clubs. Is that normal?”
His question—which stemmed from curiosity, not the clipboard of judgment—made me stop in my tracks. He made me think about values. I had to confront something that I have long struggled with: What does it mean to do things for “the good of the students”? Why am I spending optional time with someone else’s kids while mine are pining away at home wishing they had a father?
After some thought, I got back to him with my explanation: Clubs and coaching do take a lot of time outside of contract hours. However, doing that work has produced some of the most rewarding moments of my career. It is something positive for me to look forward to each day. It gives me further insights into my students. It fills me with a sense of purpose beyond the classroom.
My answer to his simple question made me think about the why. Needing to explain concepts I take for granted has given me a deeper appreciation for the hard-fought lessons—and of the areas where I can still improve.
Several months ago, my student-teacher remarked, “I saw how you got all those due dates to line up. It was just like magic. They were so spread out before.”
He was referring to essay assignments from my five periods of 9th grade English. My scheduling might have seemed impressive to him, but it was a blunder that I had to call out.
“Actually, I wish I hadn’t done that. I should have slowed Period 4 down. They needed more time with their citations. Plus, now I have a bajillion essays. That stack is too scary to look at, so I’m going to procrastinate until January. Christmas break is already ruined.”
His face fell hard. His teacherly hero—Mr. Smarticus Inouye—had just admitted to being a disorganized, short-sighted procrastinator. I went on to explain how a system of staggered due dates would have been better, how I had colleagues who did this, and that we both needed to observe how they established their pacing.
It was a little embarrassing—to have to admit that this aspect of my own practice was a thumbs-down—but it was better than trying to create the illusion of some Yoda-like guru. Having to explain myself has sometimes led me to conclude that, “Wow, I shouldn’t be doing things that way.” Justifying my methodology to my guileless observer gave me opportunities to see—and correct—persistent flaws in my practices.
Every year we survive in the profession, we have the opportunity to improve our skills. The reality is, however, that we don’t recognize our growth because it is so incremental. Frequent observations—driven by curiosity, not judgment—coupled with reflective practice where we explain the why of our choices can fix that. These observations and reflections can solidify our teaching decisions, give us confidence in our journeys as professionals, and offer opportunities for further growth.
If you have the chance to mentor a student-teacher, take it. Otherwise, grab a coach or a colleague and ask them to observe your craft. Ask them to question you so you can ponder on the “whys” of your daily “whats.” Make changes as needed.
Observations are not the worst. Not all of them anyway.
