Embracing Our Fears in the Classroom

Out of everything in the world, I am most terrified of gorillas. Let's relive the trauma, shall we?

It was the late 1900s; I was a chubby little ginger boy going to the zoo hoping to have the time of my life. Even as a kid, though, I wouldn't be surprised if I hated the idea of going outside all day as much as I do now. My attitude about all things to do with people and outside probably started somewhere.

Probably on this very day.

Anyway, you know the zoo: a place where adorable, unique, wild animals are put into a safe place to be stared at by strangers for their entire existence. This isn't me trying to save the animals, honestly, I couldn't care less. Call me heartless, I don't mind.

In the back of the zoo, there is a giant exhibit for gorillas. And, well, you can't really experience the zoo without seeing EVERY animal that's destined to be held captive there. So, towards the gorillas we strolled.

When we arrived to the jungled enclosure, I hopped out of the red wagon that had served as my escape from walking. I stepped over to the glass, pressed my head as close as I could, and stared in awe of these giant caged creatures I hadn't ever seen before.

It wasn't long before the grandpa gorilla in the back of this jungle, found me, and started tracking me with his eyes. "Track me, everybody" is never something I've been able to say as a teacher...

He teetered back and forth in order to stand up on all fours. He began stomping, side to side, in the back of this jungle, without breaking eye contact with me.

Side to side.

In a moment, I couldn't see anything but him running towards me.

He ran.

He hit the glass and began hammering against it--shaking and shocking the room and the faces nearby.

There I am, staring up in terror-filled awe at a gorilla pounding and pounding upon the glass in front of me. I couldn't move, breathe, run, talk, exist.

I stood there.

And I cried.

20 years later, I'm still crying.

Why relive my childhood traumas?

Well, every year, I open my class with this story. On the very first day of school, I tell my students my biggest fear.

Every year, I let them know my biggest weakness.

And, every year, I get a handful of students that immediately send me pictures of gorillas or ask me: "What if I dressed up as a gorilla for Halloween?"

I embrace those fears.

And I embrace their reactions to them.

Because as soon as this story finishes, I ask my students to tell me their fears--written down forever on stick-drawing version of themselves.

Never do I exploit these. Never do I even honestly remember them.

I'm asking them to take a chance, and I'm asking them to trust me with the thing or things in this world that fill them with the most fear.

Heights.

Spiders.

Talking in front of people.

The Ocean.

Cilantro (Okay, that's on my list, but you should be afraid of something with the power to ruin any and all prepared dishes).

Failing.

Breaking Bones.

Being called on in class when they aren't ready.

I ask a lot of students; teachers ask a lot of students.

We ask them to come into our room ready to learn.

We ask them to be okay with failing.

We ask them to share their very fragile ideas.

We ask them to wake up early.

We ask them to communicate with their peers and work together.

We ask them to present projects, papers, assignments, answers.

We ask them to receive feedback gracefully.

We ask them to try their best to work hard and do homework when they have millions of other things they would rather be doing.

We ask them to show up.

Those are scary things.

So, why do I start each year with the conversation about fear?

Because learning is scary, and it's our job as teachers to begin to embrace that fear.

It's our job as teachers to lead the way through that fear.

When I ask students to come up to the board and lead us through our grammar practice, I can tell them that "I know it's scary. What am I scared of?" and, almost immediately, the room will fill with laughter--and, more importantly, comfort.

Then they will do anything.

When students learn that they can safely and fully embrace their fears in a classroom, with a group of people, in front of their peers, they will do just that.

And, even more so, they will do anything.

When I ask them to come up with an idea for a project, they will come to me with silly ideas they are unsure of--because it's safe.

When they are struggling with anything, they feel like it's okay to come to me and ask--because it's safe.

When they are worried about completing homework, they will tell me--because it's safe.

It all starts with me--simply talking about how gorillas are the most intense, terror-filled creature that exists on the face of the planet.

Learning is scary.

A lot of students run away from it.

Teaching is arguably scarier.

A lot of teachers run away from it.

There are not enough honest teachers running forward into these fears.

And, even more importantly, we are not embracing this fear with our students; we are not modeling for our students what it looks like to face fear and conquer it.

We are afraid, as teachers, to be vulnerable--"we're professionals," "we know our kids best," "close the door and teach."

It's an interesting juxtaposition: we love learning but don't want to show that we need it.

We don't embrace our fears.

How can we possibly expect students to do all the terrifying learning we ask of them if we ourselves are not leading the way in embracing our own fears?

I hope that we stop being afraid to find our gorillas.

I hope we find ways to share our gorillas with our students.

I hope we find ways to show that it's okay to be afraid of our gorillas.

Because so many of our students show up in our classrooms and face their own gorillas every

single

day.