Science experiments don’t always work as intended. Sometimes, they fail miserably. When things didn’t go as a procedure predicted, I’d tell students, “You learn as much from failure as you do from success. Sometimes more.” Perhaps the girls thought I was just trying to make them feel better, but I was serious. There’s always wisdom to be gained from failure if you’re paying attention.
In 2009, after I’d taught science to pregnant teens at the Margaret Hudson Program (MHP) for two years, I was offered a couple of ninth grade physical science sections of thirty-two each at my district’s large North Intermediate High School. It was already March, and students had lost two fulltime teachers already. Long-term subs had filled in for a month or two, but they were in short supply. Since I taught only morning classes at the small campus across town for pregnant and parenting girls, I was available afternoons.
Physical science was one of the courses I was assigned at MHP. I knew the material. Plus, I wanted to be a good sport and earn a few brownie points with the district’s science chair. She’d cover the morning classes, and I’d teach only the two sections right after lunch, before the last hour planning period. My principal gave me her blessing, and I agreed to start at North the week just before spring break.
It was a disaster.
Students were under the impression they’d successfully driven away the teachers who preceded me and seemed intent on scoring another victory. All my efforts to get acquainted flopped. They weren’t engaged by games or the lab activities my other classes had enjoyed. Instead, they repeatedly slung pencils up toward the foam ceiling tiles to see how many would stick (a surprising number—I admit to being impressed). They never stopped moving … or talking. I even wore a skirt and heels one day because I’d heard the clack-clack-clack of heels on tile commanded respect. (It didn’t.) By early May, I was just trying to hang on until semester’s end. I presented the required material on the curriculum guides through lecture and textbook assignments. It was boring as dry toast, but I was exhausted by all the acrobatics I’d tried to get their attention. I still didn’t really know any of those students.
In contrast, I knew every one of the forty-something girls enrolled at MHP. Even if she wasn’t in a science class, I regularly interacted with students in the cafeteria, in the hall, the lobby, or child care. Many reported to my classroom for study hall or used my computer stations for online classes. I knew each girl’s baby, and I’d met or communicated with many students’ parents. Students also knew each of the members of our small staff well.
Teachers’ roles involved nearly as much mentoring as it did academic instruction. The girls didn’t always love the subjects we taught, but they recognized that staff wanted the best for them, even when we disagreed about what that was. We prodded and encouraged them toward high school graduation, and to our program’s credit, more than 90% of them succeeded. Getting pregnant at fourteen, or sixteen, or eighteen might be perceived as a failure, but I witnessed time and again the perseverance required to carry on, to have a healthy pregnancy and delivery. To become a mom before becoming an adult.
Just as my students discovered inner strength when faced with unplanned pregnancies, I learned a lot about myself from my dismal failure at North. For instance, there are limits to my capacity for jumping into unfamiliar situations. I developed reverent appreciation for teachers who can manage five or more classes a day, each with thirty-plus adolescents. I now know I can’t. I wasn’t cut out for teaching science in a typical high school classroom, but I believe I was suited for the unique setting in which I found myself. I genuinely cared about each of my students, navigating challenges and goals I could understand.
Most importantly, I learned that the best teaching requires time and space to establish trusting relationships. Forming honest connections with students was a better use of my energy than performing cartwheels for students’ entertainment, clacking across the floor in heels, or plucking pencils out of the ceiling tiles.
Janice Airhart 