I had a wonderful time working with a roomful of teachers over two days at my Grassroots Workshops last week. During a morning break, I talked with a teacher who was worried about not being able to reach all her kids. A handful of students were failing, and she said she’d tried everything. I said, “But you are reaching the other 25 or 30 kids in your class.” She replied, “Please tell my principal that.”
So —
Dear Principal,
Your teachers are working really, really hard at this thing called teaching.
The role of a teacher is not unlike that of a parent. And if you’re not a parent, then imagine being a neurosurgeon or an astrophysicist — being a parent is way harder than that.
It’s practically guaranteed your teachers haven’t reached every single student today. But there’s tomorrow. And the day after that.
Please remember that Teacher A in room 23 may not have reached all her students in the academic sense, but she smiled and said hello to Melissa, gave Joey a granola bar, handed Jake a sharpened pencil, and laughed at Amanda’s joke.
Your teachers need your implicit trust and continued support to thrive. Show them you’ve got their back. Give feedback often — but wrap it in kindness, empathy, and humor. That can be the difference between whether or not they want to show up tomorrow.
Some years ago, I had a principal who asked me the same question more than once — like he forgot or didn’t hear my answer the first time.
He asked, “Fawn, how do you motivate kids?”
I said, “I don’t know. If I did, I’d write a book, make millions, and quit teaching.”
Now that I think about it, he clearly thought I’d given the wrong answer, so he asked again two weeks later — hoping I’d learned something new in the meantime.
Before I became a parent, I judged all parents.
You’re a horrible parent because your kid’s a brat. It’s your fault your child is ungrateful. You must be a loser of a parent if your kid is failing classes and making excuses.
What an asshole you must be to raise that little asshole.
Then I had kids.
Three of them.
At one time or another — honestly, more like an extended “where’s-the-goddamn-light-at-the-end-of-this-tunnel” period — my own flesh and blood were disrespectful, entitled, rude, mean, whiny, arrogant, neurotic.
Jerks.
But if you had said any of that to my face about my kids? I’d probably stab you with a fork.
Because I’m as defensive as I am protective.
Until you’ve walked in my shoes, you have no right to judge me.
I’ve been a teacher longer than I’ve been a parent. One role bleeds into the other.
When an administrator makes a statement or asks a question that implies their teachers aren’t working hard enough, it pulls at the thread of trust like a loose piece of yarn. It unravels everything.
Sure, there’s ineffective hard work — but it’s still hard work.
Teachers will take pretty much anything that helps us do our jobs better. But advice or suggestions can’t come at the cost of making us feel smaller, less capable, or unappreciated.
So —
Dear Principal,
Please stop being evaluative.
Start being helpful.
And send doughnuts.