What good do "good intentions" really do?

I have constantly been pushed to confront my assumption that “good intentions” are enough to make a difference in the world of education. Just before my first day at KIPP Collegiate High School as a 9th grade Composition teacher, my co-teacher moved on to a new position, leaving me alone with 140+ students and an entire curriculum to write from scratch. I was timid at the front of the classroom, hyperaware of the dangers of exclusionary discipline, and so I gave kids second chances… third chances… fourth, fifth, sixth chances, until student disruptions impacted the entire classroom. One day, a student was consistently not meeting the expectations I had set for an independent writer’s workshop, and I didn’t address him or hold him accountable. I could see other students getting fidgety, feeling the weight of the distracting behaviors, until one student in the front row, S., handed me a folded-up index card. I unfolded it. It read: “SEND HIM OUT!! I WANT TO LEARN!!”. I realized then that my own intentions were not resulting in the best impact for my students. Not only that, those good intentions were actively hurting my students: my inconsistent use of the merit system and inability to react calmly and firmly when behaviors were about to escalate led to three fistfights happening within the walls of my classroom within the first semester. I couldn’t keep my students safe in my own classroom. So, I clenched even tighter to the false sense of “control” I thought I needed to survive each day in the classroom- I avoided assigning difficult prompts because I dreaded the students getting distracted or sitting blankly during writing workshops; I avoided giving partner work because I didn’t want the students to misbehave; and forget about group projects, for fear of the volume in the classroom getting out of hand. I played the role of victim, of mistreated do-gooder. I am ashamed of the thoughts that ran through my head during those months: “I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have to do this. I could be anywhere else but here, doing this, and these kids don’t even want me to be here. Why can’t they recognize that I’m trying to help them?” I blamed the students for my own failures; I couldn’t grasp why they wouldn’t want to accept my good intentions. It couldn’t be all my fault. I meant well! I was doing everything I could! 

But I wasn’t. Throughout the struggle of the first few months, I kept my students at arms’ reach, under a vise grip of low expectations, authoritarianism, and the constant threat (or was it comfort?) of quitting and doing something so much easier. But that in itself was a privilege. I could leave at any point: yes, it would have put a huge burden on my coworkers and been extremely detrimental to my students’ success and emotional well-being, but I would survive. My students could not say the same. They could not decide that this was too hard for them, this wasn’t worth it, they didn’t have to be here. This was their lived experience. And on top of it all, I didn’t have confidence in myself or my ability to do right by my students - instead, I told myself regularly that I was not cut out for this job. My school administrators and fellow teachers would come observe me and pause me mid-lesson to say, “Ms. Dougherty, can you give those directions again? I don’t think they know what they are supposed to do.” As jarring as they were at first, I came to look forward to those observations because it meant I wasn’t the only adult in the room. I actually feared my students, largely because of the power they had to reveal my own shortcomings; and not being able to recognize the harm that was causing them was the biggest roadblock to my success as a teacher. I had to start seeing the school community as somewhere that I needed, not somewhere that needed me.

One day, after a classroom observation, my Teach For America coach, Mary, saw how much I was struggling and suggested that I create an Instagram for my class, so that kids could follow and stay updated on homework and announcements. Not only that, they could see that I was a human being too. So I started the page, posting memes and sharing mental health resources alongside important classroom deadlines and student work spotlights.

Sharing more of myself with my students led to things gradually getting better; I didn’t dread going into the school building every day (although I did still lie awake at night thinking about how I could have reacted better earlier when I turned around and saw E. with 15 pens stuck in his hair during independent work). We wrote about topics students were interested in: social media, gentrification, and protests. I started writing a story for the Moth story slam experience about “family.” I invited students to spend time during the “Do Now” portion of class to write along with me about their own families (or however they defined that word) and share in front of their peers. My student K. had lost her dad as well a few years ago and used her journal to process through her grief. In the beginning of the year, I might have been afraid to let go and give her space to share her story (for fear of class pacing, other students’ responses, laughter, etc.), but this time I let her speak. She broke down into tears, and I asked her if she would like me to continue reading for her. She nodded silently, and I took the journal and finished reading her piece. As I was reading, I suddenly found tears streaming down my own face. I struggled through- and at each pause, when I might have expected laughter or goofing off, there was reverent silence. And when I finally finished my own story about family, I let go of the tight reins I had been holding on my own heart and asked my students to listen to me perform the story and give me feedback. As I took a back seat and let them be the experts on stage presence, I was astonished by their advice: “Ms. Dougherty, you need to be more confident. That’s your story, those are your words! Own them!” “Stare at the exit sign so you have something to focus on and you don’t get distracted by the crowd!” “Pretend like you’re at your favorite place in the world, like you’re talking to the sunset.” Others yet shared with me how much closer my story made them feel to me, how much my life experiences resonated with theirs. Their earnest suggestions showed me once again that sharing my own authentic self with my students yields more trust and respect than any self-serving “good intentions” ever could.

Cue A., a student who struggled heavily with impulsivity and disruptive behaviors in class. It was almost as if he had so much energy and excitement that he couldn’t hold it in when he needed to, and thus was always getting sent out of class (one time he threw a shoe at me). But I could tell he was an excellent writer, and my suspicions were confirmed when I saw him one day in the in-school suspension room writing in his yellow notebook, and I asked to read some of his stories. I returned his notebook to him at the end of the day with my comments all over his writing. Fast forward, and he was bounding into my classroom every morning to drop off his notebook with a new story for me to read and offer feedback on. I shared his poems and stories with the class by printing them out and posting them on the classroom walls and Instagram, and his essays started to improve.

I tried to build on that momentum, spending more time in the lunchroom having conversations about tolerance and sexuality with D. and L., going to every basketball game, soccer game and pep rally I could, and investing in the community by working as a swim instructor at the local YMCA. Students were enjoying the narrative unit we were working on, writing intense stories about wolves in pursuit of a pair of hunters, and showcasing their unique creativity that I had been stifling for so long. And then, on March 3rd, a devastating tornado hit Nashville. We were out of school for a week while my community volunteered to clean up the devastation. When we returned, COVID-19 cases were rising and we were again sent back to our homes; this time, for 12 months. 

Just when I was feeling a part of something larger, my first year of teaching was cut short and my students were left to adjust to virtual learning at home in isolation. I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye, to see if they were okay, to see if they even had access to technology to continue their schoolwork. The summer passed, and I prepared for the next school year, incredulous that virtual learning may continue into the fall. How would I get to know my students - let alone support them effectively - through a screen? I sent out a survey before the first day, asking them all the usual questions (name, favorites, siblings, etc.), and some other silly questions like “If you could only eat one condiment for the rest of your life, what would it be?”. I read through all the survey answers and sent each kid a personalized email referencing something from the survey: “Hi R., I see you like anime! What’s your favorite? Do you have any suggestions for me?” I got many emails back from kids eager to get to know their teachers and share more about themselves after a summer of quarantine. The first day of school came around, and I logged into Zoom for my first class. It was a whirlwind few weeks of inappropriate Zoom-bombing incidents, countless ceiling fans, and frantic student emails, but we gradually adjusted as educators and students. 

This year, we started with narrative writing so students had a chance to produce lots of writing, share their creativity, and become invested in the class. Their work was incredible; I texted home positive shout-outs for many students and posted stellar classwork on my class Instagram. I am lucky to be relatively technologically savvy and a quick typer, so I was able to give lots and lots of feedback on student work. It seemed that kids felt listened to, even though we were apart. I started staying on after some of my classes were over to chat with kids about their favorite shows and video games, and students who were struggling with virtual learning and mental health reached out to ask for extra support. When state testing rolled around in April and May, students came into the building for the first time. I relied on name tags, because for many of them, I only knew what the tops of their heads looked like! Seeing their personalities live, without a screen in between, was incredible. K., an old student of mine, pulled me aside and said “Ms. Dougherty, you seem so much more confident! No offense, but last year you were really timid and shy in front of the class. You’re so different now!” I shook off the sting of her blunt observation and appreciated her willingness to be fully honest with me, knowing that I wouldn’t reprimand her for being 'disrespectful.' 

In the weeks leading up to my course’s exam (a practice English ACT, grammar-heavy and fast-paced), I assigned short in-class and independent grammar practice questions using a platform called Albert.Io. As students completed questions for difficult standards, I had them analyze their incorrect answers as I tracked their progress over time. If a student improved even by a small percentage, I marked down their name and gave them a shoutout on the aforementioned class Instagram. Students started seeing gains, and I was optimistic for the test (although still hesitant; testing during a pandemic is risky and oftentimes inequitable). On the day of the exam, I showed them data from the middle of the year, on the same type of test: 8% of students had mastered the content. They were surprised; “We can do better than this, Ms. Dougherty!” I again reminded them of the importance of the “real” ACT come Junior year, and the aspirational 21+ that would earn them $16,000 towards in-state college tuition (if they were planning on college as an option). As I tracked the test performance, I was floored. By the end of the testing window, students had demonstrated 46% mastery; one student even earned a 33 (only 3 questions wrong!). 

Not only did kids show HUGE growth on an incredibly important test for their futures, they also became more confident, kind, and tolerant of those different from them. One student, the one with whom I had debates about the validity of “straight pride month,” came to me at dismissal to tell me about how he’d supported his girlfriend, who identified as bisexual, through their relationship. Another asked me to stay on Zoom after class to read me a poem about her own sexuality, and bravely share with me deeply personal information to which she’d been holding on for a long time. I hope to stay in touch with my students to continue supporting them through their successes and stumbles, and I’ll be remaining at KIPP to develop an official curriculum for my course, Composition I. Through all the challenges I faced alongside my students, I realized that false investment leads to false, fragile connections, while humility and genuine vulnerability creates empowered students. Students don’t need a savior, they need an advocate. Someone who will champion their successes (no matter how small) and recognize when they are struggling. Someone who will transform good intentions into tangible, lasting impact.